Fic: Peril in Thine Eye 1/2
Pairing: Mercutio/Romeo (unrequited)
Rating: R
Length: 9475 words (total)
Warnings: character death (do I have to say angst?)
Summary: Mercutio's been in love with his best friend for a long time, whether he admits it or not, but some stars cannot be defied, and he will have to confront himself and his fate. The events of the play from Mercutio's perspective.
I intended this fic to fit within, or beside, the original plot, to compliment or supplement it, but it is a different story, really, examining some of the same themes as the original in different ways. Much of the dialogue from the play I included is abridged or paraphrased but I strove to make the overlapping scenes as true to the original story as possible... but if you know Shakespeare as well as your own kitchen, you will notice I have taken certain liberties. Gah. Too big for LJ. Two posts then.
It was noon. The wide square was empty, the air still. The light was bright; crisp light, silvery and very pale. It sharpened edges, making contrasts stark. Shadows were deep, and highlights washed out.
The tower clock in the church steeple chimed slowly, each toll ringing hollowly across the tiled roofs and cobbled streets, sounding almost muffled, as if heard through a thick cotton hood. And then there were two figures in the square, two young men, one dark and solidly built, the other tall, gangly and fair. They circled each other, wary and hostile, but there was no sound, just the slow tolling of the bell, and a hum, like cicadas in long grass.
Then there was a glint of sunlight on steel as one figure drew a long rapier. A second sword swished out, gleaming, and the figures circled, eerily silent. Metal met metal, parted and met. Steel and sunlight, blinding bright.
And then one blade was buried in the tall man’s breast and there was blood on the cobbles and darkness was bleeding into the daylight.
A scream choked unborn in his throat as Mercutio bolted upright in bed, gasping. Sweat plastered his white nightshirt to his back, and he was shaking uncontrollably. The sheets were twisted and kicked at the foot of the lumpy mattress, the three flat pillows scattered on the flagstone floor.
Chest heaving, the young man looked slowly around the familiar chamber. Bright light streamed through the eastern window and barred the floor with brilliance. Nothing was out of place, and yet there was a coldness on him that would not be banished with the day.
Swinging his legs out of bed, Mercutio rose and stumbled to the window. Out in the courtyard, the first bustles of morning were beginning, as they did every day, and there was nothing out of place about them. He pushed dark hair back from his forehead in sweat-damp spikes and rubbed his eyes fiercely.
The dream was fading but a few sharp images remained; the courtyard, stark and bright in noonlight; the swords, crossing, slashing, leaping; the blond man stabbed, staggering, falling, dying… bleeding to death on the sunwashed cobbles.
“Laundry day, Maia?” Mercutio drawled, leaning against the doorframe and crossing one ankle over the other.
The young woman looked up, tossing another armload of dirty clothes into the basket, and swatted a strand of thick dark hair out of her eyes. “Every day is laundry day. What’s gotten into you?”
He wrinkled his nose at the sour smell of the soiled linen. “Obviously it’s not laundry day often enough.”
“Obviously your lordships aren’t being careful enough with your clothes,” she snapped. “Us grunts have better things to do than wallow in your dirty linen. Like make you meals and draw you baths and kiss your filthy asses.” She tossed the last tunic from the pile on the floor into the basket and eyed him shrewdly “What’s wrong?” she asked more gently.
Mercutio rubbed his jaw, staring at the wicker pattern at the edge of the basket. “I dreamed about him again.”
“Really? And I heard a cock crow this morning. What’s changed?”
Mercutio pressed his lips together. “I dreamed that he died. Killed in a duel, with a Capulet.”
“Your greatest fear?” She hefted the basket, and shouldered him out of the doorway.
He followed her out across the courtyard toward the fountain where the washing was done. “My greatest fear? Why wouldn’t it be? He’s my best friend. There’s nothing wrong with fearing for my best friend’s life.”
She gave a tight little smile that he glimpsed in profile. “Nothing at all.”
“Don’t give me that,” he snarled. “I see the way you look at me. The pity, the disgust. I can’t help it, what I dream.”
“Who you love?”
“Shut up!”
“Sometimes I think you hate him,” Maia said thoughtfully.
