Caro, Chapter 28 and Afterword
Here it is. The big finale. The very last chapter of Caro. Whew! What a ride it's been. I don't know about you, but I've had a great time posting this.
You'll see that this last chapter is something of an epilogue to the main story. The characters might seem a little young for some of the descriptions, but this was an age when lifespans were shorter, and a forty-eight-year-old man could describe himself as getting along in years, as one character in King Lear does.
That said, enjoy the final chapter of Caro.
28. And Cut Him Out In Little Stars
“My lord Benvolio?”
Benvolio started into wakefulness at the soft voice and the gentle touch on his arm. He had fallen asleep in a chair before a crackling fire. The chair was not immediately familiar, and for a moment he was not certain where he was. He stretched, wincing at the creaking in his joints. For a man of fifty-nine years, he supposed that he was in good health, though he had not the bodily strength of his younger years and his memory was no longer what it had once been.
The tall, thin, blond boy of fourteen who had woken him stood by the chair, an expression of gentle concern on his face. For a moment, Benvolio was convinced that it was Mercutio who stood before him, a boy once more, but then his full memory returned. He was in his small personal chamber in the Innocents’ Hospital, where he had resided for the past two years. The boy who had woken him was Ferrucio, one of the foundlings, who had attached himself to Benvolio as a replacement for the grandfather who had cared for him in his earliest years.
Ferrucio smiled at Benvolio, now that it was clear that the old man had woken fully into the present day. “It is nearly time for dinner,” he said. “Will it please you come downstairs to dine, or shall I ask the cooks to send something here?”
Benvolio shook his head, and swung his legs slowly to loosen them. “Nay, there is no need for such trouble. I have had a refreshing sleep, and I will present myself at dinner with the rest. Go on, Ferrucio, and wait not for me. I shall come in my own time, but I would not have thee be late for a meal on my account.”
Ferrucio squeezed Benvolio’s hand gently, then bowed and hurried out of the chamber. Benvolio sighed as he watched the boy go. It was truly remarkable how much Ferrucio resembled Mercutio at the same age, and Benvolio occasionally forgot and called Ferrucio by his lover’s name. But every time he did so, his memory would give a painful jolt, calling forth that dreadful morning nearly two years earlier, when Benvolio had woken to find Mercutio dead in his arms.
It had not been unexpected. Mercutio had been ill, and the physician had concluded that his heart had simply stopped in the night, a peaceable ending for an old man of fifty-seven. Benvolio had acknowledged the truth of that, but had still mourned bitterly for his beloved companion. Neither Valentine nor Benvolio had wanted to bury Mercutio in the Rinuccini family vault, next to the bones of the father who had abused him. Instead, they had chosen to use Escalus’s vault and inter Mercutio with his mother’s family. He lay near Paris and Helena, and Valentine had promised Benvolio that there would be space for him as well, when the time came.
In the meantime, however, Benvolio had been unable to face sleeping alone in the bed that he had shared with Mercutio for so many years, and had taken up permanent residence in the orphanage that he and Mercutio had built. The children treated him as a beloved uncle, and he indulged them with stories and games. He had watched hundreds of wounded, abandoned, and orphaned children heal, grow up, and learn trades over the years, and he had loved them all. They had mourned Mercutio’s death with him, even those who had long since grown up and gone off to have families and children of their own. Ferrucio had taken it upon himself to ensure that Benvolio had whatever he needed, be it a cozy chair and a warm fire, soft food for his aging jaws, or simple companionship.
Benvolio stretched again. He had dwelled long enough in the past for today. It was time for dinner. He pulled himself carefully out of his chair and made his way to the dining hall. The children were just seating themselves at the long tables, and a placid friar in his middle years cleared his throat as he searched through the great Bible on the lectern for the passage he intended to read during this meal. Benvolio smiled at him. He was Friar Paolo now, but once upon a time, he had gone by the name of Sebastian, one of the very first children to call the Innocents’ Hospital home.
Benvolio sat down at the end of a bench and bowed his head along with everyone else as Friar Paolo led them in saying grace before the meal.
