Their house was quiet after the 'war.'
They didn't have many visitors afterwards anyway. The lady of the house was never begrudging with this. Indeed, she appreciated how she was no longer required to fake smiles. Smiling, happiness really, never came easy to her afterwards.
The master of the house did not care to notice this. Honor was intact. Family was preserved. What else mattered?
The lady's husband, in contrast, was the quietest of all. He certainly looked the part of the stoic veteran, a man hardened by war who now simply passed through time, imparting wisdom when necessary. As she could play the part of contented housewife, so he could play the part of contemplative sage. To those that didn't know, he was a man that had seen the horrors of war and come back gentler. Here was a role model, a teacher for children.
And yet no one brought their sons to sit at his feet.
In the first weeks of peace, the two merely danced around the other. It was a complicated pattern of steps to keep each from the other's view. It was too soon to look grief and shame in the eyes. It was too early to greet anger and hate.
But emotions cool. Rationality seeps in, though wasn't it cold reason that brought them to this place?
For each day since the small war between Rome and Alba, Sabine has been married to the man who killed her sister-in-law. For each day since the fatal duel, Horace has dined with the sister of his opponents. So as he sleeps alone in his own chambers, ever the respectful husband, the war goes on.
She stays in his house because she must. It would not be honorable to leave, and the Romans care so much for their honor, for justice, and for duty. After all, her brothers Curiace are all dead by his hand, along with the tragic Camille, so she has no more ties to Alba other than her birth. She is Roman now after all. And since she is the perfect reminder of his sister, it is her duty to stay.
His punishment for Camille's death was to live in regret.
She remembers her brother, the love of Camille, and how he was torn so horribly between serving the country he loved and fighting his family. She remembers his grin, his kind heart, and his loyalty to his home unwavering.
She remembers the cold loyalty of Horace as well. But she does not remember him torn.
In one swift moment one night almost a year later, she breaks. He does not say a word but lets his shocked face speak his mind when she grabs his hand before he can enter his rooms. Silently she drags him away from solitude to the place they once shared together, before everything was wrong.
She kisses him on that couch for the first time in a long time, and he kisses back.
She forgets, for one blessed while, as his hands confidently find her body. She neglects him not, and slowly roving hands leave them bare. Their second skins shed, the couple still lies, teasing forgiveness with every pass of hot breath. Tonight, she can bear his lies, giving up her own. The two are lost for one sweet passage of time in the fantasy of times they can never have again, though pretending is almost good enough.
When they lie spent in the room now too small for all the memories, she hates.
She hates him, her husband, the man who killed her brothers and his own sister for glory, for honor, for his pride. She hates her father-in-law, for he defended the death of his own daughter that his guilty son might live. She hates her brothers, who died when they should have lived to father her nieces and nephews. She almost hates the gods for throwing her precious scraps of family against each other over and over without respite.
She hates herself.
For when the night is over, she is lying next to her sleeping husband.