Chapter Text
Dark. Everything was dark: grey, black and doom. A monochromatic painting of despair, washing over the field of graves. A technicolour world, washed too many times, now dull, devoid of life; of joy. Dark. Dark like the cobble shining silver, wet with the rain that hammered the day into night. Hell smirked as death mocked. What to do? Suffer, or remain a statue — unaffected by this. Even the mud that cloaked the funeral attire, crusted, into a deep morbid dark.
The boy was lost.
Lost in the maze of thunder and tears. Trapped in a labyrinth of false promises. “Things will be ok.” His aunt would say. Trying to comfort him even though she's armed with nothing but desperation and misery.
It was empty.
Things couldn't be ok, this couldn't be reversed, life was gone, eternally missing nothing would bring them back, nothing could, he'd just have to learn to live with it, but even then it wouldn't make any of this ok, they'd still be gone, forever, he'd not be alone, but it wouldn't be the same, and in a way that's worse; the accidental betrayal.
A doomed cycle, the hugs now meant nothing. They were just warm, almost grounding, shapes. Silhouettes illuminated faintly by candles in the torturous night. Now, demoted to something subhuman.
The world wasn't pointless, in theory at least, but he was at the point where even breathing felt like a chore.
Romeo's hand gripped Benvolio's, the feeling light from the numbing coldness. “Do you want ice-cream after this?” It was a ridiculous question from Romeo. Here they stood, a large box, for two people mere metres away and kissing the ground, and Romeo was focused on the simplicities of life.
The ice cream would be bitter, he didn't need to risk its cruel taste to know, as the premise already sent a wave of nausea. Benvolio shook his head, a quiet rejection. He longed for comfort though, even if the sweetness of desserts would not be what saved him, so he squeezed Romeo's hand. A secret sign: he needed him. Deep down, they required each other.
“Are you going to go closer to the coffin?” Romeo's words stumbled on the last one. It didn't feel real yet.
“No.” Benvolio whispered, matching Romeo's quiet tone.
“Are you sure? It's hard to say goodbye from this far back.”
Benvolio had not been sure of anything for the past few weeks. He just wandered through hallways, like a ghost, hoping the world would move into place for him.
“You're scared.” It wasn't really an accusation, but it felt like one.
“The finality is frightening.”
Romeo wasn't quite sure how to respond. Everything was moving so quickly.
They were both so young. Broken by a harsh feud that wasn't needed for anyone. It wasn't a reasonable anger that flowed through the streets anymore, just an inexplicable loathing that had led to this. Two Montagues dead, soon to be lost forever under soil. How would they, two children, currently innocent angels, know how to deal with this?
“I think you should, you'll only get one chance at this goodbye.”
“Technically I already said bye.” Benvolio didn't want to elaborate further on that moment, in fact, this vague sentence was the most he had spoken directly on the subject since it happened. Romeo did not persist for more information, just silently nudged his cousin in the (for his eyes) sensible direction.
Romeo smiled slightly, an attempt at boosting Benvolio's confidence. “You won't see them, it's a closed casket.”
“I know.” Benvolio began, tears welling in his eyes again. “But they're still there, I know they are, just beyond the smallest layers of wood. They're there imprisoned and I can't do anything about it and it's so horrifying.”
Gently, Benvolio felt himself being pulled into an embrace. Romeo held him tight. “It's fine. Don't worry.”
There it was again. Blatant lies. Well-meaning, yes, but in reality, it was a knife. A bitter reminder of what world doesn't exist.
Clearly nothing was fine.
If things were fine they wouldn't be standing in a graveyard.
If they didn't have to worry, then there wouldn't be a meeting hours after this between the Lords and Ladies, about what to do.
This was wrong, the world was a mess.
Could Benvolio do anything about it? No. That's the tragedy of it all. The powerlessness of everything.
If he had a chance Benvolio could easily have prevented this, and he could've brought the much needed peace to Verona's streets. No one would listen though. Especially now. A child maddened with grief, rather than one who echoed harsh truths that should've been aired out to the world years before to stop this.
