...my brother Cassius
Title: ...my brother Cassius
Play: Julius Caesar
Author: casablancagirl
Recipient: athousandwinds
Rating: PG
Summary: Brutus has trouble distinguishing truth from fantasy, and isn't sure if he wants to know the difference.
He can't remember whether it really happened or not: whether it's a memory tugging loose from his tidily arrayed stacks of recollections, and ricocheting chaotically around his mind; or whether it's a half-remembered sliver of a dream he had many years ago. A dream which disintegrated upon his waking, only to be stored in fragmented slices somewhere in his well-ordered brain. It could even be a fantasy, he thinks vaguely, one which his mind, torn and divided, may have constructed for itself to soothe its fever, to calm his troubled spirits. Brutus sighs, his breath condensing in the cool evening air.
He can remember it only in pieces; shards of a mirror which reflect only hazily. He and Cassius in an orchard -- he has indistinct recollections of golden light, filtering through translucent leaves. Cassius smiling, perhaps --
"It must have been a long time ago, then," he murmurs, thinking of Cassius' lean and bitter face now. He presses his hands to his eyes.
They walked arm in arm amongst the trees -- or did they? -- weren't they leaning together against the sinuous silvery trunk of the tallest tree in the orchard? Cassius' fingers, slender and white, resting lightly against the back of his neck, trembling slightly.
Brutus frowns, confused. Perhaps there was no golden sunlight; his imagination, never usually so liberal, may have dashed a touch of colour into his monotone memories. Moonlight, perhaps --? or just an ordinary day, with a sky streaked with white against dull blue, the sun half-concealed. A gentle breeze --
They conversed very little, he thinks, and what conversation there was was but desultory, trivial - words slipped off their idle tongues and dissolved into the warm air, meaning nothing. He can't remember a single sentence spoken that evening (morning?) or even a solitary word. He can't remember how they reached the orchard, or when they left. He remembers an eternity. Wiping a drop of moisture from his cheek, Brutus seems to recall something -- one word -- no. It flits away again into the shadowy recesses of his mind, troubling him intermittently, never quite gaining access to his consciousness.
When was it? he asks himself, uneasy. How long ago did they lie together in the orchard -- if at all, for his scattered and disjointed memories of the day are fading swiftly as he searches for them. Before the conspiracy -- his mouth twists; he finds conspiracy a venomous little word, distorting all the ideals he poured into it -- before the plot -- no, not a plot. No word could entirely embody for him what the murder -- the assassination, the slaughter -- what it meant to him. Even the meaning seems to slip away as he thinks, and he can barely remember why he did it, or catch on to its unfaithful logic.
He focuses on the hazy memories again, trying to weave the feeling around him - the feeling of contentment, of a time when he could lie in an orchard with Cassius, when no cares enmeshed him, trapped him. It's no use. He can't remember such a time. Nostalgia grips him painfully then, and he calls Varro and Claudius.
"My lord?" they say, almost in unison. He can hardly remember which is which; they have few distinguishing features. He remains in silence, for a few seconds, during which they shuffle their feet and share worried glances. He doesn't care: he is trying to draw together the strands of memory, attempting to weave them into a whole. But the threads keep slipping, and as he holds one tightly, another slips from his ineffectual grasp and slides away.
"Go to my brother Cassius," he says, not looking at the men, but staring into the shadows, which flicker uncertainly. The candles are burning low, and he is tired. What was he saying? "My brother Cassius..." he repeats, his soft voice trailing off, crumbling away. Claudius and Varro are too nervous to show their impatience. Claudius sighs unconsciously, deeply, and Brutus looks sharply at him. "Ask Cassius -- ask him whether he remembers a day --" he stops again, language -- on which he is so utterly dependent -- deserting him completely, leaving the violent currents of emotion bare. It frightens him, how strongly he feels, although it is impossible for him to define his emotion, to fence it in with hollow words. Hollow words. He has always been hollow words; vague generalisations, faulty logic, shallow arguments. He wonders if he has ever been real. There is a painful lump in his throat, of which he is ashamed.
"Go back to your posts," he says hopelessly. "I have nothing to say." Claudius and Varro barely hesitate; Varro draws breath, as if to ask a question, but Claudius looks at him in warning and they both leave, the soft curtains at the entrance of the tent barely making a sound. Only a gentle silken whisper as they fall back into place.
Brutus clutches at all the real memories, the times he knows he spent with Cassius; walking together in stony grey streets, plotting -- he winces again at the word -- in the dark shadows of his house, at the senate, among coldly robed senators who bandied words back and forth in an endless flurry of useless activity. He tries in vain to remember a moment of warmth in a single one of those occasions: a second in which a glance, a smile, a murmured word of his, demonstrated any friendship. Any love. Cassius may have sent a thousand such glances, he thinks. He probably did. But I --
The warmth of his dusty cracked memory, like the warmth of the sun filtering through summer leaves, infuses him again, and a fleeting image of Cassius' smile, creasing his thin face in unfamiliar, pleasant ways, flashes momentarily before his closed eyes. A ghost of a kiss brushes his tired cheek. He knows, with a heavy sense of realisation, why he didn't want to ask Cassius about that sunny orchard (if it was sunny; he wavers hesitantly over the weather. But Brutus needs the sun.). He couldn't. If Cassius' memory, which was always vivid and clear, full of myriad accuracies and glinting truths, was void of that languid orchard day, then Brutus' dream would be torn completely from him.