Mercutio laughed bitterly. “Sometimes I think I do too. Good God, I wish I could hate him!” he cried suddenly, slamming his fist against his other palm. “I hate he doesn’t know, that he never notices, I hate that he goes all mushy over every girl he sees and never realizes what it does to me, I hate… I hate that I want him!”
“It’s a sin, you know,” she said indifferently.
“If you think it’s sinful, why do you talk to me, knowing my secret?”
She set down the basket on the stone lip of the fountain, arching her back with a sigh of relief. “Because you’re my friend. And I believe in love.”
Mercutio’s eyes darkened. “I don’t love Romeo. Love is fickle and trite and lasts only as long as she keeps you out of her skirts.”
Maia pulled a shift out of the basket and dunked it in the fountain. “Don’t listen to what he tells you about love. Romeo doesn’t love those girls that he pines after and tumbles and leaves. That’s childish lust and capricious fancy. Love is something… strong, and fated. Something you’d die for.”
Mercutio spat in the water. “I don’t believe in fate.”
The streets of Verona were crowded. There were peasants in their drab rags, the nobles rubbing shoulders with them, stepping over filthy puddles and piles of animal dung. Dogs, chickens and geese wandered underfoot, contributing their part to the cacophony of chattering voices, street hawkers’ cries, and the heavy stench of mud and manure.
Mercutio strode through the throng with his hands shoved in his pockets and a moody cloud darkening his face. The sheathed blade of his rapier banged against his thigh with every step. People stepped out of his way without meeting his eyes.
There was some commotion in the street ahead, shouting and a scuffling crowd gathering. And then he heard the clang of a sword blade on metal and his heart contracted once, painfully. He swore to himself; the dream still had him on edge. The image wouldn’t disappear. Blood matting blond hair, lips parted in a gasp, impossibly blue eyes wide and shocked.
He forced his way through the crowd that had gathered, elbowing people out of the way. In the center of the ring of onlookers was a small battle. He could see the liveries of both the Montague and the Capulet households, and dread curled in the pit of his stomach.
His rapier sang brightly as he drew it out of its sheath and the people around him drew back hurriedly. He launched himself into the fight with a wild cry, engaging one of the Capulet kinsmen with his blade. Fighting his way into the center of the melee he glanced around desperately, searching for one face, and narrowly missed being skewered as a reward for his distraction.
Turning back to his own duel he yanked the other man’s blade out of his hand with a neat twist and dispatched him with a blow to the head, and then moved on, still searching for Romeo, unable to shake the deep foreboding fear the dream had left him with.
Someone stumbled into him and he turned to find a sweaty, gasping Benvolio almost in his arms. The young Montague grabbed at Mercutio to stop his fall and righted himself. “Mercutio!”
“Have you…” He broke off, looking over Benvolio’s shoulder. “Look out!” Mercutio heaved the slight young man to one side, bringing his sword up to meet the falling blade of a dark, stocky young Capulet.
Their blades locked at the hilts and the two men were face to face, each trembling with the effort of forcing the other’s blade away. “Good morrow, Tybalt,” Mercutio drawled.
“Good morrow. How did you come to this fight?” the Capulet managed. “‘Tis none of your house.” He was winded and redfaced, but it was a face Mercutio had last seen, triumphant and laughing, in a dream.
Mercutio sucked in a breath, gritting his teeth with the strain on his arms. “House of Montague is house of mine!” The last word was a grunt as he yanked his arm down and to one side and their blades parted in a screech of steel.
The swords crossed and crossed again, thrusts and parries, until a booming voice resounded over them. “Rebellious subjects, cease this madness at once. You profane our streets with your hatred!”
Tybalt stepped back, disengaging. Mercutio would have ignored the familiar voice of the Prince and run him through if it hadn’t been for Benvolio grabbing his arm and hissing in his ear, “Hold. Hold damn you! What madness is this?”
Mercutio grunted in response and subsided, glowering over at the young Capulet cousin. Prince Escalus was reprimanding the two families, but from the bored look on Tybalt’s face it would hardly do more good than it had last time.
The crowd began to disperse, and the Prince and his retinue began to move away. Mercutio stepped out of their way, but not before the Prince caught sight of him. “Mercutio,” he chided, “Were you part of this?”
