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Bonds of the Imperium

Chapter Four

© Cederwyn Whitefurr

All Rights Reserved.

The next morning, having spent the night being cradled by Octavius, the emotional upheaval of the previous night now behind him, Titus rose with a determined air. His eyes, once red with tears, were now steely, and he adorned the regal composure expected of a noble.

Naked as the day he'd been fawned, Titus slipped from the bed, Octavius's playful chuckle behind him warming his heart.

“So soon my love?” Octavius inquired, his paw moving suggestively across the linen sheets. “I haven't been properly prepared for the day -”

Titus paused, using his fingers to smooth out his fur, as he smiled nervously, glancing over his shoulder, his eyes crinkling and the tip of his tongue poking out in a mischievous smirk.

“I fear my Captain, that I have forsaken my noble duties long enough. I do confess, however...” Titus murmured, fighting the urges as he looked at the prize that awaited him, the knowledge of the love, gentleness and pure passion that awaited him.

Octavius took the gentle rebuke in his stride, as he slipped out of the bed and began dressing himself. “As my lord commands, so I shall obey.”

Titus twitched, feeling a pang of guilt and shame. He'd been too distraught last night, only desiring cuddles and closeness, now, a ritual he enjoyed immensely, he had to forsake for the expectations and demands he'd put aside the day before. With an exhalation of frustration, Titus dressed himself in his finest attire, slipping that rigid mask of expectation and formality over himself like the mask it truly was – just metaphorically. Beneath it, hid the vulnerability that'd been exposed the day before.

Octavius, his loyal guardian and lover, observed the transformation from lover, to lord with a mix of concern and unwavering support.

“Prepare yourself, Octavius,” Titus sighed quietly, his voice its usual composed tone. “we have matters to attend to.”

“Of course, my lord,” Octavius answered, his voice slipping effortlessly into the stoic, formal way he had, as he too adorned his own mental mask. Octavius, still on a gladius edge from the events at the feast, suppressed it as he had other dark thoughts. His immediate care and attention was on his lord and his lord alone. He would perform his duty to his fullest extent. The captain of the House Guard adjusted his uniform, a silent acknowledgement that he was ready to face whatever challenges this new day brought.

*

As Titus made his way through the mansion, his slaves bowed and curtsied, oblivious to the internal struggle beneath the polished exterior that Titus projected like a shield around him. The nobility mask, an art perfected over the years, concealed the turmoil within.

*

Later that morning as Titus was attending to matters of his estate in his study, a servant approached with an ornately wax-sealed scroll. With a sigh, Titus twisted about as the servant knelt and held it up to him.

“Thank you,” Titus spoke quietly, taking the scroll. “you serve me well.”

With a deep, flourishing bow, the young servant stepped back eight paces, then turned and left in silence.

Why do my servants fear me so? Titus pondered, tapping the scroll against the edge of his chin. I only order punishments when necessary, not out of cruelty or malice. Yet they act and move like I will order them crucified if they take a single paw step out of line.

With another sigh, Titus looked down at the seal, an ice-cold shiver rippling down his spine as he recognised the stylised cloven hoof print in the wax.

My father, Senator Lucius Cervus – Come the sickening thought, before Titus broke the seal and untied the ribbon before reading it, then re-reading it, before giving it a third read-through, to ensure he'd not mistaken the first two times before he shuddered in misery.

It was a letter addressed to Titus, in his father's own scrawled hand. A command couched in the flowing and flowery Latin language, thinly veiled as a request. The Senator, demanded Titus's presence for dinner that night.

Titus's stomach churned with anxiety and stress, as he dropped the scroll onto his slanted desk.

“Octavius,” Titus called out, raising his voice, yet tinged with the sickening nausea that rose unbidden up his throat.

My Captain will not like this, he knows the protocol will only allow one bodyguard, so I'll ensure he is beside me at all times.

Octavius was a moment before he strode into the room, Titus instantly felt his heart skip a beat at the sight of his magnificent physique and alert stance, as he clasped his paws behind his back.

“My lord?” Octavius's voice was quiet and respectful.

Titus sighed, then picked up the scroll, waved it negligently and dropped it back on his desk. “I have received an invitation to attend a banquet, from my father...”

Octavius's expression tightened, a silent acknowledgement of the potential dangers that lay ahead.

“I will be prepared, my lord – I promise.” He ground out through clenched teeth.