He has lost enough: he can't afford to lose his dreams.
Play: Julius Caesar
Author: casablancagirl
Recipient: athousandwinds
Rating: PG
Summary: Brutus has trouble distinguishing truth from fantasy, and isn't sure if he wants to know the difference.
He can't remember whether it really happened or not: whether it's a memory tugging loose from his tidily arrayed stacks of recollections, and ricocheting chaotically around his mind; or whether it's a half-remembered sliver of a dream he had many years ago. A dream which disintegrated upon his waking, only to be stored in fragmented slices somewhere in his well-ordered brain. It could even be a fantasy, he thinks vaguely, one which his mind, torn and divided, may have constructed for itself to soothe its fever, to calm his troubled spirits. Brutus sighs, his breath condensing in the cool evening air.
He can remember it only in pieces; shards of a mirror which reflect only hazily. He and Cassius in an orchard -- he has indistinct recollections of golden light, filtering through translucent leaves. Cassius smiling, perhaps --
"It must have been a long time ago, then," he murmurs, thinking of Cassius' lean and bitter face now. He presses his hands to his eyes.
They walked arm in arm amongst the trees -- or did they? -- weren't they leaning together against the sinuous silvery trunk of the tallest tree in the orchard? Cassius' fingers, slender and white, resting lightly against the back of his neck, trembling slightly.
Brutus frowns, confused. Perhaps there was no golden sunlight; his imagination, never usually so liberal, may have dashed a touch of colour into his monotone memories. Moonlight, perhaps --? or just an ordinary day, with a sky streaked with white against dull blue, the sun half-concealed. A gentle breeze --
They conversed very little, he thinks, and what conversation there was was but desultory, trivial - words slipped off their idle tongues and dissolved into the warm air, meaning nothing. He can't remember a single sentence spoken that evening (morning?) or even a solitary word. He can't remember how they reached the orchard, or when they left. He remembers an eternity. Wiping a drop of moisture from his cheek, Brutus seems to recall something -- one word -- no. It flits away again into the shadowy recesses of his mind, troubling him intermittently, never quite gaining access to his consciousness.
When was it? he asks himself, uneasy. How long ago did they lie together in the orchard -- if at all, for his scattered and disjointed memories of the day are fading swiftly as he searches for them. Before the conspiracy -- his mouth twists; he finds conspiracy a venomous little word, distorting all the ideals he poured into it -- before the plot -- no, not a plot. No word could entirely embody for him what the murder -- the assassination, the slaughter -- what it meant to him. Even the meaning seems to slip away as he thinks, and he can barely remember why he did it, or catch on to its unfaithful logic.
He focuses on the hazy memories again, trying to weave the feeling around him - the feeling of contentment, of a time when he could lie in an orchard with Cassius, when no cares enmeshed him, trapped him. It's no use. He can't remember such a time. Nostalgia grips him painfully then, and he calls Varro and Claudius.
"My lord?" they say, almost in unison. He can hardly remember which is which; they have few distinguishing features. He remains in silence, for a few seconds, during which they shuffle their feet and share worried glances. He doesn't care: he is trying to draw together the strands of memory, attempting to weave them into a whole. But the threads keep slipping, and as he holds one tightly, another slips from his ineffectual grasp and slides away.
"Go to my brother Cassius," he says, not looking at the men, but staring into the shadows, which flicker uncertainly. The candles are burning low, and he is tired. What was he saying? "My brother Cassius..." he repeats, his soft voice trailing off, crumbling away. Claudius and Varro are too nervous to show their impatience. Claudius sighs unconsciously, deeply, and Brutus looks sharply at him. "Ask Cassius -- ask him whether he remembers a day --" he stops again, language -- on which he is so utterly dependent -- deserting him completely, leaving the violent currents of emotion bare. It frightens him, how strongly he feels, although it is impossible for him to define his emotion, to fence it in with hollow words. Hollow words. He has always been hollow words; vague generalisations, faulty logic, shallow arguments. He wonders if he has ever been real. There is a painful lump in his throat, of which he is ashamed.
"Go back to your posts," he says hopelessly. "I have nothing to say." Claudius and Varro barely hesitate; Varro draws breath, as if to ask a question, but Claudius looks at him in warning and they both leave, the soft curtains at the entrance of the tent barely making a sound. Only a gentle silken whisper as they fall back into place.
Brutus clutches at all the real memories, the times he knows he spent with Cassius; walking together in stony grey streets, plotting -- he winces again at the word -- in the dark shadows of his house, at the senate, among coldly robed senators who bandied words back and forth in an endless flurry of useless activity. He tries in vain to remember a moment of warmth in a single one of those occasions: a second in which a glance, a smile, a murmured word of his, demonstrated any friendship. Any love. Cassius may have sent a thousand such glances, he thinks. He probably did. But I --
The warmth of his dusty cracked memory, like the warmth of the sun filtering through summer leaves, infuses him again, and a fleeting image of Cassius' smile, creasing his thin face in unfamiliar, pleasant ways, flashes momentarily before his closed eyes. A ghost of a kiss brushes his tired cheek. He knows, with a heavy sense of realisation, why he didn't want to ask Cassius about that sunny orchard (if it was sunny; he wavers hesitantly over the weather. But Brutus needs the sun.). He couldn't. If Cassius' memory, which was always vivid and clear, full of myriad accuracies and glinting truths, was void of that languid orchard day, then Brutus' dream would be torn completely from him.
He has lost enough: he can't afford to lose his dreams.