He was entirely useless here. It was like he knew how to fly but was missing the wings to put the knowledge to practice. Without it, the standstill would trickle to progress but the wrong way, and people would die. Without question.
Benvolio couldn't deal with anymore deaths.
Very few people could.
He felt himself break in his cousin's arms.
The meeting was held in the mustiest room that Lord Montague had ever laid eyes upon. In his opinion it needed a woman's touch, instantly.
Dust lined the floor, the ceiling, the table, the chairs…everything, in a thick blanket of grey snow. A solid smog. He didn't want to inhale, partially out of fear it would kill him. However, the prince of this city seemed content, so it'd only be polite to lower his standards slightly.
“I'm guessing,” Escalus began, pausing long enough for the rude muttering from the Capulets to stop. “You know what incident is the reason for me calling you both here for this meeting. Right?”
Nods from the wives, dagger-like glares from the husbands. This was predictable.
“Montagues, since you are more pacifistic in this situation, I'll let you both begin. Tell us what punishment you believe to be suitable.” It was quite unclear whether or not Escalus had jurisdiction in any of this, however, he was often more fair and quicker than the actual law system of Verona.
Lord Montague took the reins of this conversation, not trusting his wife to drive it. “Well, since I lost my brother and sister-in-law to her family,” he pointed wildly at Lady Capulet. “I think I should be able to take them from her.”
Capulet's wife did not look pleased with this demand.
“Now, now, Montague, it's not 1994 anymore, I cannot legally allow you to do that.”
“Well then what was the point in asking?” He grumbled in response. This was doomed to be a long afternoon. “It was obvious my answer. My brother is dead! They need to suffer.”
Grief is a funny word.
In theory Lord Montague should be feeling it now. However, he doesn't. There's nothing there: no sadness, no pain, not even madness rips through his skin. That would be preferable to this empty, prideful rage.
Grief is a word lord Montague doesn't understand.
For why and how can there be a label for such tragedy? It shouldn't be necessary. In times of ‘grief’ the world isn't even simple enough to encompass in one stupid word. In his opinion it's a futile attempt at the impossible, connecting broken people all across the world.
Grief is a word lord Montague doesn't know how to feel.
I'm his mind, he wasn't doing it right. He was a failing, falling angry angel. And that just made him more vengeful, not being able to blend into the mourning camouflage.
It could be so simple.
He hadn't realised he had zoned out. What he found was most shocking. Normally where an awkward silence would sit in his stead he found his wife. Talking. Taking control. Reasoning coldly, sensibly and most oddly: confidently. It scared the lord. He knew not what to do in the face of this, he did not know who to be, but here was his wife. Braving the relatives of murderers with the resolve to kill a storm. Not quiet; not meek. A burning phoenix in the room.
Lord Montague was not happy with this development. Being in a room with the bloody Capulet's was enough of a hell for him to want to rip away the skin of every person he'd had the misfortune of talking to since the incident but seeing his wife talk like this made it unfathomably worse.
He wanted to curl in a ball. To sob and then erupt.
To be a volcano that could melt away his wife's voice, allowing him to be the most powerful in the room again. Whatever she was saying would not matter.
He did not need it nor want it.
It was the blabber of a female, he reasoned, therefore as insignificant as the blades that Escalus bore. It couldn't harm him. The punishment for whatever this nonsense was would be vile and he would be sure of that.
Lady Montague had witnessed her husband break down into silence before. This was not new. However, this was possibly the most inconvenient time for him to shift into a sorrowful quiet. So she continued the meeting with as much dignity she could muster.
This was a necessity.
The options had been clear: risk whatever her almost loving husband would have in store for her or miss the chance at retribution. Actually, that was unfair. Lord Montague loved her. He loved the way she curved and sat quietly. A normally hidden ornament, just for him, in the darkest depths of the Montague estate. He loved the concept of power on his toy doll. When that was threatened, that's when he got angry but sometimes, like today, it's needed for her to escape her battered box. Whether he liked it or not. Whether or not she wants the punishment for stepping out of line.