Titus approached then placed his paws on Octavius's chest, before creeping up onto the tips of his cloven hooves, placing a gentle kiss on the stag's lips in silent thanks.

Titus, having shared the unwelcome news with Octavius, felt a mixture of anxiety and determination settle within him. He stepped back, breathing heavily, breaking the physical closeness between them, yet the desire and longing in his eyes remained.

“Prepare yourself, Octavius,” Titus repeated, his voice firmer, yet a flicker of vulnerability showed in his expression. “We have matters we must attend to.”

Octavius, his loyalty unwavering, nodded and slapped his fist to his armoured chest. “Of course, my lord.”

As Titus continued his work, Octavius ensured his gladius was securely fastened to his side. The captain of the House Guard knew the significance of the upcoming encounter with the Senator and Titus would be – challenging – but he wouldn't let his lord come to harm, or his own emotions interfere. The intricacies of politics and family dynamics loomed, and Octavius prepared himself mentally, for the challenges that lay ahead.

*

The day wore on, with Titus attending to his noble duties, and Octavius maintaining his silent vigil outside the study. The mansion was its usual ebb and flow, servants moving as silently as they could, fulfilling their tasks, yet the air was thick with the weight of expectations.

When the afternoon slipped away, Titus found himself standing naked before the full-length mirror in his quarters, two young servant girls laying out his formal and constrictive, attire. His reflection revealed the noble whitetail, as he turned this way and that, before another servant approached – and Titus gasped in surprise as Caspian entered, his head bowed respectfully.

“My lord,” Caspian spoke, his beautiful voice almost breaking Titus's resolve.

“Caspian - “ Titus squeaked, then shuddered and blushed, his ears slicking backwards in embarrassment, none of the three servants even looking up. “what are you doing in here?”

“I was asked to brush you, my lord, to ensure your perfection, before your presentation with your father, tonight. I understand, my lord, he expects...zurafi”

Caspian frowned, then uttered a word in his native tongue, one that Titus frowned at.

“Forgive me, my lord, but I lack the eloquence and understanding of your language. A failing in me, I fear.”

Titus blinked in confusion, frowning deeper and deeper. “I believe, and I may be wrong, that - you mean appearance or presentation. Yes, you are right, my servant, he does expect perfection, instead, we shall do our best, won't we?”

“Yes, my lord, I will do my best to make your...a pear ants.” Caspian struggled with the word, his eyes downcast, so Titus couldn't see his shameful glance.

“Appearance,” Titus gently corrected him. “I am sure you will, my servant. You may proceed.”

*

Stepping out of the liter, his polished and oiled cloven hooves clicking lightly on the cobblestones of the forecourt, Titus reached up and clawed at the high, tight collar of the formal outfit.

“My lord, stop, please - “ Octavius whispered.

“It itches and is trying to strangle me!” Titus whispered back.

As they moved towards the high walls of the manse, Titus faltered in his stride, seeing the imposing pair of Wolfen guards who stood on either side of the doorway.

The grandeur of the huge mansion was purely designed for one purpose – and one purpose only. To intimidate and terrify. It was a mansion fit for the Emperor himself, which made one feel small and inadequate, which suited the Senator's personal beliefs and outlook perfectly. He wanted his visitors to feel insignificant, to be unworthy in his presence, and his mansion exuded that in its sheer intimidating size.

As they approached Titus's tail began to frizzle out in abject fear – he couldn't help it. So many terrible memories surfaced in his mind, as he gazed up at the walls that he swore, touched the very sky itself. They were of marble and the intricate columns stood as a testament to the Senator's power and influence.

Titus felt weak, and ineffectual, a fawn before the towering, imposing two Wolfen guards, who held spears twice as tall as Titus himself, then crossed them as he approached the gates. Their large, imposing figures cast ominous shadows in the fading sunlight. These Wolfen guards, hired for their physical prowess and intimidating presence, bore arms of the finest craftsmanship, the silvery spear tips glimmering in the dying light. Their sheer size and the menacing aura they exuded suggested a force not to be trifled with.

Octavius, ever stoic and unyielding, stepped before his lord and looked into the eyes of the closest guard. “Step aside, for you're in the presence of Lord Titus Cervus, here at the bequest of Senator Lucius Cervus.”

