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"I'm not leaving here without him."
"And I'm not leaving without you!"
With a look they understood each other. They lifted together, and carried Escalus between them, and with each sag of his body Rosaline felt a strength inside of her growing. Adrenaline had been pulsing through her all morning (since the dungeons) and she used it now, used it to carry Escalus as far and as fast as she could out of danger, away from the whiz of the arrows and the shadowy men who loosed them.
She looked across Escalus's sagging head to Benvolio. He stared straight ahead, a look of determination on his face so unbending he was nigh unrecognizable from the defeated man who had said goodbye to her this morning, ready to die for the city, and for her, for her happiness.
That, too, gave her strength.
Benvolio was alive. She hadn't had more than a moment to consider it before the arrows started raining down, but it was true. He was alive. He had been spared. Her word was believed and Escalus had spared him.
In the distance she could hear the thud of men falling from rooftops, taken out by guards finally able to reach them and stem the flow of death hammering down upon the people.
Good, she thought. These past weeks had hardened her to grief, and she no longer mourned the deaths of her enemies.
The three of them hobbled their way into the palace, and an artificial peace bore over them as the doors closed behind them, shutting out the noise of the panicked crowd and the cries of pain of those injured and dying.
"Capulet," Benvolio said as they turned right down the first hall. "Where are we going?"
"To the Prince's rooms."
"Oh," he said, and there was something strange and caught in his voice, like his throat had tightened unexpectedly. "Yes. Lead the way."
Ah. Because she did know exactly where Escalus's bedchamber was. And that was not something a young maiden should know. Well, there was no time for etiquette and politesse now. Escalus was leaving a trail of blood on the polished stone floors. There was a hideous squeak that made her flinch every time one of his boots dragged over a freshly painted pool.
Minutes felt like hours and distances stretched on forever until they were finally at his room, the door guard quickly ushering aside as they dragged Escalus in and deposited him on the fine sheets. Escalus groaned in pain and Rosaline reached out for his hand.
"You'll be fine, my lord," she said, desperate for it to be true. Across from her, Benvolio straightened, stiffly, and walked toward the door.
"Make sure the room stays safe," he said to the guard, before returning to stand over her. He shifted, awkward, as if he wasn't sure if he should stay or go. Finally, though, he seemed to remember his promise not to leave her and gingerly sat next to her on the side of the bed.
"The wound is not bad," Benvolio said, though she wasn't sure if she could believe him, not by the way he was looking at Escalus with wide, sorrowful eyes. A person could learn more from Benvolio Montague's eyes than they could a book.
"Benvolio," she said, softly, without having anything more to say after that. Just his name. Just an affirmation that he was here with her. She took her other hand and squeezed his, and looked into his eyes, and tried to tell him everything her words could not.
He gazed back and spoke to her silently, too. She could read intense gratitude there, and comfort, and something more, something deeper.
Their wordless communion was broken by a clatter of noise out in the hall, the faint sound of arguing, and finally a loud grunt as the door pushed open and in spilled Damiano Montague and Friar Lawrence like a wave of water overflowing a dam. The disgruntled looking guard followed in behind them clutching his shoulder.
"My Prince," said the friar, near wheezing. "An army."
Benvolio's eyes widened. "Friar—I don't understand—You're here?" He stood, and the loss of his hand in hers sent a pang through Rosaline.
"I sent for him," Lord Montague said, quieter than Rosaline had ever heard him before. "After we last spoke."
"You…?" Benvolio looked close to tears. Again. What he had been through… Rosaline didn't even think she knew the half of it.
"My Liege!" Friar Lawrence waved them off and moved to the Prince's side. "As I was coming back to the city—an army amasses at your gates. They wear the colors of Mantua. Count Paris strikes against you!"
Escalus gasped weakly and tried to sit up. "Then…"
The door flew open again and Princess Isabella strode in, hair out of place, tear-stains on her cheeks, but regal as ever. "Then we must fight," she said. Her gaze darted down to her struggling brother and she almost faltered, but the moment of weakness passed and her back straightened even more. "Lord Montague."
"Yes?"
She turned to him. "Gather the men of your house. Make ready your horses and weapons. Prepare for battle."
"Yes, your Highness."
"Rally the Capulets as well. It is time to put the petty grudges of men aside and join together as one city, one army." She stared him down. "One family."
