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"And with the draw of his sword, the knight…" Tybalt trailed off as he noted the droop of Juliet's eyelids, careful to remain silent as he slipped out of his cousin's room.
He treated himself to a small chuckle as he traversed the dim halls, already imagining Juliet's impatient protests the following morning when she woke: How he always drew the tales on for much too long, never reaching the happily ever after.
He reached into his sleeve and brought his calloused fingertips to the dried crimson on his forearm, the slight upturn of his mouth falling back into a flat line.
Perhaps it was because the knight hadn't yet earned such happiness.
It was only when he'd retreated to his quarters that he rolled up his sleeve to examine the mark, the scarlet fabric crusted with a dry, indistinguishable hue. The only thing that stung more than the wound itself were the words that accompanied it, sharp, merciless, and—he would painfully admit—completely true. And the glare that the man he was nothing but grateful to call his father fixed down on him as he scrambled to pick up his sword had burned into him.
He'd learned two things that afternoon: That one's forearm made for a poor shield, and that he was not enough, in a way that hours and hours more of training would not mend.
The man had spat a final drop of venom and left one last mark; one final grievance at having a son so weak.
And Tybalt had followed the man's departing figure, eyes fixed onto the coat of arms on his back.
And he whispered a word of thanks.
So night after night, he crafted his own tales, lies of strength and power and valiance. For if he could not be a worthy Capulet to his father, perhaps he could be a brave knight to Juliet. He suppressed every wince from exerting his body—littered with slivers of crimson and soft, stinging dark spots—as he acted out the stories.
Suppression only went so far.
Juliet inquired about the marks the first time they peeked through his sleeves, brows furrowed and voice wavering ever so slightly.
Still, he lied. He pretended. Rather than blemishes of shame, inadequacy written on his flesh, he boasted them as trophies of battles won. She was young enough for him to continue painting scenes of fire-breathing dragons and happily ever afters that he never quite reached.
Eventually, she grew too old for him to pretend.
And as he began imposing marks of weakness on others—duels with another pointed blade rather than the jagged teeth of dragons, battles on the streets rather than before a grand lair—he could not pretend even to himself.
He was back on the ground, a different man glaring down at him. One bearing a crest he knew too well. A crest he had sworn to never lose to.
Could he pretend one final time?
Well, dear cousin, he would say as Juliet drifted off to sleep, all good knights die fighting for their kingdom.
A knight, but in what sense? The prestige, or the pawn?
Or perhaps he was closer to the eternal villain of his tales, a savage beast killing for sport, incapable of warmth beyond the flames it breathed. Well, he supposed he would be met with flames soon enough.
I only regret departing too soon to see your happily ever after.
Between us, you are the only one deserving of it.