The Wolfen glared at him from beneath the helm, the yellow eyes reflecting both curiosity and challenge, perhaps expecting the usual deference that others displayed in their presence. However, Octavius, with his head high and antlers proudly displayed, refused to bow before their self-perceived dominance.

A silent tension hung in the air as the two forces, Octavius and the Wolfen guards, faced each other like opposing storms. One of the Wolfen guards, a particularly aggressive-looking specimen, snapped at Octavius, teeth bared in a display of dominance. Octavius, unmoved by the threat, didn't even flick an ear, despite being a herbivore in the presence of apex predators. His unyielding posture and unwavering gaze conveyed a quiet strength that seemed to challenge the Wolfen's attempt at intimidation.

The standoff continued for a moment, neither side willing to yield. The Wolfen guards, though physically imposing, seemed momentarily taken aback by Octavius's resilience. Titus, observing the exchange, felt a surge of pride for his loyal captain. The pissing match of dominance, whilst unspoken, spoke volumes about the dynamics at play between the traditional guard and these thugs masquerading as hired mercenaries.

“I would suggest, please,” Octavius spoke, his voice a whisper, as he raised an eyebrow, the Wolfen suddenly stiffening as he felt the dagger at his groin. “You remove your vile, mangy self from my lord's presence, immediately.”

Titus, with a startled gasp, placed his bracer-clad paw on Octavius's forearm, the larger deer lowering his arm and sheathing the dagger once more, the two Wolfen exchanging glances in confusion, before stepping aside.

“Thank you,” Octavius spoke, as he opened the door, then stepped aside, allowing Titus entry. “I will not speak of this moment, I suggest you do not as well.”

*

Inside, the sprawling estate was surrounded by meticulously manicured gardens, where vibrant flowers and exquisitely sculpted hedges framed the imposing structure. The scent of blooming flowers mingled with the crisp evening air as Titus and Octavius neared the entrance.

As they approached, a lithe, athletic weasel stepped out, its dark sable fur making it invisible in the shadows before it made its presence noticed.

“Master Titus Cervus, Octavius Aleron, Captain of House Guard,” Octavius spoke politely, giving a formal half-bow to the weasel, who merely snorted as if unimpressed and led them into the mansion.

Such rudeness! Titus thought to himself. Then again, it -is- my father, that comes with the territory and his overblown opinion of his standing.

Titus felt his heart being gripped tighter and tighter, as he paused on the threshold, almost paralysed by the fear and memories this manse brought surging into his mind. It had not been a happy place, filled with love and warmth and good things... it was dark, painful and terrible memories, of being forced to step over the threshold... Yet he knew, his father wouldn't care, he never had...

*

Inside the grand dining hall of the Cervus estate was aglow with the flickering candlelight, casting dancing shadows on the polished marble floor. A heavy air of formality hung over the room as Titus, adorned in his finest attire, took his seat at the ornate table. The tension in the air was palpable, a silent precursor Titus knew was the first rumbles of the storm about to be unleashed.

Senator Lucius Cervus, a figure of authority and excess, sat at the head of the table, a tankard of wine clutched in his paw. From the look of the spilled wine that adorned his chest, he'd made significant headway on his drinking already.

Always a bad sign... Titus inwardly shuddered, keeping his expression neutral.

Senator Lucius's eyes were already bleary and bloodshot, betraying the effects of excessive indulgence. Titus, across from his father, tried to maintain his composed facade, but the familiar and sickening memories began to worm their way into his mind.

The clinking of silverware against the porcelain echoed through the hall as the servants served the first course. Senator Cervus, his voice slurred by the effects of the alcohol, gestured towards Titus with an air of disdain.

“Look at you, Titus. A disgrace to our House name,” the senator's words cut through the air like a sharpened blade, and about as destructive.

Octavius, by protocol, standing back against the wall, clenched his fists behind his back but remained steadfast. He knew the limits of his role, unable to intervene unless directly ordered by Titus himself – or actual physical harm directed against his Lord.

“I've worked tirelessly to build our legacy, and what do I have to show for it? A son, who refuses to be wedded and produce an heir! Do you have no inkling of the shame you're bringing upon my great house? The shame of failing to uphold the family honour?” the senator continued, each word a venomous arrow aimed at Titus's composure.

Titus, his gaze fixed on the exquisite plate before him, resisted the urge to retort.

I will not descend to his level, I will not – I have my pride. Titus kept repeating to himself, like a mantra unspoken.