Rosaline had never seen a man look so chastened and yet so bolstered at the same time.
"As my sovereign commands," Lord Montague said, bowing, before striding out of the room, looking every bit the noble lord he played at being.
"Rosaline," Isabella said next.
"Yes, Princess?" She felt breathless in the presence of such regal power.
"Fetch a surgeon. We must tend to the Prince."
"Of course," she said, standing and moving to the door. Benvolio followed behind her, until he was stopped by Isabella's next command.
"Montague. You must stay here. Watch over the Prince and defend him should any of these villains penetrate the outer defenses."
Benvolio turned and opened his mouth, about to argue no doubt, until one imperious look from the Princess tamed him.
Rosaline took note—it might be a useful trick in the future—before stepping out the door.
"Have a care, Capulet!" she heard from behind her, and couldn't help but smile even as her heart pounded.
"Now, Friar," Isabella was saying, "Tell me everything you know…"
Outside the Prince's rooms the palace was now in a bustle. Guards in full gear rushed down hallways while servants veered into and out of rooms lugging blades and armor and even one with an armful of lances twice as tall as he.
Isabella had been busy. Rosaline felt a hot streak of pride swell through her. What little hope had been fading just minutes before as Benvolio's head rested on the stocks—oh what despair had been in her heart!—bloomed again as she saw her city come together, forget old wounds and fight for something bigger than all of them.
And, selfishly she thought, it meant that Livia could be just on the other side of the city walls, ready to be reclaimed by her family and saved from her treacherous husband. Or if she wasn't, then at least she was safe from Paris, for the time being, while he focused on his crazed grab for power.
But she couldn't think of that now. This world was still so full of mystery and danger, she could only focus on one task at a time else she might lose herself in the depths of darkness that lay without.
Find the surgeon. Save the Prince. Save the city. Don't think about things you can't control, Rosaline.
She stopped momentarily in the corridor to send a quick prayer up for the safety of her sister, and for… other important people to her. People whom she may have kissed that very morning. People with whom she would need to speak about said kiss (kisses) at some point when all these crises finally died down. Should they all survive it.
"Make way!" she called out as she ran through a hall filled with men going over plans and sending extra reinforcements out to the weakest spots in their defenses. "Has anyone seen the surgeon?"
"Aye," said one of the men. "He is with the other healers, gathering the wounded in the chapel."
"Bless you!" Rosaline called over her shoulder as she raced for that sacred space.
_____________________
"He will live," the surgeon said, finishing his last stitch.
"Oh thank the heavens," said Isabella, grabbing her brother's unconscious hand. Rosaline, too, breathed a sigh of relief and reached for Escalus's other hand to give it an encouraging squeeze.
"When will he wake?" asked Isabella.
"Not for a while yet."
"Then I shall rule in his stead until such time as he can regain his power," she said with a decisive nod, as if anyone in this room would challenge her. "Paris's army will be at the gates by tomorrow morn. Here." She reached for a sealed letter from the bureau and handed it to a servant. "Get this to Helena of Venice. She will see it safely to the Doge. He is honor-bound to aid us."
"Yes, m'lady," the servant said, and scurried off.
"Helena?" Rosaline asked. Isabella only smiled at her.
A throat cleared behind them, and Rosaline turned. Benvolio stood in the open doorway, a strange, almost stricken look on his face. Rosaline released Escalus's hand and raised herself to face him.
"Montague," she greeted.
"Capulet," Benvolio replied, looking just over her shoulder. He swallowed and some of the color started to return to his face. "Your majesty," he said to Isabella, looking at her at least. "Your armies are gathering. All of the families of Verona have banded together behind the Montague and Capulet banners. Behind you." He bowed slightly, still stiff. Rosaline wondered how hurt he actually was from his time as a prisoner.
"Thank you, Montague," Isabella said. "I shall meet with them anon."
Benvolio turned without a word and was gone, before Rosaline could even ask if he was all right. She huffed. What was that about?
"Excuse me, Princess. I must…" Rosaline gestured toward the door, but couldn't quite come up with any excuse that would be at all believable. "Follow him," she finally said, sheepishly.
"Yes," Isabella said, that mysterious smile on her lips again. "You must."
