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He should be happy.
There was much to be grateful for, given that he had been sentenced to a slow and painful death barely a few weeks prior. On paper, he had promised a pound of his flesh in lieu of payments he should've been able to make. His coin had not materialized.
If anyone had not interfered, he would be dead by now. It was a sobering thought, one that did little to cheer him. The law courts of Venice were not kind, it was pure chance that had given him young Portia's services in the guise of a man. He knew of many others who hadn't been so lucky. They had met quite unfortunate ends.
Somehow, in a strange twist of fate, he was still here. Sickened, browbeaten, alive. He had not felt the acute sense of relief Bassanio had expressed after the trial, nor the smug satisfaction that had graced Portia's face. He had been numb to it all. Shock, Nerissa had claimed with a knowing glance. He'd feel alright after a few days with some prayer and sleep. Gratiano, hand draped lazily across her waist, had laughingly claimed there was nothing a strong drink and a romp couldn't fix. Cheers and hollers had followed his conviction, and Antonio remembered how he had schooled his features into something resembling amusement.
He should be thankful for his second lease of life, he thinks. Instead, he feels burdened by it. This sentiment is accompanied by a self loathing so intense, it cuts away at his person by the day. What need was there for Shylock's knife, when he could hurt himself just as effectively?
There was a part of Antonio, buried somewhere deep in the recesses of his soul, that had been ready for death. Welcomed it, even. Death was nothing but the cessation of being, sleep that lasted forever. A respite from the constant melancholia that ached in his bones.
Distantly, he wonders. Would any of them have truly cared? Bassanio, his lovely Bassanio, bright as gold and just as fickle, would've grieved only little. It is a painful certainty, but one that Antonio is sure of. Despite all his protestations of love and devotion, Bassanio's heart and future now lay with his beloved. He would perhaps mourn, for the show of it, and promptly forget him some months later, placated by wealth and social standing he had never hoped to possess. Nothing would be remembered of Antonio, the foolish man who had squandered half his fortune and all his life on a friend who hardly turned in his direction unless there were debts to be paid. Such was his nature.
Antonio had always known the flightiness of his friend's affections and had made peace with it long ago. After all, he had had something to provide for him, a man of means if nothing else, and the trade-off that came in the form of Bassanio's smile was always worth the sacrifice.
Stupidly infatuated, he had been. Still was.
Some things never changed. Antonio was not sure he liked the constancy.
They had been young when they met. Bassanio had been a storm of delight, unlike anyone he had known at the time. He'd been willing to provide any whim or indulgence for the pleasure of his company.
He hadn't been sure what the other man had thought of him, but for Antonio, it was love, had always been love. What other word for the tumultuous emotions he felt?
He had denied it, of course. His faith forbade him from falling for other men, and this was perhaps the greatest sin of all. Antonio had always considered himself a good Christian, if nothing else. His love for Bassanio, his fancy for other men, was a fall from grace he could not permit.
If only his traitorous heart would listen.
It surprised him sometimes. For all he had been taught to hate Jews, he had always hated himself a little more.
His dreams troubled him. Bassanio came and went, but that was nothing new. The other faces, nameless, expressionless - those vexed him. Some seemed familiar, with the half smiles of past lovers, but flitted away as soon as he tried to assign a name. Others were complete strangers, beings who passed judgement and found Antonio lacking.
Tonight, it was the young lawyer who saved his life. Sweet and vivaciously clever, it was hard not to appreciate his features. Balthazar, had that been his name? Antonio reached closer, desperate to touch the man, to thank him, get on his knees.
There was something wrong. Very wrong. If only he knew, but his mind was a mess. Lines between dreams and reality blurred. Balthazar's features melted into those of Portia - gloves slipped off slender fingers, and the cap fell to reveal golden tresses of hair.
Her glare was sharp and accusing. Sodomite, the pink lips mouthed.
Antonio woke up in a fright, sweat soaked and trembling. He did not get much sleep after that.
His melancholia was starving him slowly. He hardly felt the need to eat. Food tasted like ash in his mouth, wine he found bitter and cloying. His friends did not seem to notice, too lost in newfound romance to spare a second glance.
They were happy couples. Bassanio and Portia, Gratiano and Nerissa, Jessica and Lorenzo. In some ways, they were the same. Love was nothing without fortunate means, and Antonio knew first-hand how difficult that was to achieve.
He found himself hating them sometimes, their easy camaraderie, the ignorance and privilege they shared. None of them knew what it meant to lose everything. None of them knew how it felt to suffer.
His wealth had long since been restored to him, the crates lying untouched, collecting dust in the cellar. It hardly meant anything to him now. He had no need for it.
Coming so close to death had changed him, he realised. He ruminated on the qualities of mercy and the sustenance of revenge. Thought of a Jew he had wronged, his brethren he had hated for no good reason, aside from their religious denomination.
His faith promised him an afterlife, and he wondered if his good deeds would be enough or deemed lacking. Putting aside his love for men, he had been the cause of many griefs. No doubt his sins were too great to measure. He found himself desperate for forgiveness, the assurance of redemption.
Antonio eyed the chests lying in his cellar and gave pause for thought. He stepped out into the weak sunlight of a Venice morning and wondered where a certain Jew now lived.
This was a pinch hit. I love receiving treats, so if you'd like to write me something in return, feel free to look at my Yuletide Letter , Trick or Treat PH Letter and Fic in a Box PH Letter