The silence continued throughout the drive back to the estate, but she could hear his fury boil. Awful rage, all for her, like how all of her was for him.
She needed to remember that he could discard her whenever he was bored. This marriage didn't benefit him in any way other than lending him a new Play-Thing, but it meant the world to her family. It meant surviving. For this stupid world is pay-to-win. She noticed the convenience of it all, but pretended it was a coincidence; she pretended it could be alright and loving. That mirage of an idyllic marriage disappeared, like all of the good things. Her husband was materialistic and she was too alive. He adored the concept of a woman but detested it in practice.
The worst part was, how could she run? It's evident that this treatment is wrong. It's evident that to thrive and maybe even live she can't go on like this. However, leaving endangers the boys. Her son and nephew, or really her sons. They know a life now without consistency, bolting throws them further into the deep ocean of despair and wild unpredictability. Leaving could leave them alone with her husband, and that fate could mean anything.
She stayed to be a shield. The wife really had no other safe options. As tempting as freedom is, she would sacrifice it for her boys.
The car halted.
Her steps were not of her own volition.
Her eyes blinked in time with him.
The tight grip on her arm left purplish bruises.
She'd been demoted. An animal now.
A pet.
Life was worth less than a jewel in her husband's gleaming and greedy eyes.
Night had struck the city like a whip, and in the dark abyss, she just wished the boys were fast asleep, for they didn’t need to suffer from the grim sounds of slaps. Then she wondered if she ever had the ability to dream.
Tybalt was miserable. Juliet could tell. He wasn’t particularly subtle. He’d never been good at hiding what was on his face, especially when cramped in the small attic, glaring out the window and covered in blankets of cob-webs. “Tybalt?”
He looked up, face softening (slightly) at seeing his younger cousin. “What do you want?”
She plonked herself next to him, carelessly letting the red cotton of her nightie sprawl across the dusty floor. “To chat. I’m bored, Mamma and Papà won’t play or chat with me.”
“That’s probably because it’s midnight and you should be sleeping.”
She let out a string of swears that no child that young should know. “Well, you’re awake”
“Touché.” He grumbled, although his heart melted a bit as Juliet snuggled closer. She was absolutely the most stable presence in his life. The only person in the world (Verona) who could still encompass a childish joy. She wasn’t too young to understand the chaos and the hellish nature of the city they called home, but was often protected from such vile knowledge anyway, for there was no need to traumatise her. Tybalt knew his cousin wasn’t as stupid as his family presumed, and that it’d be a matter of time before she realised what was being hidden from her, however, he was content living in blissful ignorance.
“Can’t you sleep?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?” Her eyes brimmed with curiosity.
“Just because.” He lied. There was a reason. An absolutely horrifying reason. That same moment, like the hands of the clock, turning over and over, in the same demented circle, repeating; repeating, falling deeper and deeper, down and down closer to hell until the hurt was too much and the cogs gave up — he couldn’t and wouldn’t even try to sleep. His mind was an unfair labyrinth in which every wrong turn took him back there. He would not play that game.
Juliet saw through him; she saw the poorly hidden anguish but, mercifully she chose not to comment on it. “Well, will you play with me then? Please.”
She was hard to deny. Tybalt knew this from experience. Being alone right now with everything also didn’t sound particularly fun. “Fine.” His voice remained gruff hiding the enthusiasm.
“Yay! You get to be the princess, and I’ll be the knight who saves you from a tower!”
Absolutely brilliant. Just wonderful. Stunning in fact. Tybalt cared for Juliet most dearly. He knew that it was a mutual bond between them. Some part of him even remembered them playing this same game before everything fell apart—now the notion of being locked away felt too real. The threat of becoming a hidden, revolting secret forever loomed too close.
He wasn’t necessarily unwanted by his uncle and aunt, however his parents were a stain on the family tree. Keeping Tybalt around would be an eternal reminder of that. Even if Juliet didn’t think of that when looking at her cousin, Tybalt couldn’t help but wonder if subconsciously she knew that he deserved to be trapped in a tower.