After dinner, Ferrucio came to Benvolio to announce a visitor. It was Romeo, the venerable head of the House of Montague. Romeo made a point of visiting his cousin as often as he could, for he knew well the pain of widowhood. He had had many years with Juliet until she began to complain of pain in her abdomen. She had fought valiantly for several months, but had died at the age of thirty-seven, of a tumor. Marcello and Olivia had sustained their father through his grief, and had each presented Romeo with a new grandchild not long after Juliet’s death.
Romeo, his hair white as snow, chatted with Benvolio for a while. They walked out to the garden, where there were stone benches built against the orchard wall. They reminisced about their youth and about the loves that had enriched their lives.
“Tell me, coz,” Benvolio said. “Why didst thou not remarry after Juliet died? Thou couldst still have sired more children, and any young lady of Verona would have considered it an honor to be thy wife.”
Romeo smiled. “I had no desire for another wife,” he said. “Marcello and Olivia were fully grown and had no need of a stepmother. And after I had fought so long and so hard for leave to be Juliet’s husband . . . how could I dishonor her memory by taking another maid to Juliet’s bed? What of thee, dear cousin? Hast thou not found a pretty boy to catch thy eye?”
Benvolio laughed, though there was no mirth in the sound. “Nay. I do not often go out into the world any more. I live almost as a monk, with my books and my prayers, though I suppose that monks do not live with as many small children as I.”
“There thou hast the right of it,” Romeo replied. “I am glad to see thee here where thou art loved. I confess, there were times when I worried for thee after Mercutio’s passing, about who would care for thee, since thou had no children of thy own.”
“But I have children. This home is filled with them, and they care for me as if I were truly their father.”
Romeo nodded, and they fell silent for a while, enjoying the warmth of the day. It was nearly Lammas tide, and the summer heat, which had once seemed so oppressive, now warmed bones grown chill with age. Benvolio asked after the health of Romeo’s children and grandchildren, and Romeo indulged him with a few tales. Benvolio was particularly glad to hear that Marcello and his wife prospered, and had begun to seek a husband for their daughter.
After a while, Romeo creaked to his feet, and Benvolio did likewise. “I must take my leave of thee now,” Romeo said. “I promised some time to Marcello so that we might review our household accounts together. Be well, dear cousin, and I shall see thee on the morrow.”
Benvolio escorted Romeo to the door and embraced him once before Romeo left. Ferrucio appeared out of the shadows, and Benvolio smiled to see him.
“I think that I shall return to the garden,” he said. “Wouldst thou be a dear boy and fetch me a cool drink?”
“Of course.” Ferrucio offered Benvolio his arm, and Benvolio leaned on him as he slowly made his way back to the bench. Ferrucio ensured that Benvolio was seated comfortably, and then hurried back to the house.
The sun shone warm upon Benvolio, and the cicadas buzzed in his ears. Without quite noticing it, he drifted off into a gentle sleep.
Benvolio was suddenly aware that he was not alone. For a moment, he thought that Ferrucio had returned with his drink, but then he took a closer look at the figure standing beneath a pear tree. The youth was taller than Ferrucio, and a few years older, with piercing blue eyes, and a mischievous smile that still melted Benvolio’s heart even after so many years. Mercutio stood beneath that tree, in the full bloom of youth, and then Benvolio knew that he was dreaming.
He dreamed often of Mercutio, and found great consolation in those dreams. Sometimes Mercutio spoke to him, but more often, he remained silent. Benvolio did not mind, for he was content merely to look upon his lover’s face once more. There were times when it seemed to Benvolio that Mercutio was fairer now than he had ever been in life. In his dreams, Benvolio saw Mercutio as he should have been. Mercutio’s face was free of the fear and anger that had haunted it in his youth, and he moved with the easy, confident grace that he had never quite mastered during his lifetime.
Benvolio could have watched him play forever, climbing the pear trees, and eating the fruit, and he would have been content with that. But Mercutio spied him, climbed down from the tree, and came to stand before him. Benvolio smiled, and tried to rise to greet him, but found that his body would not move.
