Commodus stood bent over the basin, splashing water onto his bruised and bloodied face. It ran down his neck in rivulets, stripping away the grime and blood before dripping down his dirty white chest plate and leaving streaks in the sandy dust, or tumbling back into the basin. Every time he raised the liquid to his face and it returned to the container, it grew a little darker; a little more bloody even as his face slowly cleaned. Whenever he accidentally touched his nose or the purple bruise blossoming over his brow, he would wince slightly; but only with his eyes. Otherwise he remained emotionless, seemingly absorbed with the task of washing himself. Pale hands moved deftly, raising water and smoothing away dirt and crusted blood.
Lucilla stood stiffly a few paces behind him. So still was she that her regal form could have passed for a statue of some deceased Empress, serene expression giving no clue to the trials and hardships faced. But inside she was terrified. Having called her to his room in no uncertain terms Commodus had proceeded to ignore her, preferring to pursue cleanliness before offering judgment. Thus her apprehension had built up as the grime on Commodus' face dripped away, mind occupied with wondering what he would do to her. What he would do to her and her son now that Maximus was dead and Commodus' power assured.
He finally unbent and regarded himself in the mirror, lips just barely open and fingers gently brushing the long thin scratch in the soft flesh of his neck. The scratch that would have killed him had he not stabbed Maximus before the fight. The thrust that would have killed him if Maximus had collapsed a second later.
"It's funny," he murmured, eyes still glued to his own face in the mirror.
Lucilla spoke carefully, desperate not to rouse Commodus' anger. "What is, brother?"
He looked in the mirror for another moment, touching the dark bruise on his forehead before responding slowly, words coiling lazily, dangerous like a sleeping viper. "You see, my brow hurts, sister. My jaw hurts, where he punched me. My arm hurts from being stabbed, my stomach hurts where he kicked me as I was on the ground. My nose hurts, too. And my muscles are so very sore."
Lucilla waited silently, certain he would continue if she said nothing.
"But, Lucilla, this little scratch - the knife blow that could have killed me - barely stings." His eyes met hers in the mirror, glimmering darkly.
"Now why do you think that is, sister?"
Tension built between them as their eyes remained locked, Lucilla feeling anxiety and fear crescendo in her like a wave threatening to breach the highest dams at the penetrating glare of her brother's pale gaze. Finally she looked down.
"I don't know, Commodus."
"Mmm."
Commodus looked at his reflection another moment, tilting his head to view the knife-mark on his throat before speaking again.
"Well, I suppose you guessed I didn't call you here to ask about that. What I do want to ask, Lucilla," he growled, turning to face her with crossed arms, "Is how you plan to thank me."
His face was pale as ever, dark curls damp with water and the sweat of the fight an hour before. His lips were slightly pursed though one side of his face was swollen.
He took a step towards her and stood there, weight on one leg. "You betrayed me. You spurned me and planned for me to be killed, but I survived despite all odds. I slew your beloved Maximus," - he spat the name like a curse - "proving my superiority and right to the mantle of Caesar. And though by rights I should have you and your son crucified, I have not."
He smiled at her coldly. "I am merciful."
Swallowing, Lucilla nodded and forced a smile in return. "Yes, Commodus. You are most merciful."
His smirk grew wider. "How are you going to thank me, sister?"
When she said nothing he tapped a warning foot on the stone tiles and murmured softly, "Perhaps I should send the Praetorians to ask Lucius instead."
Panic. "No, no! I am very grateful!" She raced over to him and knelt awkwardly at his feet. "Thank you so much, Caesar, for sparing my son and I." Hesitantly touching his foot in pretend adulation, she looked up, hoping to see him appeased. But he appeared mildly disgusted.
"Get up, Lucilla."
She rose and backed off, nerves buzzing like live wire. Commodus cocked his head and took a step, and another until their faces were mere inches apart, eyes meeting and clashing violently before he broke the gaze. He shifted his head so it was resting on her shoulder and turned to whisper into her ear, lips so close that they brushed her skin as he spoke.
"I ask again: how do you plan to thank me?"
The soft, menacing whisper and the breath on her ear made Lucilla shiver and cross her arms protectively across her chest, but Commodus grabbed her wrists and held them fast at her sides without moving his face from her cheek.
"How, sister? If you don't answer I shall ask my Praetorians to bring Lucius here..."
He touched his forehead to hers, a comradely gesture save for the dark, hungry glimmer in his green eyes.
"Oh, I know how you can thank me, Lucilla," he said in mock enlightenment. "It's getting late and I should go to sleep. You know I won't get any rest if my lovely sister doesn't kiss me goodnight." He opened his mouth so that his white teeth were only just showing, but didn't move forward. "I should let you know that a contingent of the Praetorian wait outside Lucius' room, awaiting my orders. Don't you love him, Lucilla?"
As he spoke his breath brushed her face, clean and minty as usual except for a residue of blood from the fight. He had been punched in the mouth, after all. He brought a hand up to stroke her cheek and she had to swallow hard to avoid flinching away from his touch.
"Don't you love me?"
Lucilla understood; she was a smart woman. And if it was a choice between her son and her dignity, there really was never any competition. She closed her eyes, fighting off tears, and leaned forwards.
Commodus' lips were farther away than she had anticipated and when she finally pressed her mouth onto his, she was almost surprised by the distance. Commodus, for his part, gave a sharp intake of breath and then stood completely motionless, barely reacting to the kiss he had so long desired. Eyes closed in a rapture of ecstasy, he reveled in her taste and smell and nearness, frequently present but never before his in this way.
