He sits and watches as the servants come and clean and sweep the floor, the white marble stained red with spilled blood. It will not wash away, but seeps into the pores of the stone, darkening the veins of it with the remains of Caesar's life. He wonders if they've done worse, pouring Caesar's blood into the building itself, if they've damned themselves in more than just the eyes of the Gods.

He knows the answer to that. Saw it there in Antony's face. If Brutus was Caesar's favorite son, Antony was his first-born. He has slain a father in more ways than one today, and he is not sure which wound cuts deepest. This is his mother's triumph, though his name will be the one that goes down in history, his hand will be the one forever blackened.

The body lies there. He will allow no one to touch it. He sits in line with Caesar's unseeing eyes and wipes salty tears away with his bloodied hand. "Forgive me," he whispers softly. "Forgive me, my friend."

Antony moves carefully through the streets as if the surfaces are wet with blood. Weight bears down on him, suffocating him in the oppressive touch of the crowds of people. He strips away his toga, the plain white tunic heavy enough as he begins to lengthen his stride, move faster.

Caesar is dead.

His mind processes the thought, how they were all taken out, taken down. Each of them tugged away to insure that each blade would strike home and strike true. He saw Caesar's body, riddled with wounds, their anger and aggression in the name of the republic no doubt what will receive the blame, but he knows that is not what drove them deep. They want power, same as any man, same as himself, same as Caesar.

Caesar is dead.

It hits him and breaks his stride, causes him to stumble. His hands will fall around Vorenus's neck soon; it was his job to protect his protector, and he failed, and Marc Antony needs vengeance. The tactician in him tells him they would both be dead, but his heart - oh, his wounded heart - cries out for more blood, as if there has not been yet enough spilled.

Caesar is dead.

He sits on the ground, not caring that shit and dirt stain his clothes. He sees the flash of red on his robes and touches it, following the trail of it down to the hem where small splashes of the color have gathered, bleeding feathers through the fabric.

It was planned and careful, every defense stripped away, Caesar surrounded by ancient friends turned enemies. Marc Antony does not fear them, so long as he speaks carefully, so long as he swears no ties of loyalty, of love. So long as he forsakes his chosen father.

Caesar is dead, and Marc Antony will stay alive. He rubs the flecks of blood between thumb and finger and swallows, closing his eyes. He will survive as Caesar would in his place. "Forgive me, my friend," he whispers as he gets to his feet, moving forward, not looking back. "Forgive me."