“It is a pleasure to see thee again, caro,” he said, and was glad to see Mercutio smile in response. “I grow lonely without thee.”
“Thou hast Romeo to bear thee company,” Mercutio replied, “and the children as well. Ferrucio adores thee.”
Benvolio nodded. “Ferrucio is a charming boy, and I am glad of his friendship. But soon he will learn a trade and take his place in the world. His life is barely begun. Romeo and I are old men now. We have had our joys already.”
Mercutio frowned, as if he were considering a thought before sharing it. “Hast thou no desires left?” he asked. “No dreams?”
Benvolio looked around the garden. “All that I asked of life I have been granted. I had a family that loved me as their own son. I have seen our ancient feud with the house of Capulet wither and die, and peace come to Verona in its wake. I found love, and I was privileged to be allowed to keep that love for nearly forty years. I have a godson who prospers, and I have helped to give hundreds of other children a new beginning to life. What is left for me to desire in my twilight years?”
As soon as Benvolio had finished speaking, two thoughts struck him. The first was that there was much that he had not seen or done during his life. The second was that he did not mind. It seemed to him that he had accomplished what was important, and that the lack of anything else was regrettable, but not overly so.
Mercutio listened to Benvolio’s recital of his life without comment. “Is that all?” he asked after a while. “Dost thou truly desire nothing else in this world?”
Benvolio opened his mouth to reply, but then realized that Mercutio’s question was valid. There was one thing he wanted, more than anything else. It was an impossible desire, and he had long ago resigned himself to that. But that resignation did not negate the fact of its existence. Long ago, in the days of his youth, he had wanted something that he had thought was impossible, but that had not prevented him from wanting. His wish had been granted then. Perhaps it would do no harm to voice his wish now.
“I want to hold thee in my arms again, caro,” he said softly. “Every morning, I wake, and I am alone. I gave thee my heart while we were still boys, and now thou hast taken it to thy grave and left me bereft. There is a yawning void in my life where thou art not, and my only remaining desire is that this void might be filled again, if only for the short span of a dream.”
Mercutio appeared to consider Benvolio’s statement. “What of Romeo?” he asked. “And Ferrucio?”
“Romeo lives surrounded by his children and his grandchildren,” Benvolio said with a shrug. “And Ferrucio cannot remain attached to an old man forever. Neither of them could ever take thy place.”
“Then there is naught remaining to bar thee from thy final desire?” Mercutio asked. Benvolio’s mouth went dry, and he shook his head. Mercutio nodded, as if a decision had been reached. Then he smiled, and offered Benvolio his hand.
Benvolio stared, not quite comprehending. “I cannot move,” he said. “Whenever I see thee in my dreams, I am rooted in place, and I am powerless until I wake.”
“This dream is different,” Mercutio assured him. “If thou dost truly wish to move, then thou wilt have that power.”
All of a sudden, Benvolio realized what Mercutio was truly offering him, and a cold shiver ran through him. He thought again of the orphans who loved him and begged for stories, of Ferrucio who attended him so faithfully, and of Romeo who was as his own dear brother. But he had spoken the truth to Mercutio. They had their own lives, and they would continue without him. Benvolio’s work was over at last, and his reward stood before him. All he had to do was reach out and take it.
Slowly, he laid one withered, trembling hand in Mercutio’s. Mercutio gave a gentle tug, as if he were assisting an old man in rising. Benvolio was aware of a powerful wrenching sensation, a sense of strength without pain, and then he was standing at Mercutio’s side. Dazed, he looked down at their joined hands, and saw that his was smooth and shapely, a young man’s hand. He turned and looked at the bench. His body, shrunken and wrinkled, crowned with silver hair, sat there, hunched over as if still asleep. Then he turned back and looked into Mercutio’s eyes, and everything else faded into unimportance.
Mercutio ran a hand through Benvolio’s hair, his old gesture of invitation. Benvolio wasted no time. He took Mercutio’s face in his hands and kissed him, slowly and thoroughly, reveling in the sensation that he had feared he would never enjoy again. Mercutio returned the kiss just as eagerly, without fear or doubt, and when their lips parted, Benvolio felt joyous tears stinging his eyes.
