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It was all for Rome.
The skies were painted in billows of grey smoke, clouds smothered between one another and begging for relief as the rumbles of helmets clashed below them. Men screaming, voices vibrating amongst the clatter of silver swords and wooden shields splintering from the pressure of some ruthless enemy shoved against them.
Brutus tumbled upon rows of corpses bloodied on lawns of grass wilted; it’s saturated green no longer vibrant amongst the bladed leaves and soiled dirt. Flowers wilted when stacks of armies crowded themselves along their petals, crushing every crying blue and blooming magenta.
Their smooth leaves tainted with the skidding mark of someone attempting to jump another; withered away on a pathway paved for more to follow and ruin beds that were once littered with glowing daffodils and tulips. Assortments of cyan and red, yellows bleeding into orange and the pretty shades of purples swirling amongst the soft texture of its surface—lost all their once beautiful colors into a dirty plane of grey. Deadly critters crawled between tall stems and forgotten stones, their own pace reflecting a broken piece of solidarity and something more, something less.
As the distant haze of yelling could be heard in the far distance, Brutus still tried to swerve the bruised bodies and torn nature.
His mind was clouded with swarming thoughts of guilt and loss; the once constant warmth that thrummed underneath the veins of his heart had now stopped cold. It’s pain swam claws left and right between the speed of his blighted blood. The mounds and crevices of his intensities had been dragged through each pinprick of a nail, drawing soiled creatures below.
Brutus was left stranded in a field of blaze and glory, but not the kind he wanted.
It was all for Rome.
Thoughts strayed towards Caesar.
A man of honor and loyalty. Determination and bravery. Everything someone desired in a leader. There was no mistake in his actions and every step forward was a plan to destruction. A warpath for those who dared to cross his roads.
For years, Brutus stood by his side. A minor convenience to some, but to Caesar, a friend who's willing to go all the way. To cross the bridge covered in broken gaps and wobbly boards, wary of trolls underneath his feet ready to drag him into cold waters or unstable creatures awaiting at the end of his line.
There was no hesitation in his walk. His destination was only forward and onward. And that’s exactly what he did. His bridge never faltered and his ropes never tore. His ambitions were great and grand, and at one point Brutus admired that. He relished in it actually. Drove head first into every plan of action.
Then suddenly, it became the one thing he hated the most.
It was all for Rome. For the people. For the mothers and their frail sons. Fathers holding on tightly to their daughter’s bonnets, grabby hands and eyes scrunched.
Though now, as Brutus stands still amongst a graveyard--bodies strewn through those tragically beautiful flowers he once found a comfort in, blood bleeding into their heart-shaped petals and walking stems--he feels frightened.
He's not quite sure at what.
Instead, his mind is plagued with foul images of filthy red grime stuck in between the chunks of fingernails. The splatter of it drowned within the collar of his shirt, dotted onto his silver armor, and rubbed along his skin. It itches and no matter how many times he drags his nails across the evidence of what he had done not so long ago, it won’t come off. Or maybe it has and what’s left was the deep ruby marks he created himself. Carved into the only thing remaining of him.
Caesar’s body came to mind. Covered in holes shaped like daggers and swords. Blades crafted, smelted for only one purpose: to assassinate their emperor, their friend.
Pain surged through his heart. It ripped and swallowed every rock shoved down his throat, and how it blocks any sound.
His hands reach to his neck, his heart, his head. Anything to grasp onto for the sake of some ground.
Everything spiraled and Brutus doesn’t know how to make it stop. The dizziness clouds his brain, circles his limbs--it creates a suffocating atmosphere he can no longer find a bubble for to breath, a tiny gap for air.
Caesar haunts his eyes. His eyelids struggle to shut close, but he simply can’t. His body betrays his being and it takes everything inside of it to just stop.
Everything floats around him. The ground shakes and trembles at his very fingertips when he tries to rub them on the grass. Hoping the blooming green can transfer its color into him, a refresher for something clean and nothing like the polluted oxygen his body dares to breathe in.
Caesar may have not deserved the stabbings. He may have not expected his one true friend to slice a dagger into him, cracked eyes and numbing fingers. But, he tells himself, it was all for Rome.
It was all for Rome.
