Work Text:
Caesar's fingers curl around the crown and he knows that he wants. No one present in the senate that day who saw his eyes can deny this. But the citizens are watching, and from afar they only see him refuse - once, twice, thrice; they cannot see the seams in stage makeup painted on his face.
The Romans can blame no one but themselves for the tragedy unfolding onstage; it was them who gave him their loyalty in a gilded chalice. When they tried to wrestle it back, he was already intoxicated.
Brutus thought this was a service to Rome. How can it be service when the served spits in your face?
Brutus was devoted to Caesar, and Brutus betrayed him. Brutus was devoted to Rome, and Rome betrayed him.
He thought this was an act of cleansing. How can it be so, when even after the servants sweep the crimson off the floors and air out the metallic fragrance, Caesar's blood will still stain every word spoken within the senate walls, every war waged? It will stain all of Rome's future, and it will stain Brutus' heart.
For eons bards will bemoan the poetry of it - that Brutus was the last to stab Caesar's body and the first (the only) to stab his heart. The truth is that he did not wish to die in this mass sacrifice and so waited, and once desperation had been slaughtered he got the chance to step over his allies' carcasses and lift his own knife.
Brutus told himself this act was sacred. And it must be - men drive swords into each other's backs to get to His. So great is Caesar, that brothers spill brothers' blood just taste some of his.
Then Portia dies and Cassius dies and Brutus cannot live.
His last act draws the curtains on this everlasting story.