Benvolio must have skirted out of the palace through some secret tunnel because she couldn't find him anywhere. She finally gave up and just stomped her way across the crowded square, down the main strada, until she at last made her way to the expansive Montague manor.
She had maybe, accidentally, worked herself into a bit of state on the way over. Her feet hurt, she was tired, and there he was, striding toward the stables clad below the waist in light, polished armor.
"Montague," she growled, stalking toward him.
"Capulet?" His voice cracked; that was slightly gratifying.
"What in hell are you doing?"
He looked around, possibly for backup, or maybe just witnesses. "Attending to my horse?"
"No," she said, and she was before him now. Her finger poked into his chest. "You are sneaking away and leaving without saying goodbye."
"I'm not leaving," he said, arms raised in surrender.
"You're not," she repeated.
"No."
"Oh." She removed her finger from his chest. Then she looked back down at his legs again. Oh yes. The armor. That may have been a clue.
"Capulet?" he said, tilting his head just slightly toward her. He looked like a confused puppy. It deflated all the hot air right out of her, and she sagged a bit.
"You are going to fight for the Prince?" she asked.
"Of course."
"Even after everything that has been done to you?"
"He made a mistake," Benvolio said, voice softening. "Trusted the wrong people. I've been there." He lost himself in some dark thought then, haunted by past hurts she could probably guess at. But then he looked at her again, and it pierced her. "And I understand his… motivation."
Rosaline averted her eyes, trying not to show any fluster.
"Also." Benvolio cleared his throat, looked away as well as a tinge of pink bloomed on his already bruised cheeks. "It is not only for him I fight."
"Oh?" she said, desperate to make it sound nonchalant.
"I fight for Verona."
"Oh." Her shoulders didn't droop; she was sure of it.
He reached out his hand, tentative. "But... mostly for—"
A door slammed open behind him from the stables and he dropped his arm to his side.
"Forgive me, Capulet. I must away." He took a step back, but then hesitated, seemed to be warring with himself. He finally straightened his shoulders and stepped toward her again, grabbed her hand, and brought her knuckles to his lips. "Farewell." He kissed her hand again, caressing the tops of her fingers with his thumb and looking up at her a little guiltily. "Dear Rosaline."
And then he was off, his hand clutched at the sword hilt on his hip, armor clanging in his rush to be away.
Rosaline's heart pounded. A lightness had blossomed in her chest when he'd touched her, and she held onto that feeling as long as she could. She hadn't felt light in years.
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The soldiers gathered and strategized and reinforced the city walls all through the night. Rosaline could hear them, even from her window deep in the city. She sat up and listened to the men marching through the streets, their swords clanging with the promise of bloodshed.
Finally the sun rose, ominous and bright. A horn blared, and it sent a weight of dread through Rosaline's gut, like a stone sinking to the bottom of a pond.
She rushed out of the house, into the heart of the city, and out to the city gates, pushing past the onlookers and unmounted horses, until she had bulled her way to the very front. She had to see them off, for it could be the last time she saw any of them in this life.
What she saw when she arrived there shocked her, thrice over.
"Isabella?"
The Princess was clad in armored plating, a sword in one arm, her steed's reins in the other. The iron look in her eyes was sharper than the weapon in her hand.
"I am Princess of Verona," Isabella said, keeping her horse steady as it hopped from hoof to hoof in anticipation of the dash to come. "And our army needs a general."
"Now Sister," came a scratchy voice beside her.
"Escalus?" Rosaline couldn't believe her eyes, her ears, her anything. "What are you doing, you madman?" She slapped her hand over her mouth, shocked at her own brazenness in the face of her sovereign.
"Our army needs a general," he said pointedly, staring daggers at his sister. Isabella, for her part, stared straight ahead, looking as kingly as anyone Rosaline had ever seen.
"Quite right," came an obsequious voice behind the prince.
"Uncle?" Rosaline thought she might actually have died in the city square. An arrow must have pierced her skull and she was now living in some strange and farcical afterlife.
"Your sycophancy is as detestable as ever, you know." That was from Damiano Montague, seated just next to Silvestro. Damiano shot her uncle a rakish grin before slapping his helmet down over his face and adjusting his sword grip.
Rosaline looked around, suddenly. The picture was filling up, but it wasn't quite complete. "Montague," she called out, turning round and round to seek him out. "Benvolio?"
