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The Final Days


Gothic
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Three weeks before she passed away. 

TW: Severe illness.

Sept 61CE.

 

She never experienced so much physical pain. Her bones ached, her stomach hurt and nor did she crave any food, and yet, she was determined to survive. Her surviving children were the most important thing in her life. There were many vultures in Rome who wished to take advantage of them for their own gain. She would not permit that to happen. Marcus and Antonia, she prayed the pair of them would be okay and loved them dearly. In death, she would plan in order to protect her children and ensure her enemies would be destroyed. She sat in front of her desk, still determined to work despite it all and wrote in silence. Few and the most trusted slaves were permitted to be around her during this time. Any weakness in Rome would mean that her children would die. 

Every so often she clutched her hand, exhaled and kept writing the letter to one of the Senators she trusted. At least, as much as she did. Her chiton was relatively plain with a thicker palla draped around her shoulders in order to keep her warm. Her once curvaceous body had become gaunt, her bones protruded and showed her illness. Her skin had slowly begun to turn grey, closer to the statues before they had been painted than her usual skintone. Her hair was loosely tied up in a plait down her back. Lucilla kept writing. Once she was done she closed her eyes, refused to give into despair and if her suffering was the price that she paid for their security. She gladly would pay it. Her hands, thin and boney touched her face as she exhaled to herself. 

Every so often she would imagine what it would be like to see her children, now all grown and having grandchildren. How many would she have? She smiled at the thought. How many would share her features? How many would then in turn share her philosophy? It was difficult to guess. Lucilla wanted to watch over all of them. She had spoken to a variety of witches and sooth-sayers (through a proxy) in order to find out more. Normally, she would never have done so....

Mortality, always, mortality... it would be there. 

Not quickly. Not in a valiant moment of honour and prestige. A slow and wasting illness instead... She heard a knock at the door, looked up and smiled. "Come in," She invited them inside. 

 

To be continued.... 

 

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