Chapter Text
Verona was Verona. It had been this way for as far back as Benvolio — or anyone for that matter — could remember.
A bloody mess of a city.
It was not uncommon to go out in the day and be granted the horrid images of a civil war. This is precisely why, an hour before dawn broke into the city, Benvolio had chosen to walk. Wandering aimlessly alone in the strangely tranquil outskirts of all his world before it awakes seemed the best way to find peace. Although, today, even that didn’t seem to help.
A thick, unrelenting wave of worry seemed to pester him. He felt like he was drowning in a sense of foreboding, but couldn’t possibly fathom why. Today was like any other. Verona remained dangerous, but that was normal, so why couldn't he feel normal?
There was no obvious answer; no reason to feel like this. Whatever it was, he wanted to be calmed. The loneliness of his stroll hitting him like a wagon, perhaps that’s what he needed; what he longed for…Connection. Just a hug, was that too much of an ask? The wish for someone to hold him and say that it’d be all alright. Even if it was a lie and the city was crumbling.
He wondered briefly, whether or not he should head home, if his uncle’s case-tori could be classed as that. It had his family — or the ever dwindling remains of people, but that was about it. Nothing of his outside of blood.
Wasn't that depressing?
It wasn't like he was at a lack of love, at least so he hoped, his uncle tolerated him as much as he did with everyone else; his aunt and cousin both adored him like a son and sibling. Yet still, he craved something, just some joy and safety in all he knew and maybe he'd be alright. This wasn't living nor was it surviving, it was existing in a state of nothingness as everything flew by.
He was pulled out of his own mind suddenly, by a faint figure sitting alone, perched on a wall. And as if God had heard his internal cries of solitude, the person before him was none other than his cousin.
“Romeo! Oh Romeo! My fair cos, what brings thee out when it be not yet morn?” His spirits briefly lifted upon approaching Romeo, although they quickly crashed when he saw the look on Romeo's face. A look of utter devastation. “Dearest cos, why dost thou frown so deeply?”
Benvolio knew the answer would probably be stupid, perhaps his cousin had fallen for a nun again that would be comedic. A nice laugh in hell. Alas, no matter how truly dramatic and insane the cause of this emotional anguish was for Romeo, it did not change the fact that he was still hurting, and Benvolio didn't know how to fix it.
He was met by silence, something somewhat worse than knowing why Romeo was hurting.
Romeo wasn't someone particularly closed off. Heck, Benvolio knew far more about his cousin than he did himself at times. That feels odd to admit but Romeo's ability to be in touch with his own emotions was terrifyingly impressive even if it meant everything manifested in extreme chaos.
That's what worried him above all else.
What if he has upset Romeo in some way and that's what caused the callous silence?
Could I forgive myself if I hurt him? Benvolio wondered, trying to catch the familiar blue, tear-filled eyes of Romeo. No.
No I couldn't.
If he was the cause of harm coming to Romeo — emotionally or physically — he would not recover. Benvolio would be doomed to a state of misery and guilt until Romeo dragged him out of it, which just made everything worse. He should not have to rely on his cousin, in a metaphorical scenario in which Benvolio ruins him, into being a crutch. Maybe I'm full to the brim of cowardice.
“Romeo. Stay, speak. Prithee let me help.”
Further echoes of nothing. Nothing until Romeo's feet picked up on the ground, heading for far in the opposite direction. “Romeo!”
It was pointless and Benvolio knew chasing him would just tire them both needlessly. Perhaps… he began to wonder, pulling his hand through his curls absent mindedly (his mother used to do the same). Perhaps, he just loves me enough to not burden me with whatever love sick frenzy has concocted itself in that mysterious mind. He reasoned, not fully believing it but needing to, to be able to cope.
Romeo was an enigma. So was he. Oh. Maybe that was Verona’s default. Who was normal; predictable; safe and alive in Verona?
That sounds like the start to a bad joke. The punchline is as painful as a sucker punch so perhaps it's not too far off.
No-one… nobody, in this God forsaken city was fine.
Benvolio was just stuck on this same ride with the rest of them, heading at break-neck speeds to a Satan blessed death.
The rest of his walk eased into obscurity as his brain began to overthink the city's capability to exist. In fact, he wouldn't be able to recall a single part of his walk.
~𖤓~
She wasn't certain how she got here. She faintly remembered playfully mocking (playfully) Peter. He still can't read. That was her first full moment of lucidity. He still can't read. She nearly let out a laugh out of absurdity.
How does one make it this far and not know the alphabet? It was literally a list of names. God, maybe the American education system has failed them.
This was certainly an odd path of thought. Probably not the best when she was entirely lost with no recollection of how she got here.