"Capulet."
It came from behind her. He had placed himself not behind his uncle's banner, but that of the Prince and Princess.
She turned, holding her breath. This could be the last time she ever saw him alive (again), and she had absolutely no idea what to say.
He waited, and his eyes were so soft, and so blue.
"Stay out of trouble," is what she finally came out with, before reddening with embarrassment.
"My lady," he said, and tipped his helmet at her with a roguish smile that set her heart beating double-time.
"Rosaline." The Princess turned to her. "You must away. The gates are about to open and it wouldn't bode well for our campaign if our first act were to trample the Rose of Verona."
Rosaline laughed, more out of nerves than any true humor, and with one last look at Benvolio, who hadn't taken his eyes off her at all, she was off, running back through the streets, veering into a back alley, wending her way up an abandoned staircase until she was at the wall, watching the soldiers march out to their victory or doom. Which one was Benvolio? She couldn't see him; he was lost in the mass.
After everything she lost, after everything she fought for, not knowing the fate of her sister, almost watching him die, she couldn't imagine it ending this way. He had to return. He had to return to her.
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She knew not how long she stayed on her knees before the altar, only that her body hurt and her heart hurt and her fingers hurt from being gripped together for so long.
"Please let them live, please let them live, please let him live, please let him live, please let him live." She didn't take notice when her chant had changed.
"Please protect Verona. Please protect the Prince and Princess. Even my uncle. And Livia. Please watch over her—" She couldn't quite hold back a sob. "—wherever she may be. Please watch over her and bring her back to me." She took a deep, shuddering breath. Her throat hurt so much. "And… Benvolio. Please keep him safe. He has suffered so much—" She looked up at the altar and pleaded silently while tears flowed down her cheeks, while her voice failed her.
"He is my friend," she whispered, and her voice broke again.
So much pain and heartbreak had brought her here, had brought this sweet, trusted friend into her life. His friendship had been such a gift, but had come to her by the strangest road. She looked up at the statue of Mary and Child and wondered if this path had been lain before her, ready to be traversed from the moment Romeo laid eyes on Juliet, or if each turn had been a mystery even to the saints in heaven, waiting to be uncovered. Where did the path lead next? Was it all in vain, just for the city to fall? Just for her friends to die?
Her forehead hit the back of her clasped hands and she wept.
After a few moments a warm hand landed on her shoulder. Her head shot up.
"My child." Friar Lawrence looked at her with the most sorrowful eyes. "I am so sorry."
She nodded at him and could not speak. They each had made mistakes. It was not for her to judge. Not in this holy place.
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Eventually she stood. Eventually her legs moved. Eventually she exited the church.
She didn't know where to go, so she went to House Capulet. She ascended the stairs in a haze of exhaustion and weariness. She fell upon Juliet's bed and lay there for hours, not asleep, but not quite conscious either.
A noise startled her up. There was some kind of commotion at the front entrance of the house. Rosaline tensed. Had Paris's armies broken through? Was the city lost? Were the… soldiers dead? Her pulse raced; she reached for a vase, readying it in her grips just in case, when a familiar voice almost had her fainting in relief.
"Let me through, you brute! Who are you? You don't usually guard here. Don't you know who I am? Get your paws off me, I must see my sister!"
"Livia!" Rosaline jumped off the bed and rushed to the door, pulling it open just as Livia raced toward her.
"Rosaline!" They crashed together and embraced so hard Rosaline couldn't breathe, but she didn't care. Livia was here. Livia was here in her arms and alive and well and… covered in brambles?
Rosaline pulled back, but kept her grip on Livia, sure to keep her close forever. "Dear God, Livia. What happened to you?"
Livia let out an exasperated breath and then crumpled against her, tears wetting the top of Rosaline's dress. Rosaline stroked her hand down Livia's hair and shushed her, tears slipping from her own eyes.
"It's Paris!" Livia said. "That snake!"
"I know," Rosaline said.
"You know? You know what?" Livia looked at her suspiciously. Rosaline couldn't help but laugh at that little bullheaded face she had missed so much. It only made Livia scowl at her more.
"He is attacking the city with his armies," Rosaline said. "He means to overthrow Escalus and become Prince of Verona."
