A SONG OF ICE AND SHAKESPEARE
melisandre of asshai as caius cassius | julius caesar
Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong;
Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat:
Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass,
Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron,
Can be retentive to the strength of spirit.
Julius Caesar! Cassius x Brutus! 1934 in the country of your choice!
The rumble of revolution rippled wine in its glasses, and for a moment, much as it had done the first time he had been invited to this private garden of Eden, the opulence around him made him a little queasy. So relaxed was Cassius under the shade of his tree, fragrant, fanciful meal set out before him. So at ease was he with the same lingering upheaval that started a dull pounding in Brutus’ head. This would not end well. No outrageous political statements ever ended well, here. This was Paris — still a society recovering from ages of bloody revolutions. And yet there he sat, like a king too confident for a throne, so assured in his rightness.
“You worry so,” Cassius commented, gazing at his guest with the very smile that tempted Eve, “it does nothing for your complexion. You’ll wrinkle, darling, come sit.” And he patted that velvety cushion beside him, leaning back, resplendent in that sickeningly gaudy love seat. It jerked Brutus in opposite directions — at once the sight of it, the smell of it, the feel of it was thrilling and impossible, and yet it felt a little like signing the dotted line on a contract for his soul.
But still, he sat, and that arm found its way naturally around his shoulders, and worried though he was, some amount of comfort warmed him in a way drink never could. “I wish you wouldn’t, I — I’m not backing out,” he assured, catching the bored expression of resignation on his lover’s face, “I do agree with you — I do! I can’t do anything but, the way you push. But I do. I just…they’re calling us fascists, you know? Everyone is nervous of us. And…and what if they’re right? No matter what we are or do or say, if things go wrong today, they’ll be right! The papers will slander us, we’ll be…we’ll be…”
“Then we’ll be fascists.” The phrase came all to easily to Cassius, and the laugh was so close behind that for a moment Brutus went cold. But warm confidence came in a smile as the revolutionist ran a thumb patiently along the square of Brutus’ jaw, adoring frightened ignorance as one might coo over a child’s dream to grow up and become a horse. “We’re fascists, then! One and all! But better misconceptions than tyrants, no? If necessary change arrives and is called by the wrong name, should it turn around and leave? Should it abandon those who need it?”
But the conversation was already over, the weight of it shrugged off far too simply and too fast. Those kisses along neck, jaw, delicate upon Adam’s apple as a breeze, and hands already wandering to hips as the touch of God. “Socialism doesn’t suit you, Brutus,” he breathed against an ear, divining buttons from their fabric holsters, “you’re much too handsome for it.”
that song you guys
I know it’s not exactly new but I have not been able to stop listening to it since visiting Memphis and it is such a fantastic song I am just in awe
“The Brontës were a 19th century literary family associated with Haworth in the West Riding of Yorkshire, England. The sisters, Charlotte (born 21 April 1816), Emily (born 30 July 1818), and Anne (born 17 January 1820), are well known as a trio of sibling poets and novelists. They originally published their poems and novels under masculine pseudonyms, following the custom of the times practised by female writers. “