all good things.

It was much better to be mindless than to overthink how much he truly despised his king’s actions.

He found his Lord to be most vulnerable at times like this; only when he was posing did his true ambition shine. Caesar stood firmly, hands tight around the blade of his sword, but there was so much more to him than his pretty façade. Luther read him easily; his face was like a book, despite how much he knew his Lord didn’t want it to be. 

Not that he would tell a thing to Caesar. It was hard to speak to the man who didn’t respond, but disgust was something he didn’t take well. He wished to be painted as something he was not; a pure man, one of nobility and tolerance, yet nothing but seething cruelty burnt in his eyes. It was Luther’s job to replace that hate with softness. 

Caesar was of a marble statue; to be admired by many, but understood by none. Luther longed to see his king’s reason, but the more he stayed, the less it seemed possible. It became harder and harder to hide the malice in his king’s eyes. The more he painted, the more Caesar’s cold glare pierced through the floral surroundings he was placed in, turned to rot the roses that Luther painted him holding. Perhaps it was Luther’s bias at work. He could never paint anything that wasn’t true.

Looking back up at Caesar one last time, he looks back down to his painting. Luther knew he had all Caesar’s features down perfectly. He memorized the man's face, knew it like he knew the back of his hand, but it never hurt to check. His eyes trace the lines of Caesar’s cheekbones, makes sure they’re just as he would want them. It seemed they were- he never failed his king, after all.

Finally, he speaks. “It’s done.” He always found a weird admiration in watching Caesar’s features suddenly change when he was told a painting was completed. For just a moment, that cold face shifted to joy. He barely smiled, but the light of excitement in his eyes was still there. Even if, quickly, it was gone. Luther watches him dully as he sheathes his sword, stretching momentarily, before walking slowly to his side. Caesar had a certain gait to him. A pseudo-posh royalty, really. Even his walk was fake. 

Luther anticipated his response.

Caesar comes to his side, cold hands on his friend’s shoulders, as he sets his eyes upon the painting. He opens his mouth, as if to speak praise (for Luther had given him nothing but beauty in the past), but he stops as he investigates the painting. He had spent hours standing still with a calm look on his face; his expression had been purposefully soft, but all he saw in this painting was anger. Within it, he was a disgusting thing- his lips parted in an open-mouthed yell, likely commanding something, his arm rigid, finger pointing upwards. His features were sharp, vicious, the background a flaming battlefield. Death and destruction accentuated every line. People wept in the background, sobbing children crumpled with defeat pled at Caesar’s feet, but the him within the art showed no restraint. He was animalistic. 

For an excruciatingly long moment, Caesar is completely quiet. His expression indicates nothing. It takes a moment for him to respond. “You’ve made me..” He brushes his fingers over the still-wet paint, smearing his enraged expression carelessly. He hated its open mouthed-yell, furrowed brows; it brought out nothing but the worst in him. He turns to Luther, the warmth in his features starting to fade, “What have you done?” “I painted what I saw, my liege.”

It was only simple words that seemed to push Caesar over the edge. Yet, his expression does nothing to indicate it. From his side, he unsheathes his thin-bladed sword; it was a precious weapon to him, one he was frequently painted with, for it bore his family’s emblem. He rarely used it to kill. And yet, nothing but impulse, rage, takes over Caesar as he looks at his painting once more. He sees his hideous reflection in it. It was something he wanted to destroy. 

The blade swiftly pierces Luther’s chest with fluid precision. Nothing stops it. Luther gasps, feels the blade pierce through him entirely and pauses as blood trickles down his shirt. He drops to his knees, slowly. Caesar rushes to his side, holds him close. He wouldn’t let him fall. The easel collapses as Caesar comes to his aid; the painting (a malignant, hideous thing), falls to the ground.

Caesar watches him coldly. He almost seems shocked that he did it- Luther was his friend, after all, but his admiration of the painter didn't stop the blade from piercing his skin. He listens to his stifled breaths, hears as he tries to muster the words to speak but can’t. Death was fascinating, to him, so bizarrely intimate that he often played through the stages of death over and over in his head. He knew them well. Luther’s hand trembles, a weak kind of fragility as it squeezes Caesar’s. Caesar squeezes back. It was warm. Caesar knew its heat was fleeting. His voice cracks as he opens his mouth, but only a pathetic exhale escapes. Blood drips down Luther’s cheek, his chin, as he coughs it up— Caesar knew, too, that it was suffocating him. 

Throughout, he didn’t shed a single tear. 

All Caesar could do was watch. There was no point in trying to rescue him. So, with apathetic eyes, he did. Watched the death of his friend; watched the life pour from his lips, until no longer did he wheeze, sputter on his words, and the room was filled with nothing but the distant songs of cicadas.