Drabbles: Loss
May. 8th, 2007 01:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
artyartieFour Historical!Cicero drabbles for this week's ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
rome100 prompt, Loss.
Today, there was no such thing as loss.
The masses in the Campus Martius still chanted his name, and if the strength of their voices could carry him, he would soar with the very eagles.
Consul. The word rung in his ears, sweeter than any music. As a gawky, stammering boy, he had only imagined this moment in his most foolish daydreams. Yet here he was, buoyed by the will and soul of Rome.
Oh, the end of the course of honor, and the beginning of a new, wondrous thing. Victory behind him, and greatness, for him and Rome, before him.
***
Only loss lingered behind him, and only loss beckoned ahead.
Rome shimmered on the horizon in the early morning light. Dew lingered on tender spring buds, and birdsong broke the uneasy, saturnine silence on the road.
Exile. The word tasted like ashes in his mouth, like defeat. His future, his family’s safety, the life of the Republic, swallowed by the darkness before them.
A chill breeze, the last remnant of night, gusted through the litter, and he clutched his cloak about him. Tears stung at his eyes, and when he blinked them away, the city was gone from view.
***
The ache of loss bit deeper than the winter wind.
The stars looked down upon Tullia’s pyre, strewn with rosemary and cornflowers. He remembered teaching her the constellations, remembered her bouquets, more weeds than wildflowers, pressed shyly into his hand.
He couldn’t bear the weight of the torch. Her hand in his was always light as a feather and yet so strong, imparting him with solace when all seemed lost.
The flames licked at his fingers, but the pain was nothing to the ravages of grief. He would face exile a hundred times before he gave his daughter to the fire.
***
This wasn’t loss.
Loss tasted like the tears of exile, enough to fill the sea. Loss was the humiliating prostrations before Pompey and the sycophantic fawning Caesar required and he too willingly gave. Loss was becoming all but commonplace by the time Caesar and Pompey came to blows, destroying the Republic, and him, in their wake.
Loss keened and wailed like the birds in the woods, haunting his grief-stricken walks. Loss burned, flickering, into eternity.
The tip of the sword, cold on his neck, promised nothing but release. He closed his eyes, gathered his last breath.
No, this wasn’t loss.
rome100 prompt, Loss. Today, there was no such thing as loss.
The masses in the Campus Martius still chanted his name, and if the strength of their voices could carry him, he would soar with the very eagles.
Consul. The word rung in his ears, sweeter than any music. As a gawky, stammering boy, he had only imagined this moment in his most foolish daydreams. Yet here he was, buoyed by the will and soul of Rome.
Oh, the end of the course of honor, and the beginning of a new, wondrous thing. Victory behind him, and greatness, for him and Rome, before him.
***
Only loss lingered behind him, and only loss beckoned ahead.
Rome shimmered on the horizon in the early morning light. Dew lingered on tender spring buds, and birdsong broke the uneasy, saturnine silence on the road.
Exile. The word tasted like ashes in his mouth, like defeat. His future, his family’s safety, the life of the Republic, swallowed by the darkness before them.
A chill breeze, the last remnant of night, gusted through the litter, and he clutched his cloak about him. Tears stung at his eyes, and when he blinked them away, the city was gone from view.
***
The ache of loss bit deeper than the winter wind.
The stars looked down upon Tullia’s pyre, strewn with rosemary and cornflowers. He remembered teaching her the constellations, remembered her bouquets, more weeds than wildflowers, pressed shyly into his hand.
He couldn’t bear the weight of the torch. Her hand in his was always light as a feather and yet so strong, imparting him with solace when all seemed lost.
The flames licked at his fingers, but the pain was nothing to the ravages of grief. He would face exile a hundred times before he gave his daughter to the fire.
***
This wasn’t loss.
Loss tasted like the tears of exile, enough to fill the sea. Loss was the humiliating prostrations before Pompey and the sycophantic fawning Caesar required and he too willingly gave. Loss was becoming all but commonplace by the time Caesar and Pompey came to blows, destroying the Republic, and him, in their wake.
Loss keened and wailed like the birds in the woods, haunting his grief-stricken walks. Loss burned, flickering, into eternity.
The tip of the sword, cold on his neck, promised nothing but release. He closed his eyes, gathered his last breath.
No, this wasn’t loss.