His head continued pounding, but the pain subsided. It no longer mattered though. Because he’s lost his leader, the one he persisted was in the wrong. That Caesar had it coming with those words he titled himself. It was only a matter of time and Brutus wanted to be the one to do so, to get it done before the sake of others were put at risk.
The bodies at his feet did not move.
Brutus’s stuck to the ground. He himself didn’t dare to get back up.
Caesar is gone, his friend. But he was not the only one.
The image of Cassius’s dead corpse--stilled and grounded to a floor of death--cradled Brutus’s eyes. Every time his eyelids closed shut, the red simmers of his blood became a vivid manipulation, swirling behind his own belated shadows. It haunted his being and Brutus felt the rushing weight of loss struck a chord in his heart.
Cassius was always loyal.
No matter the time or place, whether his own needs should’ve been placed at the front lines, he casted them aside for the sake of his friend, someone who was worth more, at a dirt less pile. No longer a distinct thought sharpened in his mind, but rather a dull color blurred between the lines of something less. Cassius wasn't one to cower and he proved it through the blinding trust he held within Brutus.
Though, there were times Brutus himself cowered instead. Too focused on the moral compass he'd been gifted as a noble and when Cassius pushed and shoved for him to finally realize golden linings, he couldn't bear to strip them.
.
.
There was no hesitation in his decisions, the feeling of Cassius' hands burning into his skin, too hot and too much, yet all the same a craving he wished was served on a golden platter. Every trail left a scorch of heat behind, a mark so deep and well-known Brutus hoped it scarred.
Though, in this moment--with Cassius eyes trapping his own rampage with rage and hurt--it may have been the wrong thing to believe could happen.
“What happens now Brutus?” the man spat. Words laced in green venom and a memoir broken petals of red.
Brutus only looked down. He no longer could stand that blazing rage twirling its tendrils around the presence of his dear friend. He felt shame, but he couldn't let that be known, be thrown out in that cold wind of poisoned air he desperately wishes to evade. A glamour too beautiful, he had to resist.
Brutus lifted his hand, a longing for something he can't quite describe just yet.
“I don't know what you're talking about my friend,” he replied. Though he knew exactly what they were talking about, he's been aware for far too long that it leaves a desperate ache behind.
Cassius frowned. It doesn't belong there.
He raised his hands up high, away from Brutus's shoulders and body language tense. His lips snarled and Brutus could feel the heat once more emanating from him. This time though, it burned too much for him to handle; to hover over and test the temperature--the fire--that would decide whether he’d curl up near it or pull back in fear.
It was the latter.
“You’ve wronged me.” Cassius said, sounding so broken.
Brutus reached out and tried to stand his ground. He could never do that to his only true friend, but Cassius gave no time for rebuttals.
The fear was not of Cassius, but rather what could happen next.
He pointed his finger accusingly at the other man. “You're the reason we're in this mess and not once did you heed my warnings,” his face blared in crimson. The same that would soon be bleeding out on a grassless hill.
“You’re the reason my men may possibly be slaughtered at the hands of Rome!” Cassius shouted. Spit and foaming at the mouth.
Brutus raged at this accusation.
“Do not point your fingers at me! You agreed to do this with me and now you’re suddenly crying aloud because of what I did?” Brutus’s face formed a scowl. HIs motives were completely moral and Cassiuis had jumped the wagon the minute it was said. A wrongdoing that has occurred so far hurts him deep in his chest. Almost like a sharp knife.
Brutus sighed heavily. His breath short and ragged--he was not aware he was holding it all in.
“You could’ve backed out the second I voiced it. You encouraged all of this.” his hands gestured outwards, signifying the trouble they’ve gotten themselves into. “So, why are you forcing the fault out of me?”
Cassius paused. His fists clenched until knuckles turned white and the shaking started. Brutus cannot point out what was wrong. It was hard. Cassius was a man of shelter, wise and known while taking others in--seeing their true selves. Yet, when it came to his own being, he kept quiet. His voice no longer held that resounding boom of fixation.
Time stood still. It seems Cassuis had nothing more to say.
“If this is all you have to say to me, can we please get on with the plans?” Brutus continued, seething and angry; he doesn’t know for what exactly anymore.
Brutus proceeded to gather his materials. Anything to distract the presence of a man he pulled dear to his heart. The silence could only be so much.
