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Clack. “Cap—“ Clink. Clack. “—let.”
Rosaline has only the energy to open one bleary eye to see darkness, the faint light of the moon casted long strips along the balcony curtains. For a moment she remembers a lifetime ago, of certain princes calling up to her in secrecy and enticement. But this bed is not hers nor the balcony attached, so she shuts her eyes, rolls over so her back is to the noise, and does her best to return to numbing dreams.
“CAPULET!” She teeters upright in a huff, incredulous that the Montague could possibly be this moronic. Pebbles continue to knock against the railing and the colored glass, until she swings the door open just enough to slip out with little creaking.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she hisses to the darkness at first, her eyes scanning the gardens below for movement. Finally, she spots him – clad in the only material he owns in his wardrobe, the shiny leather contrasting sharply in the dim moonlight. “My uncle has been prone to nighttime wanderings as of late and should he find you here, he would have your head.”
The response is a scoff, “Then the Prince would have his.”
“What an idea, to be rid of you both,” she scowls. “Still, you would do well not to shout simply Capulet in a household full of them.”
“Yet only the one I sought knew to answer me,” the Montague calls out. “We had an agreement. I arrange your carriage to the abbey and you need not be a Montague. Where were you the night before last? My man reported that there was no sign nor sound of you.”
Rosaline swallows hard. “I changed my mind,” she says simply. She owed this man nothing, least of all an explanation.
There is an anguish sort of laugh that drifted up to her, and she sees the Montague hang his head, hands on his waist. “I had thought your convictions more steadfast than that, Capulet. I had spent good coin towards your flight.”
“I’m so very sorry your uncle’s money had gone to waste,” Rosaline says snidely. “Please do not think me foolish enough to believe your generosity was more so for my benefit than yours.”
“I do not hide that I had sought to free us both. Though while you are still an unwed Capulet, I am trapped as well.”
Rosaline felt herself losing her calm as she leans further over the railing, “Forgive me, my Lord, I had not considered what it felt like to be trapped.” She hears her own heated heartbeat in her ears, and she felt so very tired. How dare this Montague behave as though he were the only one to suffer? What did he know of sacrifice? What were a few coins compared to years of hardship, of being treated no better than the dirt on the street, for the crime of being orphans? The hand on the rail starts to shake, from the anger boiling inside of her, but she masks it by composing herself – pulling her robes closed in pretense of cold.
“I only meant—“ the Montague starts, but silence only follows. An enduring quiet is heavy in the air, and she almost believed he had left without another word. Until she hears a rustling of leaves and distinctive heaving. He was climbing.
“Do you value your life so very little that you risk both our uncles’ and the prince’s wrath?” she balks. “Montague, go home and leave me be.” But he only creeps further up, until he was before her – quick and smooth and too much like he had done such a thing countless times before.
“We had an agreement and I do not deserve your ire. If you have other plans to end this façade of the crown’s, share it. Elsewise, I want to know why you have chosen to stay when you had a clear way out – to a life you would much prefer,” his eyes are sharp despite the darkness. “What is holding you back, Capulet?”
A shiver runs through her, and perhaps the cold wasn’t a pretense at all. She wraps her arms around her, crossing them at her front to seem more defiant than defensive. Rosaline avoids his eyes, which flit back and forth between her own and she is all too aware of the tense tick of his jaw. She straightens, licking her lips, unsure of how much she wanted the Montague to know. She had promised that he would never need to know anything about her. She was determined.
“It is clear from your recklessness that your life is no precious thing to you, but mine is not my own. My sister and I have only each other, and leaving her to face her fate alone – against royal decrees, Montagues, or even Capulets – I could not do it. I would not do it. She has suffered so yet she still finds the idea of true love and marriage to be utterly charming.” Rosaline sighs, leaning back now against the corner of the door away from the Montague. “I would do anything to keep her in that wonderful world. In a world that has a man who would love her and would care for her, not one she might be forced to marry – just because our House dictates it.” She gives him a pointed look, and it is then that he looks away.
“Yes, I changed my mind. I would not go to the nunnery, spend the rest of my life in servitude to God, ignorant of the politics of Verona. Instead I will do what my uncle demands of me, be a willing bride, give the city a show, in exchange for my sister’s return to station. At least some good could come of this farce,” Rosaline slips both hands behind her and looks down.
Measured minutes pass, and the Montague is uncharacteristically quiet. Had she known it only took honesty to silence him, she’d have utilized it sooner. He clears his throat, and she sees the wheels in his head turning. “There is very little attachment for me here after—“ he pauses, the meaning of the act is not lost on Rosaline. After Romeo, Juliet, Mercutio, and Tybalt. After. “Perhaps there is some freedom in that, more than I last deemed. 'Tis a bit macabre.”
And with that, somehow, there is an understanding between them. Of two people struggling in the aftermath of the deaths of their loved ones, flung into a madness without a respite to mourn. They were trapped with the whole city against them it seemed, but they needn’t be so against each other.
“So that is it then,” the Montague says, resigned, turning and gripping the balcony. “On the morrow, we get to profess our miraculous love for each other.”
At his blatant defeat, she felt a deep instinct in her belly to apologize. For the first time, she sees him not as the Montague but as a man. Perhaps he longed for a simpler life as well, away from all of this. Though the image of him as a monk makes her lips curl.
“You take a strange delight in our circumstance, Capulet,” he notices her smile. “You’ll need it, if we are to deceive an entire city.” With that he flings himself back onto the vines, sliding down with ease and leaving her once again to her solitude.
fin.