And Death Wears Her Face

Death Wears Her Face
By Misha

Disclaimer- Not mine.
Author’s Notes- I had intended to wait to post this, because this is the end of Portia: A Roman Tragedy and I’d hoped to post the other missing stories first, but this stories directly ties into “The Roses of Elysium”, the AU that boneandfur and I are working on, and I needed to publish this one first.
Rating- M
Summary- As Antony faces certain defeat and the concept of death, he sees the face of his greatest love.

“The queen is dead.” The slave who delivered the news looked anywhere but at him.

Antony assumed that the man was worried about his reaction, but all he did was nod and utter a curt, “Leave me.”

So Cleopatra was dead. Why wouldn’t she be? Death was a better solution than failure after all or whatever Octavian had planned for them. He was only surprised she had done it on her own, but even then, in the end, didn’t everyone make the selfish choice?

Antony knew he should feel sorrow at the news, and he felt some. He had spent years with the woman, she had born his children, together they had launched a war, and yet… His heart was not broken… Not the way it had been once before…

Even as he should be thinking of Cleopatra, mourning her, his thoughts kept drifting to the past…

“Where is she?” He demanded of the slave, taking in the silence of the villa. It had clearly been empty for days, at the very least. Had she left? Taken advantage of his absence to run away? The thought was unbearable and yet, the alternative was worse.

The slave refused to meet his eyes. “Dead. It was the fever.”

How many years had passed since that night? Many. Time, and the Egyptian Queen, had dulled the wound and those words had haunted him less and less as the years passed and yet, they came back unbidden now.

Maybe because of the news about Cleopatra. Or maybe because he was approaching the hour of his own death. Antony’s hand drifted automatically to the hilt of his sword.

There was no other option. Cleopatra had known it, apparently, and so did he. They had failed and in Rome, death was better than the consequences of defeat. Hadn’t Cassius done the same, long ago? Antony fleetingly wished he had that knife now, after all, it would have been fitting, but he would have to settle for his sword.

His thoughts went back to the past, to Portia. He could see her so clearly, as if the memories were fresh, as if she had just left him, when in reality many years had passed. Yet, in his mind eye, she was right there, the memories more vivid than they had been in years. He could see it all. Those big green eyes, the long dark curls, the ways her lips would curve into a sensuous smile as she beckoned him to join her in the bed, the naked curves that Venus herself would envy… It was almost as if she was there with him.

“My love.”

Antony blinked at the sound and looked around the room for the source, but he was alone.

“Join me, my love, let us be together at last.”

Where was the sound coming from? Was he finally going mad? Was that what defeat had done to him? He closed his eyes, trying to gather his bearings and she appeared again, standing right in front of him, so close he swore he could reach out and touch her. She wore a red gown, his favorite color on her, and she held out her hand as if beckoning him, her eyes warm and inviting.

“Portia…” He breathed.

His eyes shot open and she was gone, of course. She had been gone for years.

“Come to me. It’s time.”

Antony’s hand went to the sword. He was hearing things, of course. Ghosts were not real, the dead did not speak to the living… His thoughts were just preoccupied with death, naturally, and for some reason, they kept returning to her. To a long-dead courtesan. To a long-dead lover. To the woman he had once loved.

And he had loved her. He could admit that now, at the hour of his death, as he had only admitted once in life. How he had loved her. Enough that it was her face he saw now, that it was she who consumed his last thoughts, not the woman he should be mourning.

“It’ll be ok… We’ll be together now, as we were always meant to.”

Antony shook his head, closing his eyes, whether it was to clear his head or get another glimpse of her, he wasn’t sure. But there she was again, this time in the purple silk she had worn the first time he set eyes on her, her eyes guarded even as she’d flirted. “Marc Antony, I’ve been waiting to meet you.”

He held onto the vision for a moment and then opened his eyes slowly, once again alone in the room, the sword feeling heavy in his hand. It was time. There was no other choice. Maybe that was why he kept imagining her, because when he thought of death, he thought of her.

He had lived many years without her, her memory fading at times, enough that he could live with and love other women, and yet… Now, at the end of it all, she was all he could think of. Not his newly dead lover, the mother of his youngest children, not any of the other women he had loved in the intervening years, but her. The Princess of Gaul.

“I’m waiting for you…”

Antony closed his eyes as he slid the sword into his flesh and sure enough, she was there again. Back in the red silk, her eyes warm and tender, holding out her hand to him… There was pain but it faded at the sight of her and he reached for her, yet he couldn’t quite touch her.

Suddenly there was noise and shouting and he was aware of being lifted. He fought to keep his eyes closed, so he didn’t lose her, but they shot up open and he saw Cleopatra. He fought the wave of disappointment. He should be comforted that it was her face he saw because he loved her. He should be pleased that she still lived. Or perhaps he should feel betrayal. But he felt none of those things.

Because he didn’t want the queen, he wanted the princess.

He felt tears on his cheek and the warmth of blood and oh, the pain, and realized that he had been told a lie. Cleopatra was alive. Maybe he should ask why, but he didn’t care too. She cradled him in her arms.

“Antony, oh Antony,” she sobbed. Was it for his benefit or someone else’s?

Suddenly her face changed before his eyes, replaced by that of another woman, of his real lost love. “My darling Antony.” Her green eyes were wide, her smile soft, her curls framing her face. “Let go… Let go of it all and come to me…”

“My love,” he whispered, the noise and the confusion fading and the vision becoming clearer this time when he reached for her, he felt something solid. The pain disappeared, along with everything else. Everything except her.

As death claimed him, all he saw, all he cared about, was her.

• End