“Thou art changed, caro,” he said, unable to express his thoughts any other way.
Mercutio, as always, discerned the unspoken meanings in Benvolio’s words. “I am healed,” he said, “as I was never fully healed in life. It is true, what we were told, that all things are made whole now. Come, let us walk among the trees of the garden, and I will tell thee more about what is to come.”
Benvolio kissed him again, and the two youths walked away, their arms around each other’s waists.
A few moments later, Ferrucio returned to the garden, bearing a cup of cool water drawn straight from the foundling home’s well. He saw the crumpled form sitting on the bench, and thought at first that his ancient confidant had fallen asleep again. But when he put out his hand to wake Benvolio, he knew the truth. The cup fell to the ground and shattered as Ferrucio sank to his knees and wept.
Benvolio made his final journey the next morning. Friar Paolo led the requiem Mass, and Valentine and Romeo walked together as a group of boys from the Innocents’ Hospital bore Benvolio’s body on a bier to the monument of the royal household of Verona. As the funeral rites drew to a close, Valentine followed the bier into the tomb to ensure that Benvolio was laid beside his beloved Mercutio. With a final prayer for the soul of a strong, gentle, and loving man, Valentine drew one shroud over their two bodies, and then left the tomb.
END
Afterword: My deepest thanks to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story. I am grateful to you all for sticking out such a long AU, and I have enjoyed the comments and discussions and getting to know all of you more than I can say. As always, I am happy to answer questions about this story and my sources and inspiration for it. Anything from "So what was up with the [insert detail here] anyway?" to "Why did you choose to write this as a romance in the first place?" or "Defend your characterization of [insert character here]?" If I have an answer, I'll be happy to share it.
I probably won't write a direct sequel to Caro. But there are a number of opportunities for side stories, perhaps from a different POV than Benvolio's. I might write one or two of those some time. That might be fun.
In conclusion, because it must be said: If you liked it, tell your friends. If you didn’t like it, tell your enemies.
Thank you all.
You'll see that this last chapter is something of an epilogue to the main story. The characters might seem a little young for some of the descriptions, but this was an age when lifespans were shorter, and a forty-eight-year-old man could describe himself as getting along in years, as one character in King Lear does.
That said, enjoy the final chapter of Caro.
28. And Cut Him Out In Little Stars
“My lord Benvolio?”
Benvolio started into wakefulness at the soft voice and the gentle touch on his arm. He had fallen asleep in a chair before a crackling fire. The chair was not immediately familiar, and for a moment he was not certain where he was. He stretched, wincing at the creaking in his joints. For a man of fifty-nine years, he supposed that he was in good health, though he had not the bodily strength of his younger years and his memory was no longer what it had once been.
The tall, thin, blond boy of fourteen who had woken him stood by the chair, an expression of gentle concern on his face. For a moment, Benvolio was convinced that it was Mercutio who stood before him, a boy once more, but then his full memory returned. He was in his small personal chamber in the Innocents’ Hospital, where he had resided for the past two years. The boy who had woken him was Ferrucio, one of the foundlings, who had attached himself to Benvolio as a replacement for the grandfather who had cared for him in his earliest years.
Ferrucio smiled at Benvolio, now that it was clear that the old man had woken fully into the present day. “It is nearly time for dinner,” he said. “Will it please you come downstairs to dine, or shall I ask the cooks to send something here?”
Benvolio shook his head, and swung his legs slowly to loosen them. “Nay, there is no need for such trouble. I have had a refreshing sleep, and I will present myself at dinner with the rest. Go on, Ferrucio, and wait not for me. I shall come in my own time, but I would not have thee be late for a meal on my account.”
Ferrucio squeezed Benvolio’s hand gently, then bowed and hurried out of the chamber. Benvolio sighed as he watched the boy go. It was truly remarkable how much Ferrucio resembled Mercutio at the same age, and Benvolio occasionally forgot and called Ferrucio by his lover’s name. But every time he did so, his memory would give a painful jolt, calling forth that dreadful morning nearly two years earlier, when Benvolio had woken to find Mercutio dead in his arms.
