Chapter Text
“I bet I could kill all the Montagues with one hand!”
Sampson, a servant of the Capulet family, proudly boasted to his companion, Gregory. The two lone servants strutted their way through the streets.
Sampson scoffed, “With one hand? You couldn’t kill a dog even if you tried!”
“Nonsense,” Gregory insisted, “I was raised by the Capulets for heaven’s sake! I will kill all those Montagues bastards and take all the women for myself!”
“Ha! I didn’t take you as a greedy man, Gregory.”
The citizens of Verona cleared the streets as the two men strided through. Pride flashed in their faces, the sun glistening on their battered swords.
Gregory wiped the sweat from his brow. “Well then, let’s ask the people of Verona.”
Suddenly, the servant climbed the grand, muddy fountain in the square. The mossy water gnawed through his leather boots as he climbed the marble. Once at the top, the servant brought his fingers inside his mouth, and the whistle bellowed through the entire square. Nurses and maids halted their chores, and merchants slowed their sales pitches. Soon, a small crowd began to form around the decaying fountain as Gregory stood proudly at attention, whispers and gossip traveling around like a disease. All gathered around to listen to one of the most infamous family servants' foolish proposals.
“Hear ye, hear ye! Oh, the great people of Verona, please entertain a Capulet’s thoughts. Could we, the courageous servants of the Capulet family, win a duel against those treacherous Montagues?”
Silence followed Gregory’s request, the townspeople staring blankly at the servant. Sampson stood below his friend, his face red in embarrassment. All the townspeople's eyes were fixed on them, and yet nothing. Nothing from the people who watched the two families fight for decades.
But Gregory finally ceased, looking below for the citizens. They were looking at him, but wandered past him. Confused, the young servant followed the people’s stares, swishing his head around.
Suddenly, his heart fell through like a boulder.
Sharp footsteps clinked against the pavement as the whispers finally ceased; even the doves seemed speechless. A man, slowly approaching the two fools and the crowd. The man slowly tipped his head as he walked through the crowd, and they spread like the Red Sea to make room for the Prince of Cats. The Prince of Cats slowly gazed at his servants, his wine-red hat blowing in the wind.
Gregory shook in his boots, “L–Lord Tybalt.”
Tybalt’s scarred hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, fighting the urge to slice his servants for their foolishness.
“Sampson,” he barked, “Gregory. Get down from that fountain at once.”
Sampson rushed down the fountain, his feet stumbling onto themselves. His face was white as a dove’s wing with Tybalt’s eyes scorning a hole through his mind. If looks could kill, Gregory would be at heaven’s gates.
Tybalt clenched his jaw. “We are representing the Capulet name. Show some respect before you’re back to scrubbing the halls.”
The men from the crowd shivered with suppressed laughter, their hands over their mouths to cease the snickering. However, one glare from Tybalt caused the crowd to fall silent once more.
“If any of you jesters would like to lap the floors like panting dogs with my servants,” Tybalt warned, “Then please rise, and you’ll have to answer to my blade.”
None of the citizens dared to meet Tybalt’s hard gaze, seemingly all being very invested in the ground. Nobody dared to challenge the prince of cats. Pride soon rushed through the Capulet's bones.
“Well, if that’s all–”
“I will answer to your blade.”
Gasps of shock flooded through the crowd, maidens clutching their hearts as terror washed down their veins. The men bickered amongst themselves, swearing to God himself that they didn’t accept the challenge. The Prince of Cats felt his skin irritated from the rage, his fingers itching for the hilt of his sword. The utter audacity of that fool! Accepting his challenge without a second thought?
Tybalt’s face burned with hatred. “Who was that? I demand to know!”
The crowd spread like the Red Sea for the challenger, his polished boots clinking against the ground. Suddenly, recognition flooded Tybalt’s mind as the newcomer approached with a sword of his own. His bastardly, brown hair flowing freely with the Verona wind, a snarky smirk plastered on his face.
Of course. Nobody else but him would be so foolish, he bitterly thought.
“So, your highness,” the challenger quipped, “On guard?”
“Of course… Montague.”