Mercutio shrugged with careless insolence. “I might have been.”
The Prince sighed. He was a middle-aged man with graying hair, made older by weariness. “I would have expected better of you. As my kinsman, its your duty to keep the peace in my name.”
Mercutio bowed his head. “I’m sorry Uncle. My temper bested me. I’ll try harder next time.”
The Prince frowned reprovingly “Your temper didn’t have to best you. You surrendered without a fight, you always do.
Mercutio just shrugged again. As the retinue moved off, one young man detached himself from the crowd and fell into step beside Mercutio. “You know, cousin” he said, confidentially, “There’s another reason not to pick a fight with the Capulets.”
“Really?” Mercutio said distractedly. He was looking for Benvolio who seemed to have disappeared in the crowd.
“Indeed. I intend to marry Lord Capulet’s daughter.”
That caught Mercutio’s attention. “What? She’s just a child.”
“You’re wrong. She’s thirteen summer last, and as fair a creature as I have ever dreamt. One has to catch these flowers before they’re fully bloomed anyway, or you’re apt to find that someone else has plucked them first.”
Mercutio’s upper lip curled slightly. “So have you spoken to Capulet about this, Paris?”
“Not yet,” said Paris cheerfully, “But I will this afternoon. And I don’t foresee there being a problem. After all, are we not the Prince’s own nephews, and a fine match for any lord’s heir?”
“I suppose.”
“Well what about you? Have you got a girl? Or are you content with the whores at the Black Bull?”
Mercutio raised an eyebrow. “A timid girl who’s never seen a man naked is far less fun than an experienced whore.” Or a servant boy who knows how to keep his mouth shut, Mercutio added silently to himself.
Paris glanced at him. “You’d really rather have a old used baggage who’s loose as a bucket than a fresh, innocent little thing who has nothing to compare you to?”
“That’s what this is about? Worried about your performance?” Mercutio leered at him. “It’s alright cousin, I understand. It happens to the best of us.” But there was not quite the usual level of jovial humor in his tone. Too many times he had found himself naked with a woman and suddenly the only thing keeping him up was the thought of a lean blond haired Montague.
“You’re in an odd humor today," Paris said.
“Just tired.” Mercutio made an effort to smile normally. “I must be off now. Did you see Romeo in the crowd perchance?”
“No, I didn’t. Looking for him?”
“Yes.”
“Benvolio went off there,” Paris pointed toward the Montague manor. “And where Ben is Romeo will be eventually too.”
“Right. Good luck with Capulet."
“Thanks!” Paris waved an enthusiastic goodbye as his cousin hurried off.
The Montague townhouse was a tall elegant structure, pale stucco blazing in the midday sun and red tiles muted with dust. Vines in their green summer luster twined around pillars and climbed walls, and the gardens were riotous with color.
Mercutio swept the scene with an appreciative gaze. This place was as familiar to him as his own chambers, but most days he hardly noticed it. Today however there was a chill in his stomach making it hard to take anything for granted.
He strolled across a tiled courtyard and out into the gardens. His boots scuffed through the dust. Up ahead he heard familiar voices, and Benvolio appeared around a flowering hyacinth bush, with Romeo two steps behind him.
“Ah, there’s a man who’ll set you straight!” Benvolio cried.
“Let him try!” said Romeo with all too familiar defiance.
“What has gotten him bent?” Mercutio inquired as he came close enough to be heard.
“The man is sick in love! You sort him out! I’ve listened to his drivel for long enough. See if you can’t shake him of it.”
“Never fear,” Mercutio said, clapping Romeo hard on the shoulder. “I’ll shake him like a dog shakes a hare in his teeth.”
“I’m not ill,” Romeo complained. “Really, a man’s love should be his own business.”
“Not when it damages his love for his friends,” Benvolio called as he walked away.
“God-given truth,” Mercutio muttered.
“What was that?”
“A thought of no consequence,” said Mercutio, rallying his attention. “Let us occupy ourselves with some valiant pastime to drive away these womanish wiles.”
“I cannot fathom the pastime that would relieve my heart of its suffering, but by all means, please try!”
Mercutio let out an exasperated breath. “How about archery?”