To start with, she sat up. The floor wasn't dusty, although some form of grains still wriggled through her fingers as if she was on a bed of sand. But she wasn't. This was marble. Odd. Odd indeed.
Now, she could remember that servant and his illiteracy but could she remember her own name? That was her second order of business she decided. Identity. It would be quite embarrassing to giggle over Peter and then not be able to realise who she was. There was no way to even check her appearance to jog her memory. For herself she was an unidentifiable person.
Tentatively, a mass of thick black hair found its way into her fingers. A velvety blanket of memory, slowly wiping away the fog. It was something beginning with “B”.
That'd do for now. “B”’s next plan was to properly acknowledge her surroundings. Maybe that would've been good to do first. “B” did not have particularly good survival instincts she realised. How joyously helpful!
Before and surrounding her were figures, also all on the floor with varying states of daze, some blinking and also staring around, others passed out altogether. People didn't seem to be the only living thing in the room, “B” realised. Near a damaged gnome there was a huge seal, its dark, wide eyes reaching into her soul with a hint of knowledge she was not quite prepared for.
Of course this was an odd situation to find oneself. Playing a staring contest with an aquatic animal.
That didn't seem to be something that would help “B”, so she decided to turn to the nearest person: a sleeping man, light brown hair acting as a pillow as he rested. ‘Rested’ wasn't quite the right word. He tossed and turned, nightmares seemingly plaguing him. Or else the floor is really that uncomfortable.
“Sir! This really isn't the time to be sleeping. Like I get sleep is lovely and all but—”
He woke up with a start. Hazel eyes meeting whatever colour hers were. “Uh, salve signora, Chi…? Cosa…? Cazzo! Dove siamo? È l'inferno?
That short-circuited “B”’s brain for a moment, she wasn't expecting what sounded like Italian. “Ah, do you speak English, please?” This would be inconvenient if the answer was no.
The answer was presumably no. “Non parli italiano?”
“Shit.”
“Merda.”
The pair stared at each other blankly. Both oblivious to the gnome that had somehow made its way next to them, its dirty porcelain features moving like a toy robot — particularly one that needed to be trashed due to grime and just plain disgust.
This would be very difficult to escape wherever they were with language barriers, it'd be insanely inconvenient if they all spoke different languages.
The gnome was watching them with a quiet intensity, if a gnome could watch, the biology there was quite questionable but the mystery anatomy of a sentient gnome is not something the world is prepared to unpack so ‘watch’ it does.
“Ok. This is…unideal to say the least.” “B” muttered to herself, before almost leaping out of her skin at the sight of the gnome. It had moved. She didn't know a lot but she did know how to read and she did know that gnomes weren't meant to do that. The Italian seemed to have noticed as well, so at least she knew she wasn't going insane.
“Sono fouttuto.” It was more of a statement than an exclamation, as if he had already accepted his fate to the gnome overlords.
“You’re too calm.” She muttered in response, her gaze not leaving the porcelain demon smiling freakily before her.
“Hello!”A painfully; creepily cheerful English accent attacked their ears as an annoying glee waved.
They both stared. Perhaps others were as well. In her desperate attempts at communicating with the Italian she had neglected to acknowledge what was happening, failing the third task she'd given herself. “B” did not like this. It was bad enough being in a purgatory like state but the gnome made it significantly worse. Why was it talking? Why did it exist? None of this made any semblance of sense. Gnomes shouldn't talk. Gnomes couldn't talk.
The world had gone to madness. “Ce gnome vient de parler?”
Ok. What was worse than purgatory with a living gnome? Purgatory with a living gnome and a Frenchman.
It was like he had gone through mitosis. “Oui…ce gnome peut parler.” There were two blond Frenchmen.
Hell. I'm in hell. Actual hell. She decided, before analysing the French. They had the same hair and eyes but one's fashion sense was significantly better. A teal leather tracksuit was objectively the least cool thing in the room, and by quite a margin. All of the outfits were interesting and extremely different. Whilst some had clearly more modern clothing, others seemed to have spawned from a renaissance fair, with outfits that “B” admittedly might have the wrong time period for. Her own clothes were certainly a little questionable. A black cloak, with blue lining and a bowler hat. Not the most average fit but it could be worse — she could be a gnome, or even a seal.
There had to be some reason they were all here, a connecting feature that wasn’t immediately obvious.
In fact blues and greens flooded the room like the sea itself, with a few touches of red and orange but pretty much entirely colder colors. Though, that was the only similarity she could spot.
“No need to act so shocked, I assure you all this is normal. All ornaments are alive.” It continued speaking, smiling as it yapped as if this were fine and dandy, as if anyone was in the mood to comprehend this, on top of everything else. “And statues!”
