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Rome Drabbles: Regret
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rome100. Set during 'Philippi.' If you can't tell, I'm on a Brutus and Cicero kick lately.
***
Brutus wonders how Cassius can sleep so soundly. His dreams are haunted by lurid visions and aching doubts, and when he awakens to the bright Grecian sun his first thought is I shouldn’t be here.
He shares this with no one; it wouldn’t do to be seen as indecisive. The road back home doesn’t allow for regret, but Brutus still allows himself to feel it. Still rails against his mother’s machinations, Cicero’s flattery, Cassius’ ever-present encouragement.
Yet he wonders if he would have found this path of his own accord, where he would have no one but himself to blame.
***
The night air assails Cicero, unexpectedly cold for so late in summer. The wind rattles the boughs of the peach trees, flings the rosemary against the statuary.
He should find comfort here, but it is hollow. Nights rarely bring sleep, and when he sleeps, his dreams leave him shaking. Even this nightly vigil brings no peace, and instead of the music of the spheres, he only hears echoes of his own failures.
The stars give a weak, silvery light, and yet they burn with accusation. The stars fill him with regret, with shame, and they are countless in the heavens.
rome100. Set during 'Philippi.' If you can't tell, I'm on a Brutus and Cicero kick lately.***
Brutus wonders how Cassius can sleep so soundly. His dreams are haunted by lurid visions and aching doubts, and when he awakens to the bright Grecian sun his first thought is I shouldn’t be here.
He shares this with no one; it wouldn’t do to be seen as indecisive. The road back home doesn’t allow for regret, but Brutus still allows himself to feel it. Still rails against his mother’s machinations, Cicero’s flattery, Cassius’ ever-present encouragement.
Yet he wonders if he would have found this path of his own accord, where he would have no one but himself to blame.
***
The night air assails Cicero, unexpectedly cold for so late in summer. The wind rattles the boughs of the peach trees, flings the rosemary against the statuary.
He should find comfort here, but it is hollow. Nights rarely bring sleep, and when he sleeps, his dreams leave him shaking. Even this nightly vigil brings no peace, and instead of the music of the spheres, he only hears echoes of his own failures.
The stars give a weak, silvery light, and yet they burn with accusation. The stars fill him with regret, with shame, and they are countless in the heavens.
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