Chapter Text
I’ve been dreaming of a Senate floor since I was six.
White columns veined with grey, the veins branching like capillaries through marble. The men stand in a half-circle, their hands hidden in the folds of togas bordered with purple.
No one speaks.
In the centre of the floor, where the high window throws its shaft of light, there is a statue of a man, or what was a man, the features worn smooth by unseen hands. At its base, another man kneels. His back is curved, his shoulders jerking oddly.
The man in white falls against the statue.
The body gives way, the white wool parting, the red opening through the fabric like a mouth. The blood threads down the steps in thin lines, gathering in the hollows where the marble has worn shallow from centuries of feet. It pools there, still and dark.
The kneeling man lifts his head. His hands come into the light. They are wet, red to the wrist. They are reaching towards another man, whose tears run into the blood. Who is weeping, soundlessly, endlessly.
In whose hand is the knife.