The wounds from his father's words were old, but they hadn't healed, what really hadn't healed, was it was on this very table when Titus was only eight winters old, that his father had...

Titus's fingers gripped the cutlery so tight, that he thought his fragile finger bones would surely snap, his tail frizzling out in a sickening terror mixed with rage. Oblivious, Senator Cervus continued to berate and belittle Titus mercilessly, using every opportunity to showcase his perceived failings.

“Perhaps a night with Lady Seraphina will bring some sense into that thick skull of yours,” the senator sneered, cryptically.

Lady Seraphina? Titus involuntarily blinked, his eyes widening. Who is...

At the mention of Lady Seraphina, Octavius stepped forward, crouched and covering his lips, whispered information into Titus's left ear, then gave a subtle lick of reassurance and strength.

“Get back where you belong, cur,” Snarled the Senator.

Octavius bowed respectfully and retreated backwards, his face immobile.

House Callista? I can't recall them off the top of my head, but I've never delved into the Great Houses and their Vassals and such, if my father is interested in that house, it will, undoubtedly be some political leanings. Yet no nobility would – dare – to use their daughter like some common pleasure slave...

Titus's thoughts unreeled in his head, as realisation slowly began to spread across his muzzle, his eyes widening, ears flattening and mouth falling open – the cutlery he held clattering to the table.

“Father, you can not be serious - “ Titus gasped in sickened horror and disbelief.

His father merely smirked drunkenly and downed the wine, spilling more than he drank, then slammed the tankard down on the table.

He belched, then glared at the shuddering Titus. “You will marry Lady Seraphina of House Callista, you will bed her and you will produce a son before the last light of the year! She is of suitable breeding, for a lesser House - I have spoken, so it will be.”

Titus swallowed, his paws contracting on the silk tablecloth, his hooflets almost ripping it as his anger threatened to overcome him.

“I am my own man, father...” Titus spoke quietly, respectfully, struggling to hold himself in check. “I am not beholden to you anymore – I will make my choice in whom I love, and whom I marry, when my mind is settled!”

With a snort, the elder stag slammed his paws down, forcing himself upright. “Insolent wretch, you dare to insult me in my own home? Truly, I wonder if you are my son – maybe your mother knocked up some sex slave and passed you off as mine!”

Titus, his father's words lashing him like a whip, pushed himself back from the table, forcing himself to civility, despite the feelings surging within him.

“Forgive me, father, I misspoke, if you'll forgive me, I find myself fatigued from the day's endeavours and...”

With his baleful glare like daggers, Senator Lucius stared incredulously. “Sit down, now, I do not give you permission to leave...”

Titus sat, his knees turning to jelly as he slumped into his chair, the feast continuing. As the dinner progressed, the senator's criticism escalated, fuelled by the intoxicating effects of the wine. Titus truly felt like a helpless deer, cornered by the predator that was his own father. Octavius's heart ruptured in his chest, watching his beloved so mercilessly set upon with such wanton cruelty and disrespect.

At last, Titus could take no more. He thrust his chair back, rose and threw the silk napkin onto the table. Hot, salty tears welled in his eyes, as he turned about, then as his resolve broke, he burst into tears and fled – Octavius following.

Alone in the corridor, Titus leaned his head against the cold wall, the tears flowing as he leaned back, his fist clenched and muscles taut. His anguish was interrupted when Octavius reached out, gripping his forearm tightly, spinning him around and pinning him against the wall.

“No, my lord, please do not harm yourself - “ Octavius spoke, holding the hysterical Whitetail hard against the wall.

For several frightened beats of his heart, Titus wept and struggled, but Octavius, the stronger of the two, held him firm until the worst of it drained from him.

“You should not let his words affect you, my lord,” Octavius spoke quietly, leaning his muzzle close to Titus's left ear. “They hold no truth.”

“Octavius,” Titus sniffled like a punished fawn. “You do not understand, he is... he can force that which he has spoken of. It's all – political. My forced marriage with a noble of a lesser house is all politically motivated – I can not refuse, without insulting them! I have no wish to be forced into this, but I have no choice!”

Octavius gently licked away Titus's tears, before he stepped back, gave a respectful bow and gestured towards the front door.

“My lord, I will take you home, there is only so much your heart can bear.” Octavius's voice assumed the veneer of civility and respect once more.

TO BE CONTINUED...