Title: Tears of the Victors
Writer: lucre_noin
Beta reader: verecunda
Tears of Victors
Antony does not expect to find Brutus alive. He was not surprised when he saw the bloody corpse of Cassius, and he does not think that Brutus would choose a path other than that chosen by the man who was with him so far.
When he enters the small, unhappy tent, Antony sees Brutus, and then he sees the sword.
Brutus is alone, not even a servant with him, and he is kneeling. The sword in his hands is shaking slightly, pointing at his own chest.
Octavius opens his mouth to shout, but Antony shakes his shoulder and signals for him to go out.
Brutus watches them, feverish eyes moving quickly from Antonys face to Octavius as he leaves the tent. Drops of sweat fall from the his short brown hair of the kneeling man. Brutus has a beard of two days, light, bristly.
Antony has never seen him like this. This is not the Brutus he knew, the man who walked the streets of Rome quoting phrases in Greek and smiling politely. The man whose spirit died by his own hand on the tomb of Caesar.
Antony knows why Brutus killed Caesar; he does not need to ask. He knows that the time changes and destroys the mind, turning friends into enemies and keeping them clinging to nostalgia. Brutus had loved Rome, the Rome of the Republic. He should hace never have had to live in a time when all his golden dream vanished in golden sparks, burnt before him. The Republic is no more.
"Wait," shouts Antony when the blade pierces the thin robe. Brutus obeys.
Antony kneels beside him and takes his hands from the sword, finger after finger, slowly.
"Give me that," he orders him again and Brutus drops his own hands to the ground, and allowing Antony to keep the weapon.
"I loved Caesar."
"I know," Antony assures him. "You did what you did for the good of Rome. You are a noble man, Brutus."
Brutus nods. It was fruitless, say his eyes when Antony raises his hand to touch his neck, his hair.
"It was the wrong time. I loved Caesar, he is dead now. I loved Cassius and he is dead. I loved Rome." His voice breaks and the man he gently grabs Antony's arm. "Hold my sword."
Antony nods. He cannot do anything because Brutus is noble, and denying him this would mean to humiliate him and force him to kill himself alone, hoping to strike without hesitation, hoping not to agonize for hours because of an clumsy stroke.
Now in front of Brutus, Antony leans over him. For the first time Brutus looks into his eyes.
"I loved Rome," whispers Brutus, with the air of someone who wants to convince himself.
Antony kisses his mouth, softly, and he can feel Brutus breathing fast on his own lips.
The sword is between them. Antony's hands are strong and the point of the sword touches the heart of other Roman.
Antony feels Brutus' smile on his lips before leaving them. The traitor falls forward onto the sword without even a whimper.
Brutus, in Antonys arms, pierced with his sword, jerks once, twice. And his mouth is sucking in air, uselessly, while streams of blood flow on Antony's neck.
Neither of them shed a tear.