“What manner of hell-spawn is this that doth affront mine eyes?” For a brief moment, she didn’t even recognise the sentence as English. It sounded like her friends, who were they, when they’d act like it was the past again. She'd always found it odd how Old English dropped half the vowels.Who was she?
“I’m a gnome of course!”
“What is a gnome?” That wasn’t a person’s voice. It was too loud, too aquatic. Everyone whizzed around including herself to the source of the noise. It was the seal. The seal… The seal?
“Oh mon dieu!” A third francophone exclaimed, breaking the shell shocked silence.
She didn’t need to translate that one.
It seemed some people were still reeling at the premise of being here, pretty much everyone was shocked at the concept of sentient porcelain and a couple of people were confused over what a gnome is. If there was one thing they didn’t need, it was a talking seal.
~☾~
Shocked. Utterly bamboozled. Completely thrown. Whatever way it is put no human in that room was doing particularly well. On the bright side, the creatures seemed to be having the time of their lives, running around and trying to force people to understand them without having an existential crisis. To make matters even brighter, memories seemed to be slowly finding their way through the labyrinth of each person's mind. Unfortunately, no-one could quite recall their name, although through discussions with very questionable grammar, it could be assumed they all share a name. One beginning with “B” and ending in “o” (except the gnome who was insistent on it being a “y” but for the sake of everyone's sanity they were ignoring him at all costs).
However, the man with apparently sandy hair had managed to begin to piece the puzzles of his final moments in the realm of the normal as had a couple of others.
He was in a carriage, leaving Neo-Verona and his parents were with him. Crying. That was unlike them, usually mother and father forced a brave face no matter the occasion but this was different. If he recalled correctly, the city had been more oppressive than normal. Likely, without thinking his father had accidentally dragged them into this by speaking out against tyranny.
He was in a carriage, and then there were screams, and now he was here.
Maybe he was dead. Maybe this was his afterlife and souls had been alphabetised.
If so, he wasn’t certain whether or not to blame his father.
“Hi.” One of the older looking men sat beside him. “You look like you’ve seen some shit? Are you good?”
The younger of the two mirrored what his parents would do in this situation, his mouth curving upwards. “I think we’ve all seen a lot of things today.”
“Well, yes I suppose we all have, although, you look like you’re pondering over more. Am I right?”
“Yes. You would be. However, I doubt now would be a good time to speak of personal issues.” Nothing good often comes from that. What if word got back to the city? What if this was all a ploy of trust? I can’t fail. I can’t risk anything. “You look pretty down yourself.”He chose to point out, testing the waters.
He spoke with a dry laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
The younger of the two nodded. “I shan’t spill my secrets to you if I can’t trust you. I will trust you If you tell me yours… What’s wrong?”
“How ironic? If I am to tell you mine, how do I know I can trust you?”
He faltered. His smile flickering. “What if I swear?”
“I can equally swear.”
“Well—” There were no good points. Education wise, he knew he was meant to be clever. A noble upbringing meant he should in theory be smart. Alas, communication is something one can’t learn from textbooks and besides Romeo, his interactions with the world were slim.
A second chuckle spilled from the other man. “Fuck, you’re funny, you look so stressed. I will tell you my secrets, so long as after, I learn yours.”
“Of course, I swear it.” Now the polite smile was almost real.
“Well, before coming here I’m pretty certain that my uncle was using me as target practice.” He paused speaking as the others' faces fell. “Luckily, his aim is quite questionable. “Now! What about you, good sir?”
Maybe all being extremely traumatized was the connecting thread.
He took a deep breath. “I was with my parents, we were banished from our home and I think we were about to be assassinated. I told my father to be careful with what he said and still…” Is it cruel to be angry, to feel rage at being in danger on behalf of standing up to the hell everyone else was suffering under. Oh. I am a coward.“What if we’re dead?” He asked, his voice slipping into a trembling whisper.
He spoke tentatively, for no-one could be truly certain about the nature of their existence here, and the last remaining memories weren't particularly indicating of a good fate. “I’m sure we’re not.” He lied with a sense of hope, for how could one be sure about anything anymore, and as he spoke, he felt himself being enveloped in a hug and like a switch he remembered his name. Benvolio… and it seemed he wasn’t alone in this sudden recollection.
A sense of fondness unmistakable crept onto everyone’s face as they all realised. They had a name and an identity. They may not know where they are, but each and everyone knows ‘who’ and that is more important than anything else. A soul, shared between nineteen-ish beings, was a beautiful sight, and here they all were. Together. Lost, but, for once, one.
Vraiment, la vie est belle.