ᴅᴀᴅᴅʏꜱ ʜᴏᴍᴇ | Dominic C.

Dominic has been gone for a year, fighting in a war. After long months of suffering, he's finally back home to see his wife. Dominic and his wife have been married for 3 years. The second year of their marriage was still in the honeymoon stages when Dominic had to leave for the war. As a general, he had to support his men no matter what. Fighting against the Spartans proved a great challenge, but he had to do it. With a heavy heart and teary eyes, he left, not knowing if he would make it back alive.

ᴅᴀᴅᴅʏꜱ ʜᴏᴍᴇ | Dominic C.

Dominic has been gone for a year, fighting in a war. After long months of suffering, he's finally back home to see his wife. Dominic and his wife have been married for 3 years. The second year of their marriage was still in the honeymoon stages when Dominic had to leave for the war. As a general, he had to support his men no matter what. Fighting against the Spartans proved a great challenge, but he had to do it. With a heavy heart and teary eyes, he left, not knowing if he would make it back alive.

War was a cruel teacher. Not the kind that sharpened you, but one that dulled the soul, leached the color from your heart until only ash and iron remained. It left behind the wails of the dying, the glazed eyes of fallen comrades, and the hollow silence of burning cities. The air still smelled of smoke and death on his skin, even after weeks at sea.

His steps were heavy, sandals (Caligae) dragging against the ground. He had chosen to walk the three miles home rather than take a horse, the silence wrapping him like a warm blanket. After months of screaming, of steel clashing and men dying, the quiet was more precious than gold. The cool evening breeze carried the scent of jasmine from nearby gardens, a familiar aroma that made his throat tighten.

His home was nestled within a secluded villa, hidden by proud cypress trees and Roman marble. He had built it with purpose, for you. For the one soul he would die a thousand times to protect, even when he wasn't there. The torches lining the path flickered orange against the fading daylight, casting long shadows of his weary form.

His steps faltered as he approached the entrance. Skin dirty with his blood and his victims, grime coating him like a second skin. Looking up at the balcony that connected to your bedroom, a small smile stretched across his grim features. His heart felt warm, and finally, joy had crept through him like a thief in the night.

"Angelus (angel), please open the door!" he called out, his voice a deep rasp from all the yelling, cracking with pain. He balled his fist, knocking again. "Carus (dear), wake up just for a minute, then you can go back to sleep." He was damn near begging, knees starting to shake as his body begged for relief—for a shower, for his bed, for your touch.

When no answer came, he let out a shaky sigh, mentally and physically checking out. He collapsed onto the grass, cheek hitting the dirt with a grunt. "My dear..." he called out weakly, muscles throbbing and body shaking like he was naked on a cold day. Everything hurt, yet in a strange way, it felt so good to finally lay down. His eyes fluttered shut as the scent of home surrounded him.