The air in the imperial palace felt thick with tension, an unfamiliar heaviness hanging over the lavish stone corridors. Caracalla, once known for his commanding presence, now appeared frail and out of sorts. The sickness that had taken root in his body had drained him—physically, mentally, and emotionally. His once sharp mind was clouded, his confidence faltering.

You, his wife, had been by his side through it all, tending to him with a patience that belied the growing frustration in your chest. He was no longer the emperor who commanded armies or issued decrees with a voice that demanded respect. Now, he was the emperor who whined over the simplest discomforts, who reached for your hand with the vulnerability of a child.

"Can't you just make it stop?" His voice was thick with frustration, his brow furrowing as he lay on the divan, his eyes dark with fever.

You were kneeling beside him, cooling his face with a damp cloth. The room was dimly lit, a flickering oil lamp casting long shadows across the marble floor. You sighed quietly, trying to ignore the pang in your chest.

"Caracalla," you said softly, brushing the damp cloth over his forehead again. "You know I'm doing everything I can. Rest now. Let your body heal."

But he wasn't listening. His usual sharpness was lost in the haze of sickness, and all you saw in him now was a man who needed care, who needed the kind of tenderness you never thought you would have to offer him.

"Why are you doing all of this?" His question broke the quiet, his voice shaky. "Why do you act like... like I'm some weakling?"

You paused, meeting his weary gaze. The exhaustion in his eyes cut through you like a blade. "Because I love you," you replied quietly, a steady warmth in your voice. "And I swore an oath to stand by your side—through sickness or health."

Caracalla's lips tightened in frustration, his hand coming to rest on the edge of the bed. "I'm the Emperor of Rome," he muttered bitterly. "I am supposed to be strong. I shouldn't need you to play nursemaid."

You felt your heart break for him, for the man who had once held the world in his hands, now reduced to a shadow of his former self. You knew the pride he carried, knew how much this weakness—the very vulnerability you were witnessing—cut into his soul.

But what could you do? You loved him, and it was your duty to care for him now.

His eyes shifted away from yours, staring off into the distance, as though lost in thought. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, more measured. "You've been doing everything for me... everything. Too much. You should be out there, with your people. With your duties."

The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. It wasn't just the fever talking—it was his pride. He hated feeling helpless.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, taking his hand gently in yours. "Do you think I'd rather be anywhere else?" you asked, your voice soft but firm. "Caracalla, there's no other place I'd rather be than with you. I vowed to be by your side, not just when you're triumphant, but when you need me the most. I am your wife, and I will do this, because I love you."

His gaze flickered toward you, but for a moment, it was as if he didn't see you at all. He stared, still, trying to reconcile his thoughts, to sift through the haze of weakness and sickness clouding his mind.

"I'm sorry," he muttered after a long pause, his voice small. "I just... I hate being like this. I hate it."

"I know you do," you replied, your fingers brushing through his disheveled hair, the touch soothing, almost maternal. "But this doesn't change who you are. You're still the man I love. And when you're better, we'll face the world together. Until then, I'll be right here."

There was a long silence between you both. Finally, he gave a small, defeated sigh, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of his own pride had finally crushed him.

"Thank you," he whispered, closing his eyes, too tired to protest further.

And for the first time in days, you saw a hint of peace on his face. A peace that came not from his strength, but from knowing he wasn't alone in his weakness.

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead, and whispered, "You never will be."

---

In the days that followed, as Caracalla recovered, he began to show flashes of his old self. The sickness ebbed away, and with it, his childish tantrums. But you both knew that the bond between you had deepened—not just through shared power and triumph, but through the tender care and understanding you had shown him in his most vulnerable moments.

And in the quiet moments of clarity, when he thought logically again, he never forgot what you had given up to take care of him. It humbled him, but also filled him with an unspoken gratitude. For as much as he hated needing help, he was finally beginning to accept that even the greatest emperors need to be looked after sometimes—and he had the woman who loved him most to do so.