AN: I don't own Julius Caesar. I wrote this like four years ago. Enjoy.
Such a curséd day for such a blesséd event. Alas I fear I must be here to witness this coronation to see Caesar's undoing. My ears buzz with the noise of the growing crowd, but steadily I push my way through. I would not be here but for the wish of my belovéd father Antonius. Until Caesar came along, with all of his idiosyncrasies, and took my father's bid for ruler away. He used his charm and persuasion to win over the Senate. That pompous windbag doth infuriate me so. Secretly I contrive to plunge my dagger into the depths of his heart and lick the ruddy drops from its blade. I shall not stray any further from my quest.
The coronation was uneventful, I must have heard wrong. Servants from the house of one Marcus Brutus whispered to me talk of murdering Caesar. So I returned home and the next day I shall trail Caesar to the Capitol. As I walk now to the Capitol I can see out of the corner of my eye the gleam of soldiers' steel. I quicken my pace and escape into a shadowed alley. I weave my way through the narrow streets losing the soldiers easily. I raced up the steps of the Capitol and into a niche between the entrance and a column, thankfully out of view.
I remained hidden but for a brief moment before I heard the sound of foot steps and various voices. I peeked out just as I saw them raising their daggers. I rushed out of my niche and down the stairs and was immediately caught up in someone's arms. He carried me away, fortunately nobody noticed, to his home before finally putting me down. It was Markus, my father's trusted adviser. He sent word to father that he would be keeping me at his home for my safety, of course. He whispered calming words to me and held me to ease my crying. Why do I cry? Blinded by my ceaseless rage, I do now realize that death makes all people cry. He bade me attend the funeral of Caesar and I readily agreed, my mind muddled by the momentous event I had just witnessed. As we walked I tried to sort out the chaos in my head.
Brutus spoke first, the pretty speech of a traitor and usurper. Antony spoke second, the kind speech of a true friend. He spoke gently, yet with a passion never before revealed. At least that is what I surmise, all that I could surmise before Markus's blade plunged itself deep into my belly.