"Oh," Livia said, pouting slightly. "Then I am too late."
"You," Rosaline said, "are a sight for sore eyes, is what you are. How did you escape him?"
"I bonked my guard on the head with a plate of food when he wasn't looking and then ran all the way here from his camp outside the city."
Rosaline wanted to laugh and cry both, so she did. "Oh my dear, sweet, brave Livia! That explains the state of you."
"Excuse you," Livia said, extricating herself from Rosaline's grip and wiping her hands down the front of her skirts to clean them. She stood tall and obstinate and Rosaline couldn't contain her joy. She grabbed Livia around the waist and spun her around the room, kissing her wet cheek and depositing her on Juliet's bed.
"What news of you?" Livia said, still straightening her clothes and picking thorns from the linen.
"Oh Livia. So much has happened." Rosaline plopped herself down next to her, full of a new energy she didn't think she'd ever deplete.
"Are you married?" Livia asked.
"What?" What?
"I saw your letter. You ran off with the Montague to clear his name. His name is now cleared. Are you married?"
"Why would I—?"
Livia just looked at her. "You ran off. With. The Montague."
Rosaline turned straight ahead and stared at the wall. The wallpaper in this room was hideous. "So?" she said.
"Mm hmm," Livia said, and it was so full of smug self-satisfaction Rosaline had to turn back to her.
"What are you getting at, Sister?"
"Oh. Nothing." Livia looked at her again, and this time it was with what Rosaline could only call pity. Livia patted her on the head, and Rosaline tried to duck away from her dirt-stained hand. "And I thought I was being a fool in love."
"Oh hush," Rosaline said, looking forward again. But she didn't refute it.
"I think we are winning," Livia said softly. "At least, it looked that way to me from the bushes."
Rosaline grabbed her around the shoulders and brought her into a tight embrace at her side.
"I missed you so dearly."
"And I you." Livia snuggled in closer, and for now, for this one moment, the world was right.
_____________________
"It is over!" came the call from below. A young boy ran through the streets ringing a bell. "It is over! Prince Escalus is victorious! Princess Isabella is victorious! Verona is saved!"
Rosaline let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding and jumped up in the air.
"I must go," she said to Livia, who was watching her like she'd never seen her before.
"I see that," Livia said.
Rosaline ran to the main gate. Her feet were clouds beneath her, racing through the air. She saw Isabella first. The sun glinted off her armor as she pulled her helmet from her head and shook out her hair.
"Hail, Isabella!" she called out.
"Hail, Rosaline!" Isabella beamed and dismounted.
Someone stumbled into her then, armor heavy and hard against her. "Rosaline!" Escalus pulled her into an embrace. He had lost his horse somewhere along the way, for he leaned on her and stumbled forward, high from the battle but clearly still in pain. "Come," he declared, out of breath. "We must celebrate! The day is ours!"
"My lord," she said. "Where is Benvolio? Is he—?"
"The hero of the hour? Yes, by Jove. If there were any still who doubted the loyalty in his heart, he plunged his sword right through that doubt on the field of victory. Ah, there he is now." Escalus raised his hand to him, and it knocked him off-balance. He had to put his weight on Rosaline's shoulder again to stay upright. "Ho, Benvolio!"
Benvolio slowed his horse, lifted his helmet in a salute, and with a grim smile continued down the cobbled road. Rosaline felt her lungs constrict as he passed her by. The hoofbeats on the cobblestone were trampling all over her heart.
"Come," Escalus said again. He grabbed Isabella with his other arm and steadied himself between the two women. "We must get to the palace. Someone send ahead, have a feast prepared!"
He was full of good spirit. Rosaline couldn't remember the last time she had seen him so free and happy. And it would have brought her such joy, except for the sound of those hoofbeats thudding away from her.
She looked behind her down the road again, but he was long gone.
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She made sure the Prince was back in bed, bleeding again from his arrow wound, but not dying, and under the supervision of the city's best physicians. Isabella, still clad in her armor, walked with Rosaline through the palace until they ended up in the throne room.
Isabella looked at both seats, and then carefully, deliberately sat herself atop the larger.
"You are magnificent," Rosaline said, and meant it with all heart. Isabella smiled at her, shining bright in her preeminence.
"And you are tired," Isabella said. "Go home."
