Lorne looked up at him with wide hazel eyes framed by long lashes. He had a doe's eyes, a rabbit's complexion, but he was so beautiful people going by his mother's hut used to leave offerings, assuming Lorne was fae-touched, especially since his mother never said who his father was.<br/><br/>A fae's child, that'd been the assumption. The druids had looked at him and muttered such things.<br/><br/>And all of it meant very little in this pretty courtyard with its mosaics of polished tile. The magic he'd been thought to possess was just prettiness to this man. Lorne felt it in the difference in how he was treated.<br/><br/>Lorne stood before Hadrianus' eyes nearly a foot shorter than Hadrianus himself, a good eight inches in their heights. Lorne was small and slight and wiry, and even after the long march to Rome he was still beautiful as a fresco painting, with a stubborn hint around his jaw that said he was a wild thing of the trees and woods, no urn for Hadrianus to display.<br/><br/>The man's words made Lorne's eyes narrow. He was taken out to the bathhouse adjacent to the villa. He couldn't help but marvel. As one of the most expensive slaves they'd taken, he'd been bathed at nearly every bathhouse from here to Londinium, but none had been as beautiful as this. It was a work of art, and the water was hot and stirring on a level Lorne was frankly unprepared for.<br/><br/>He yelped being pushed in. The tallow soap his people used so well, scented with herbs, was used to cleanse him of what dirt had accumulated before the slave auction.<br/><br/>The tunic he was given was the short one used by slaves, though more covering than one usually saw for such tunics since it was a men's tunic and Lorne was slight little thing.<br/><br/>He was lead out through the dizzying luxury and back to the Roman. Lorne eyed him distrustfully, stumbling under the guard's shove.<br/><br/>He sat on the seat, watching Hadrianus warily. In heavily accented Latin, Lorne asked warily, "What's your name, Dominus?"