Work Text:
Cassius’ red mantle and sword lay on the floor of Antony’s tent – taken from the corpse, brought here by a defector. The things have a discomforting air about them: they seem just things, not something that could have belonged to a person. Empty shells, or worse than shells, without even absence to fill them.
Is it odd of Antony to fall into a melancholy mood, so soon after he jumped and shouted of joy for Cassius’ death? He is still pleased, of course: Cassius’ timely demise means hope to Antony, and salvation, and victory, if only his luck holds.
But there is a moment of emptiness after every rapture. Antony knows how to deal with such a thing. …Does he? He picks the sword off the floor. Lighter than Antony’s own; the hilt is simple, and worn. But it lies in Antony’s hand too well.
His eyes narrow in suspicion. With two fingers, as if he was touching a poisonous but dead sea animal, Antony picks up the mantle. He throws it over his shoulders, as if to keep warm, and sits staring into middle distance.
‘I’m a dead man’, Antony proclaims aloud - and bursts out laughing. It sounds hilarious. He laughs and laughs, and then slips out of the cloak like a snake out of an old skin. Antony lives.