It had not been unexpected. Mercutio had been ill, and the physician had concluded that his heart had simply stopped in the night, a peaceable ending for an old man of fifty-seven. Benvolio had acknowledged the truth of that, but had still mourned bitterly for his beloved companion. Neither Valentine nor Benvolio had wanted to bury Mercutio in the Rinuccini family vault, next to the bones of the father who had abused him. Instead, they had chosen to use Escalus’s vault and inter Mercutio with his mother’s family. He lay near Paris and Helena, and Valentine had promised Benvolio that there would be space for him as well, when the time came.
In the meantime, however, Benvolio had been unable to face sleeping alone in the bed that he had shared with Mercutio for so many years, and had taken up permanent residence in the orphanage that he and Mercutio had built. The children treated him as a beloved uncle, and he indulged them with stories and games. He had watched hundreds of wounded, abandoned, and orphaned children heal, grow up, and learn trades over the years, and he had loved them all. They had mourned Mercutio’s death with him, even those who had long since grown up and gone off to have families and children of their own. Ferrucio had taken it upon himself to ensure that Benvolio had whatever he needed, be it a cozy chair and a warm fire, soft food for his aging jaws, or simple companionship.
Benvolio stretched again. He had dwelled long enough in the past for today. It was time for dinner. He pulled himself carefully out of his chair and made his way to the dining hall. The children were just seating themselves at the long tables, and a placid friar in his middle years cleared his throat as he searched through the great Bible on the lectern for the passage he intended to read during this meal. Benvolio smiled at him. He was Friar Paolo now, but once upon a time, he had gone by the name of Sebastian, one of the very first children to call the Innocents’ Hospital home.
Benvolio sat down at the end of a bench and bowed his head along with everyone else as Friar Paolo led them in saying grace before the meal.
After dinner, Ferrucio came to Benvolio to announce a visitor. It was Romeo, the venerable head of the House of Montague. Romeo made a point of visiting his cousin as often as he could, for he knew well the pain of widowhood. He had had many years with Juliet until she began to complain of pain in her abdomen. She had fought valiantly for several months, but had died at the age of thirty-seven, of a tumor. Marcello and Olivia had sustained their father through his grief, and had each presented Romeo with a new grandchild not long after Juliet’s death.
Romeo, his hair white as snow, chatted with Benvolio for a while. They walked out to the garden, where there were stone benches built against the orchard wall. They reminisced about their youth and about the loves that had enriched their lives.
“Tell me, coz,” Benvolio said. “Why didst thou not remarry after Juliet died? Thou couldst still have sired more children, and any young lady of Verona would have considered it an honor to be thy wife.”
Romeo smiled. “I had no desire for another wife,” he said. “Marcello and Olivia were fully grown and had no need of a stepmother. And after I had fought so long and so hard for leave to be Juliet’s husband . . . how could I dishonor her memory by taking another maid to Juliet’s bed? What of thee, dear cousin? Hast thou not found a pretty boy to catch thy eye?”
Benvolio laughed, though there was no mirth in the sound. “Nay. I do not often go out into the world any more. I live almost as a monk, with my books and my prayers, though I suppose that monks do not live with as many small children as I.”
“There thou hast the right of it,” Romeo replied. “I am glad to see thee here where thou art loved. I confess, there were times when I worried for thee after Mercutio’s passing, about who would care for thee, since thou had no children of thy own.”
“But I have children. This home is filled with them, and they care for me as if I were truly their father.”
Romeo nodded, and they fell silent for a while, enjoying the warmth of the day. It was nearly Lammas tide, and the summer heat, which had once seemed so oppressive, now warmed bones grown chill with age. Benvolio asked after the health of Romeo’s children and grandchildren, and Romeo indulged him with a few tales. Benvolio was particularly glad to hear that Marcello and his wife prospered, and had begun to seek a husband for their daughter.
