A/N: Honestly, it's as much historical fic as fanfic. Sometime in the months following Tullia's death.

Cicero looked different in Greece. It was as though his customary urban pallor was a clear glass through which a golden light was shining through. He walked straight and sure without the crowds jostling him or client trotting after him shouting his name, though Atticus remembered with fond humour how when he had descended this rocky path down to the sea for the first time, almost thirty years earlier, he had picked his way as daintily as a skittish horse. The white sun reflected fiercely in his glittering eyes. The path was wide enough for two to walk comfortably abreast, as they were doing, but Cicero was yet to spare a word into the salt air.

-My friend, Atticus said softly, I don't believe I've ever heard you so silent.

-I'd thought you would have heard enough from me, he responded, and smiled wistfully.

White sun, white sand, bronze sky and wine-dark sea.