Rosaline could not argue, because it was true and because it was her sovereign giving the order. "Yes, my Prince."
Isabella winked at her.
_____________________
Rosaline was tired, and so was the city. Men were heaving bodies on stretchers into the streets, some alive and crying out, others empty inside, taken back to their Lord in heaven.
So much death and unhappiness, even in victory. War was such folly.
She let her feet take her wherever they would. She was so tired. She ended up back at the gates, back where Benvolio had ridden away from her. A murmur rose up from some of the soldiers coming back in from the field.
"It's Lord Montague," one of them said in a hushed voice. "He is dead," said another. Rosaline looked to the voices. They were watching a pair of squires struggle with a stretcher. On it was a large man, the armor under one arm covered in blood. Rosaline gasped. "Stabbed in battle?" the first soldier asked. "Aye," the second chimed in. "I saw it with mine own eyes. Taking on three at once was old Montague. Keeping 'em off his nephew, was he."
Rosaline finally tore her eyes away from the blood and looked at the dead man's face, his helmet gone who knew where.
Damiano Montague lay there, a peaceful look on his face for the first time she could ever remember seeing.
She felt lightheaded. So much blood. So much death.
When was the last time she had eaten? Had it really been at the farmhouse with Benvolio? Why was it so hot out? She looked up at the sun in annoyance and that's when everything went black.
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She woke to the sound of concerned voices. Livia, and… a man. Was it…?
Oh. It was her uncle. So he lived. Good for him.
Rosaline blinked her eyes open with a groan. "What hour is it?" she croaked out. "Are all the soldiers returned?"
Livia rushed to her and swiped a cool cloth against her forehead. "Here," she said, offering Rosaline a bowl of something hot and salty-smelling. "You must eat."
Rosaline's stomach grumbled so loudly it would have woken the dead.
She drank the broth in two long swallows and wiped her mouth inelegantly with the back of her hand.
"It is the morrow," Livia said, very unhelpfully.
"What?"
"You fainted in the streets yesterday. Some young Capulets carried you home. You slept for hours." A gleam entered her eyes. "You snored."
Rosaline gasped. "I most certainly did not."
"Aye," her uncle said, "you snored," and he sounded more tired than she did. She vaguely wondered what had happened to her aunt after her treachery was exposed, but decided she absolutely did not care in the slightest.
"Did… did anyone call?" she asked, embarrassed.
"Call?" Livia said. "You were asleep. Why care you if anyone called? Ohhhhhhh," she said and raised her eyebrows.
"Nevermind," Rosaline said quickly. "It matters not."
"Well," Livia said, "The Prince sent a message from his sickbed asking after you. And—"
"And?"
"And that's it," Livia said, pouting slightly. Her ability to bounce back after heartbreak was something to be marveled at. Rosaline herself felt like she'd been chewed up and spit out and left on the street to rot.
"I need a bath," she groaned.
Livia nodded her head enthusiastically. "You really, really do."
Rosaline drank three more bowls of broth in the bath and devoured two rolls of bread.
She almost felt human again.
She remembered Damiano Montague's ashen, still face. A whole day had passed. Benvolio would surely know by now.
He didn't call in on her. That stung a little bit. But she had to remember, he lost someone. Even if it was someone he hated, it still had to be difficult. And she knew him now. He could pretend to have his hard outer shell on, but things still hurt him so. His uncle was the only family he had left, and she knew how deeply he feared being alone.
That settled it. She stood from the bath and dried as quickly as possible. She wasn't some fragile flower waiting on a balcony for a romantic wanderer to climb up and… pluck her.
She shook her head at that terrible metaphor. She had either slept too long or not long enough.
She didn't need to wait for him. He was hers to be plucked.
Ugh. Rosaline. She shook her head again and called in the servant to help her dress.
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"Benvolio?" Rosaline stepped into the Montague courtyard, unharassed by servants and guards, who seemed to be busy packing things away and carrying them off. Benvolio stood in the midst of them, directing traffic.
"You're not…" she said. "You're not leaving, are you?"
"Rosaline." He turned to her, a look of surprise on his face. "What in heaven are you doing here? I thought you'd be at the palace."
"I… I saw your uncle. They carried him off the field of battle." She swallowed, gathered her courage. "I needed to make sure you were all right."