After a while, Romeo creaked to his feet, and Benvolio did likewise. “I must take my leave of thee now,” Romeo said. “I promised some time to Marcello so that we might review our household accounts together. Be well, dear cousin, and I shall see thee on the morrow.”
Benvolio escorted Romeo to the door and embraced him once before Romeo left. Ferrucio appeared out of the shadows, and Benvolio smiled to see him.
“I think that I shall return to the garden,” he said. “Wouldst thou be a dear boy and fetch me a cool drink?”
“Of course.” Ferrucio offered Benvolio his arm, and Benvolio leaned on him as he slowly made his way back to the bench. Ferrucio ensured that Benvolio was seated comfortably, and then hurried back to the house.
The sun shone warm upon Benvolio, and the cicadas buzzed in his ears. Without quite noticing it, he drifted off into a gentle sleep.
Benvolio was suddenly aware that he was not alone. For a moment, he thought that Ferrucio had returned with his drink, but then he took a closer look at the figure standing beneath a pear tree. The youth was taller than Ferrucio, and a few years older, with piercing blue eyes, and a mischievous smile that still melted Benvolio’s heart even after so many years. Mercutio stood beneath that tree, in the full bloom of youth, and then Benvolio knew that he was dreaming.
He dreamed often of Mercutio, and found great consolation in those dreams. Sometimes Mercutio spoke to him, but more often, he remained silent. Benvolio did not mind, for he was content merely to look upon his lover’s face once more. There were times when it seemed to Benvolio that Mercutio was fairer now than he had ever been in life. In his dreams, Benvolio saw Mercutio as he should have been. Mercutio’s face was free of the fear and anger that had haunted it in his youth, and he moved with the easy, confident grace that he had never quite mastered during his lifetime.
Benvolio could have watched him play forever, climbing the pear trees, and eating the fruit, and he would have been content with that. But Mercutio spied him, climbed down from the tree, and came to stand before him. Benvolio smiled, and tried to rise to greet him, but found that his body would not move.
“It is a pleasure to see thee again, caro,” he said, and was glad to see Mercutio smile in response. “I grow lonely without thee.”
“Thou hast Romeo to bear thee company,” Mercutio replied, “and the children as well. Ferrucio adores thee.”
Benvolio nodded. “Ferrucio is a charming boy, and I am glad of his friendship. But soon he will learn a trade and take his place in the world. His life is barely begun. Romeo and I are old men now. We have had our joys already.”
Mercutio frowned, as if he were considering a thought before sharing it. “Hast thou no desires left?” he asked. “No dreams?”
Benvolio looked around the garden. “All that I asked of life I have been granted. I had a family that loved me as their own son. I have seen our ancient feud with the house of Capulet wither and die, and peace come to Verona in its wake. I found love, and I was privileged to be allowed to keep that love for nearly forty years. I have a godson who prospers, and I have helped to give hundreds of other children a new beginning to life. What is left for me to desire in my twilight years?”
As soon as Benvolio had finished speaking, two thoughts struck him. The first was that there was much that he had not seen or done during his life. The second was that he did not mind. It seemed to him that he had accomplished what was important, and that the lack of anything else was regrettable, but not overly so.
Mercutio listened to Benvolio’s recital of his life without comment. “Is that all?” he asked after a while. “Dost thou truly desire nothing else in this world?”
Benvolio opened his mouth to reply, but then realized that Mercutio’s question was valid. There was one thing he wanted, more than anything else. It was an impossible desire, and he had long ago resigned himself to that. But that resignation did not negate the fact of its existence. Long ago, in the days of his youth, he had wanted something that he had thought was impossible, but that had not prevented him from wanting. His wish had been granted then. Perhaps it would do no harm to voice his wish now.
“I want to hold thee in my arms again, caro,” he said softly. “Every morning, I wake, and I am alone. I gave thee my heart while we were still boys, and now thou hast taken it to thy grave and left me bereft. There is a yawning void in my life where thou art not, and my only remaining desire is that this void might be filled again, if only for the short span of a dream.”