At the corner of his eye, Cassius shifted. It was only the smallest movement, but Brutus knew him well enough to acknowledge what would happen next. His friend always had trouble not getting the last words in, even if he may have not been fully right.
“You--” his voice whispered. Tired and frustrated. Brutus wished that he wasn’t the reason, but he’s well aware that it is not the case.
Cassius cleared his throat. “I know who I am.” His hand raised itself up high up to his chest, palm hovering above his daring heart. Pumping and crying of silent words that Brutus knew couldn’t be shouted aloud, too afraid of the outcome.
But he understands. He knows. He’s not sure he likes it though.
“You’re selfish.” There was no pause, no stutter. Brutus knows exactly what he's said, and both know it to be true.
The other man looked up. Not in retaliation, but rather because he’s aware. All this time, he dares to say it’s for Brutus--that everything up until now was for the sake of Rome and getting rid of a leader who would do no good for their people. Yet, now as all their secret words are whispered in hollered shouts come out into the open, to breathe in and sink into, it wasn’t exactly true, was it?
“You did this for you.”
Cassius puffed his chest out. Almost proud of Brutus following his assumptions.
Brutus knew it all. It was hidden underneath sly lies and firm handshakes. Bodies pressed close, warmth shared between the two when another map had been set on a round table and little figurines were placed on certain points. It was no coincidence that Cassius always stacked their own characters on the same destination.
Brutus finally looked up to his friend. The only one that truly stuck through thick and thin. Bloodshed and tears and everything wrong that it felt so right.
The other opened his mouth, the next words slurred and knowing.
“What else would it be, Brutus?”
.
.
The cold wind nipped at his skin. It frightened the ghost of shivers and numbing goosebumps, erupting between joints of limbs and tickling the sides of his stomach. It was a feeling of an aftermath. An aftermath of cries and yells, of men piercing their spears into shriveled hearts. Armor banged against silvers and golds, breaking the material in half.
It was all simply a war. Something Brutus never wanted for his home.
He’s lost everything; everyone.
The dirt between his fingers dirty his bared flesh, slipping through the small gaps and escaping any form of capture for room to breathe. Scars scatter his hands and though they shouldn't be a bother, they pulse and ache at the idea of those exact wounds placated on a dried body underground.
Two bodies.
The pain came back. This time hitting his entire being, shoveling upwards to his throat and catching the sting in his teeth. Ears ringing and pulsating from the amongst screams that surround him--whether that would be the current fight happening at the bottom of the hill or his own reminisce of some from past events. His fingers struggle to curl, to bend and grab at anything, cramped in a straight position. Feet and legs numb, static coursing through the veins.
But most of all, his heart--it hurts.
A pain he can’t quite remember ever feeling, but it’s too much to bear.
It’s a void; blank and sleet. Once filled with the idea of nothing, but now crowded with replayed images of blood, broken bones, lifeless faces plastered onto a normally alive body. All at once it's being shoved into him, spearing the lines and curves of his heart, corners cracking--splintering--at the sudden train of pains.
Brutus cries into a starless sky. The moon hovering up high and glaring white stares into his soul.
“It was all for Rome.”
He kept insisting it was for his people, those under his wing and others protecting it. It was for the innocent who have yet to go to war and it was for those who had already seen it. Witnessed it with their own eyes and desire to be back home in a family fire.
The smallest whisper. Ever so slightly croaked and silently roared amongst the blazing guns of victory, or loss--he’ll never know.
The lost sound of men yelling is getting gradually closer. Each rumble of the earth shook with such force, and hearing one last battle cry from a man he believed was also a friend was his defining future.
In the far distance, Brutus can see the glint of a dagger. Nothing big, nothing small. But that did not matter.
Brutus now realizes that maybe everything up until now was for the people. He loved them all dear. But now, as he lays still on grass no longer green, bodies no longer alive and laughing, and flowers no longer pigmented in graceful shades of a prisms reflections--he fears.
He’s scared.
And honestly, he can't fathom what it is still. He can’t find himself wanting to.Instead, he is six feet below ground. He will be. The pain is still there and it won't go away.
Brutus sees Antony climbing up the hill.
He finally makes a decision.
It wasn’t all for Rome, wasn’t it?