When Lucilla pulled away, lips still tainted with the tang of blood, he remained unmoving for a long moment, staring at his sister with something akin to envy reflected in his light eyes. But then he smiled, and was once again the cat who holds the mouse in his paw.
"That wasn't so difficult, now, was it, sister?" he asked with a sly smirk. Then he stretched his arms and groaned, wincing at the ache of his back and shoulders.
"Let us relax on the bed, Lucilla."
Heart pounding, she wordlessly complied and perched, muscles tense, on the edge of his bed. Commodus sat heavily beside her, fingers still absently roving over the long thin scratch on his throat. The red glow of firelight flickered over his cheekbone.
"My muscles are so very sore, sister. Will you try to loosen them for me?"
Commodus turned and offered his back and shoulders to her. Lucilla began to massage him, the parts that weren't obscured by his white armor, just like when he had pulled a muscle practicing overzealously with a toy sword as a boy. A feeling of loss almost overwhelmed her but her strong hands kept working at the tight muscles.
Commodus glanced at his sister in distaste. "You're not doing a very good job, Lucilla. You're not even reaching the most painful parts."
She replied tersely through pursed lips but kept going. "It's difficult to give a massage to someone wearing armor."
"I suppose you're right," Commodus said, smiling although his sister couldn't see his face. "Take it off."
"What?"
Commodus turned to look at her. "I said, take it off, then. If you can't relieve my poor aching muscles like this, then take the armor off."
Lucilla didn't like where this was going, but she thought of Lucius, gritted her teeth, and began to remove her brother's chest plate.
She knew how to undo a Roman official's armor; Maximus had taught her when they had been together. After carefully undoing the clasps on either side, she lifted the heavy decorative chest plate over her brother's head and bent over to place it gently on the ground. With his sister's back turned, Commodus reached across himself to pull the white, heavily embroidered tunic and simple shirt over his head in one smooth motion, exposing his muscular torso. Then he lazily shifted his position to recline on the bed.
One of his sides was covered in deep purple bruising, blotchy against his porcelain skin and disconcertingly clear over the soft rise and fall of his muscles. He lay loosely on the silk sheets, eyes shut against the flickering torchlight, splayed over the bed like a corpse and as pale as one. The dark curls on his forehead almost obscured his closed eyes.
"Commodus?" Lucilla asked tentatively. She wished she was wondering why her brother was lying on his bed half-naked.
Commodus opened one eye and squinted at her in response. "My feet are sore too, sister." He wiggled one foot around, still looking at her expectantly. Lucilla gritted her teeth and walked to the end of his bed, grabbing the laces of one of his boots and beginning to untie them. Think of Lucius, she reminded herself fiercely. I will suffer any indignity for him.
Boots finally removed, she took Commodus' foot in her hands and kneaded it firmly, earning soft appreciative moans for her efforts. His muscles really did feel tense.
"Lucilla," he said abruptly, looking at her, "Come do my shoulders."
Seething inside, she returned to the head of the bed and sat behind him. She lay her hands on his muscular shoulders and began to work at the tightly knotted muscles.
Commodus sighed softly.
"Lucilla," he said, tilting his neck back to look at her, "It makes me uncomfortable that I am so exposed."
"Shall I bring you your nightshirt?
Commodus cocked his head to one side, thinking. Then: "No," he decided abruptly. "You will just take off your dress too; that way I will not feel exposed compared to you. We will be the same." He smiled faintly as if at some joke only he could see.
"Well, Lucilla? Go on."
She raised her head, meeting his gaze for the first time in minutes. The word left her mouth on a breath of breeze, scarcely loud enough to be said to have been spoken.
"Please," she murmured, begging, clutching desperately to the hope that her brother, her little brother, would remember himself and take pity.
"Please."
Pushing himself up on one arm, Commodus looked at her. "No," he said pointedly. "You heard everything I said last night. You're lucky to receive this treatment; by rights I should have you killed. And Lucius."
Gritting her teeth to try and hold in the helpless tears threatening to spill down her cheeks, Lucilla tried again. "Commodus, you are my brother and I love you, even after everything you've done to Rome and to me. But... this is wrong. Please don't make me do this."
Commodus sat up, pale green eyes blazing like marsh fire. "I am Caesar," he spat. "I do what I wish. Now take off your dress, or I shall be forced do something very nasty to my favorite nephew."
She could not let him harm Lucius. No matter what.
Heart hammering in her chest, Lucilla pulled her dress over her head. Standing before him in nothing but her underclothes, she wrapped her arms protectively around herself and fought down a slight shiver.
Commodus sat up straight and looked at her, eyes roving hungrily across the bare expanse of her throat and stomach and thighs. He stood up and put a hand behind her head, in her hair, and pulled her face close to his.
"I love you, Lucilla."
"Brother," she responded quietly.
And then his lips were on hers, devouring her breath as hands roamed over her skin eagerly, searching. Lucilla feigned reciprocation, thinking only of protecting her son, forcing her mind to pretend this was Maximus, or her husband that she was touching; and not her own brother. She shuddered involuntarily and Commodus pulled away, looking slightly ill. "You may return to your quarters. This is enough for the first night."
She threw her nightdress back on, not daring to question this turn of luck. Perhaps Commodus had decided to be merciful at least today.
"Lucilla," he said roughly, voice cracking, as she turned to go. "Thank you." He looked like something had broken inside of him.
She looked at him for a moment, coldly, looked at the man who was not her brother. She nodded stiffly, eyes condemning him.
He hid his face wearily with his hands.
And then she left.
Finis.