He smiled at her, one of those rare, genuine, beautiful little smiles. "I am well, dear Capulet." Then he sobered a bit, looking around at the state of the manor. "I am divesting myself of my uncle's possessions. They hold only poor memories of… well. Anyway. He is dead." He shrugged his shoulders, as if the statement meant little to him.
She took one step toward him. "I need to know you are all right," she repeated, hoping he could see it, could know what it was she wanted to offer him, even if she herself wasn't quite sure.
"I will be." He sniffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "Maybe when I go—"
"Go? Where are you going?" She took two more steps toward him. He seemed to take note of her every movement.
He smiled at her. "The monastery."
"What?" He couldn't be serious. "You can't be serious."
He huffed out a little laugh. "Be calm Capulet. I am merely overseeing the transfer of these worldly goods to their new home. I know I have sinned far too often to ever give myself over to God for more than one confession at a time."
"Oh thank God," she said before she could stop herself.
"Capulet?"
"Hmm?"
"Did you need… anything else from me?" His eyebrows did that raising thing she outwardly hated and secretly adored.
Everything, she almost blurted out, but didn't. Thankfully.
"Were you going to say goodbye?" she said instead, lifting her chin.
A red patch of shame crawled up his neck to his cheeks, and she knew his answer without him having to say it.
"I cannot believe you." She shook her head. "After everything we've been through," she said. "After everything we… shared." She looked at him knowingly. He couldn't misunderstand her meaning, even if he willfully tried to. "In the dungeons."
He sighed and tugged his arms tighter over his chest. He looked… sad, for some reason. Why was he sad? Why was he acting this way at all? Why had he avoided her after the battle? Why was he fleeing the city on a servant's errand?
She crossed her own arms over her chest and raised an eyebrow at him. Well?
"I know what it was about, Capulet," he said, coming closer to her. He took a deep, shuddering breath, as if to steady himself. "It was consolation. You were being kind to a doomed man. You could not save me and you... felt for me."
"Benvolio—!"
He took her gently by the shoulders. "And it was the sweetest, most beautiful parting gift, dear Rosaline. I thank you for it." He swallowed so hard she could see his throat move. "But the city is saved. You can be with your truest love now." He tried to smile but it was all pain, and he stepped back from her, gently releasing her.
She had seen him cry so many times now. How did it still break her heart?
"Oh you stupid, stupid man."
He frowned at her. "What?"
Every bit of propriety her parents had ever instilled in her, every rule her uncle had ever imposed on her, every bit of decency society demanded of her—Damn it all, she whispered to herself before moving.
Two strides and she was up against him, one hand at his back to close the gap, the other behind his neck to pull his face down to hers.
She kissed him, hard, as if she could kiss the foolishness right out of him. She kissed him until he kissed her back, his arms folding around her back to pull her closer, impossibly close. She kissed him and kissed him and kissed him until he could take his consolation and drown it in a lake.
His nose nudged hers and she pulled back just the slightest bit.
"Oh," he breathed out, into her mouth.
"Yes, you clod. 'Oh.'"
He kissed her again, and smiled, and she'd never kissed so many teeth before, but she didn't care.
"It's me," he said, almost giddy.
"Ye—mmrph—yes," she managed around his kisses.
"You love me."
She pulled back slightly and knocked him on his chest. "Oh you insufferable—"
He lifted her then, and spun her, and kissed her, and laughed into her mouth.
"Oh I am a fool," he said, grinning.
"Yes, you are," she agreed, beaming.
He gently lowered her feet back onto solid ground and cupped her face between his palms.
"I love you, Rosaline Capulet."
"Good," she said, and she'd never heard him laugh so loud, never seen his smile so big.
"Will you let me marry you now without kicking and screaming all the way to the altar?"
She moved her hand over his heart and looked up at him. "My lord," she teased, "but if I could. For are you not betrothed to the monastery?"
"Capulet." He pinched her hip though her dress and she burst out in a surprised laugh.
"You know I will," she said, breathless again under his ardent gaze.
"Good," he said, and huffed a sigh of a relief, before pulling her back into his arms and spinning her around the courtyard with a whoop of joy. A few of the servants glanced over in alarm.
Rosaline looked to the heavens and laughed, and laughed, and thanked this mysterious world for all its strange gifts.