Mercutio appeared to consider Benvolio’s statement. “What of Romeo?” he asked. “And Ferrucio?”
“Romeo lives surrounded by his children and his grandchildren,” Benvolio said with a shrug. “And Ferrucio cannot remain attached to an old man forever. Neither of them could ever take thy place.”
“Then there is naught remaining to bar thee from thy final desire?” Mercutio asked. Benvolio’s mouth went dry, and he shook his head. Mercutio nodded, as if a decision had been reached. Then he smiled, and offered Benvolio his hand.
Benvolio stared, not quite comprehending. “I cannot move,” he said. “Whenever I see thee in my dreams, I am rooted in place, and I am powerless until I wake.”
“This dream is different,” Mercutio assured him. “If thou dost truly wish to move, then thou wilt have that power.”
All of a sudden, Benvolio realized what Mercutio was truly offering him, and a cold shiver ran through him. He thought again of the orphans who loved him and begged for stories, of Ferrucio who attended him so faithfully, and of Romeo who was as his own dear brother. But he had spoken the truth to Mercutio. They had their own lives, and they would continue without him. Benvolio’s work was over at last, and his reward stood before him. All he had to do was reach out and take it.
Slowly, he laid one withered, trembling hand in Mercutio’s. Mercutio gave a gentle tug, as if he were assisting an old man in rising. Benvolio was aware of a powerful wrenching sensation, a sense of strength without pain, and then he was standing at Mercutio’s side. Dazed, he looked down at their joined hands, and saw that his was smooth and shapely, a young man’s hand. He turned and looked at the bench. His body, shrunken and wrinkled, crowned with silver hair, sat there, hunched over as if still asleep. Then he turned back and looked into Mercutio’s eyes, and everything else faded into unimportance.
Mercutio ran a hand through Benvolio’s hair, his old gesture of invitation. Benvolio wasted no time. He took Mercutio’s face in his hands and kissed him, slowly and thoroughly, reveling in the sensation that he had feared he would never enjoy again. Mercutio returned the kiss just as eagerly, without fear or doubt, and when their lips parted, Benvolio felt joyous tears stinging his eyes.
“Thou art changed, caro,” he said, unable to express his thoughts any other way.
Mercutio, as always, discerned the unspoken meanings in Benvolio’s words. “I am healed,” he said, “as I was never fully healed in life. It is true, what we were told, that all things are made whole now. Come, let us walk among the trees of the garden, and I will tell thee more about what is to come.”
Benvolio kissed him again, and the two youths walked away, their arms around each other’s waists.
A few moments later, Ferrucio returned to the garden, bearing a cup of cool water drawn straight from the foundling home’s well. He saw the crumpled form sitting on the bench, and thought at first that his ancient confidant had fallen asleep again. But when he put out his hand to wake Benvolio, he knew the truth. The cup fell to the ground and shattered as Ferrucio sank to his knees and wept.
Benvolio made his final journey the next morning. Friar Paolo led the requiem Mass, and Valentine and Romeo walked together as a group of boys from the Innocents’ Hospital bore Benvolio’s body on a bier to the monument of the royal household of Verona. As the funeral rites drew to a close, Valentine followed the bier into the tomb to ensure that Benvolio was laid beside his beloved Mercutio. With a final prayer for the soul of a strong, gentle, and loving man, Valentine drew one shroud over their two bodies, and then left the tomb.
END
Afterword: My deepest thanks to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story. I am grateful to you all for sticking out such a long AU, and I have enjoyed the comments and discussions and getting to know all of you more than I can say. As always, I am happy to answer questions about this story and my sources and inspiration for it. Anything from "So what was up with the [insert detail here] anyway?" to "Why did you choose to write this as a romance in the first place?" or "Defend your characterization of [insert character here]?" If I have an answer, I'll be happy to share it.
I probably won't write a direct sequel to Caro. But there are a number of opportunities for side stories, perhaps from a different POV than Benvolio's. I might write one or two of those some time. That might be fun.
In conclusion, because it must be said: If you liked it, tell your friends. If you didn’t like it, tell your enemies.
Thank you all.