His whole life, you had been nothing but a friend to him. A teacher. You'd shown him beautiful things, taught him lessons he'd never have learned himself, and yet here he was, planning to repay you by taking your life.

It wasn't your fault you ruled an empire. You were born into it, simple as that. And you were good at it, too- still, though, there were whispers in the streets. Threats against you. Rumored plots of murder, and he was a part of them.

He wanted to write you a letter, explain his actions before it was too late to undo them. Tell you that this was what was best for Rome, that he, too, had a destiny- one that you just couldn't be a part of. And that envy wasn't his only motivation.

But wanting to do something was more complicated than actually doing it. So he wrote no letter. Instead, went on with his- and other's- homicidal plot. He didn't know it would end up being him delivering the blow.

He stood above you, now. Blood was already coating your face and clothes, and yet he couldn't move. Couldn't bring down the knife. And so he stared down at you, hands shaking as they held the handle of the blade. He couldn't do it. He couldn't do it.

Not after everything you'd done for him. He couldn't force the crown of laurels off your head with treachery and betrayal. So what was he supposed to do, instead of that?