The Love of Brutus

"I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him…" – Mark Antony, Julius Caesar, III, ii, Shakespeare

The Doctor sat, barefoot in a wasteland, clutching a skull, belonging to someone he did not know… it didn't matter, the symbol of death was enough.

The fact he'd taken his shoes off was strange enough, rarely did he indulge the impulse to squeeze his toes into the ground of another world and feel its soil on his skin… and that impulse was not answered today either. He sat leaned against the TARDIS, skull tight in his hand, feet propped up.  He'd taken his shoes off almost as a form of humility, the need to feel lowly.

So he sat on this desolate world in silence. It was dark and cool and gloomy. Nothing had lived here for thousands of years and there was now only the blue-grey dust and rocks, jagged cliffs surrounding, enclosing him where the sun had burnt away anything that had once lived here.

"Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt…" he muttered, stroking the cheek bone of his friend Yorick.  He grinned, barely, wryly, "Wrong soliloquy…" He sighed, staring deep into the gaze-less sockets as if expecting a flicker of life there, "To be… or not to be…" he began again quietly, "whether tis nobler in the mind, to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune… or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing… end them?" he frowned and heaved another sigh, "to die… to sleep… no more." He stopped, resting his chin on the skull, propping it against his knees.

"No… wrong again. Wrong play," he brought the skull up to his face again, "I'm no Hamlet… or I was… but that was a long time ago… no…" He stood up and took a step forward. In the low gravity he bounced lightly and flew much farther than he would have on Earth.  In the dim light of the distant stars, the tracks of tears could be seen on his face.

"Be patient till the last," he murmured gently to the skull as if consoling it, reassuring it that its time was almost done, "Romans, countrymen, and lovers! Hear me for my cause, and be silent, that you may hear," though he spoke with fervor to a silent, invisible audience, there was a strangled note of mourning in him, barely disguised, "believe me for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe… If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of…" he paused for a moment and stumbled over the word, "Caesar's… to him I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar was no less than his," he sniffled slightly and the tears began to flow again, "If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar…" he choked up slightly, the swallowed, "this is my answer."

He paused, spinning around slowly, not looking at his skull… Eventually he returned to the script in his head. "Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more!" He sobbed a moment, then returned, "Had you rather Caesar were living and die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all free men?" he asked hysterically of a silent, imposing crowd, "As Caesar loved me, I weep for him… as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him: but, as he was ambitious… I slew him."  He paused again as his tears overwhelmed him, the role of Brutus heavy on him. Eventually he rejoined, wiping his cheek, "There… is tears for his love;" he rubbed the wetness between his fingers almost wonderingly, his last and only gift to him…, "joy for his fortune," another tear, "honour for his valour… and death for his ambition."

He sat down and cried again as he hadn't done since leaving Earth.  The rest of Brutus' lines were lost to him. But oh… how he cried for his Caesar, how horribly wrong everything had gone in the end… And even his tears were unworthy, he deserved far better tribute than this… but this is all he had, all he could ever give him… Eventually he set the skull down and stood up.  He murmured quietly as he walked back into the TARDIS, "I depart; that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself."