The rain was falling all night, forming puddles on the patio. Water drifted through the curtains, forcing me to step carefully as I pursued the vista I adore. The sun hadn’t fully risen, but daylight prevailed. Lingering puddles reflected the deep blue of the sky, glimmering bits of light that might have been stars or ripples. Familiar rooftops greet me, alleyways that I’d seen a thousand times and yet no more. The fountain with its mismatched stones of red and yellow, where I’d spoken with so many. No blood tied us together, but still I spoke with these citizens fondly. Petyr the fisherman complaining about his rival, Anna the weaver who spoke of her son who served as a guardsman, and others. “Surely they didn’t all wish death upon me. They seemed to speak with love.”
The sky had gone to fire when I turned. I strode across the patio with a heart not unmoved. Through the blackness searching for some comfort that I often found here. Dripping across the room I walked, squinting my eyes at the vague shapes that came into view. This tomb was well-adorned I must admit, but lacking in substance. My golden chalice filled with red wine that lie untouched. “Fitting.”
A parchment sat upon my desk, where I might write weighty words for the blind. A waste of ink.
Kyber99 t1_j1f35us wrote
Reply to [WP] Your reign as Emperor was wildly unpopular. In accordance with the Roman practice of Damnatio Memoriae, society has committed to collectively forgetting you. Before the execution, you scribble down a few notes that might survive. by Africanus1990
The rain was falling all night, forming puddles on the patio. Water drifted through the curtains, forcing me to step carefully as I pursued the vista I adore. The sun hadn’t fully risen, but daylight prevailed. Lingering puddles reflected the deep blue of the sky, glimmering bits of light that might have been stars or ripples. Familiar rooftops greet me, alleyways that I’d seen a thousand times and yet no more. The fountain with its mismatched stones of red and yellow, where I’d spoken with so many. No blood tied us together, but still I spoke with these citizens fondly. Petyr the fisherman complaining about his rival, Anna the weaver who spoke of her son who served as a guardsman, and others. “Surely they didn’t all wish death upon me. They seemed to speak with love.”
The sky had gone to fire when I turned. I strode across the patio with a heart not unmoved. Through the blackness searching for some comfort that I often found here. Dripping across the room I walked, squinting my eyes at the vague shapes that came into view. This tomb was well-adorned I must admit, but lacking in substance. My golden chalice filled with red wine that lie untouched. “Fitting.”
A parchment sat upon my desk, where I might write weighty words for the blind. A waste of ink.
“Igneous the Vain, last of his name”