“The English longbows?” Romeo perked up. “It’s been a long time since we used those.”
“I expect we’re both out of practice. It would do us good.”
The long rows of trees in the orchard behind the Prince’s palace offered a clear view of the target; a man’s clothes stuffed with straw. The trees also threw pools of cool shade, precious in the midday heat.
The two young men strung the bows, joking and laughing, just like they used to.
“The draw is heavier than I remember,” Romeo commented, flexing his arm as he drew back the string experimentally.
“Nay, the man is lighter,” Mercutio said, knocking an arrow. “He’s been ill and off his supper.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Romeo’s grin vanish. “Your jests feel as if you kick at broken ribs.”
Mercutio just grunted, drawing the string back. Whatever he said, the draw did strain his arm more than he recalled.
“You’ve never been in love anyway,” Romeo said.
Mercutio’s arrow flew wide and thunked into the ground a hundred yards beyond the target. He straightened slowly, staring after the arrow, but not seeing its flight.
“You tensed at the last second,” Romeo said critically. “It made you jerk your arm and miss. Here.”
Mercutio wasn’t paying attention until he felt Romeo’s hand on his arm, and found his best friend was behind him, nocking another arrow and trying to guide his arms. Mercutio submitted numbly. His arms were longer than Romeo’s and the Montague was pressed close behind him to reach the bow. His body was lean and solidly muscled, smelling faintly of the day’s sweat and dust, and the inherent citrus of his body.
“Steady.”
Mercutio’s hand shook on the string as Romeo’s breath gusted in his ear, hot and damp.
“Steady!” he repeated, laying a hand over Mercutio’s.
Mercutio gritted his teeth. “You aren’t helping. At all.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He heard the hurt in his friend’s voice, and could have kicked himself, but the blond boy stepped away from him, and that was the most important thing. Suddenly, Mercutio could breath again.
“Sorry,” he said gruffly. “What were you saying?”
Romeo was behind him, but he could hear the faintly aggrieved note in his voice. “Just that you do me wrong by discounting my suffering at the hands of love, when you yourself have never suffered love’s torments.”
Mercutio drew an unsteady breath, releasing the arrow as he let it out. “The blind man accuses his neighbor of short-sightedness,” he said sourly, as he turned.
Romeo, eyeing Mercutio’s latest shot, didn’t hear. It had fallen near the feet of the straw-stuffed target. “If cupid’s aim were twice as good as yours, I would suffer his stings less often.”
Mercutio rolled his eyes and wacked at the back of his friend’s leg with the bow. “You try, and see if your aim is so much better. I can’t imagine it would be, since you’ve spent so much time as the target, rather than the archer.”
“It’s not my fault. I am forever fated to be cupid’s prey.”
“Prey without a prayer?”
“Precisely.”
Romeo’s arrow narrowly missed the target’s arm and lodged, quivering, in the trunk of a nearby tree.
“A pity neither of us is Cupid,” Mercutio said. “Lovesick trees are definitely an improvement on lovesick Romeo.”
“However, were I a tree,” he said earnestly, “I am afraid you would find my humor somewhat wooden.”
It was too good to resist. “I fear, were you a tree, your humor would not be the only thing wooden.”
Romeo cocked an eyebrow at his friend. “They say a measure of wood improves a man.”
“No, no. A measure of wood makes a man.” Mercutio winked. “I believe it’s the switch that improves a man.”
“The switch to wood?”
Mercutio twirled an arrow lazily between his fingers, grinning. “Many ladies would agree.”
“So all in all,” Romeo said, “better for man to be a tree?”
“At the expense of his humor?” Suddenly Mercutio was serious. “I value a friend’s humor far more than his wood.”
Mercutio dunked his head in the fountain and came up blowing water out of his nose. He ran his fingers through his hair, slicking back the dark strands and wiping water from his eyes. On the other side of the fountain, Romeo did the same. The water made his hair look darker, a shade closer to bronze than gold, and it dripped down his neck plastering his shirt to his chest and back.
They weren’t the only ones; the fountain in the center of the square was the main attraction during the hottest part of an August day. Children shrieked and splashed, women washed linens and patted damp hands on their faces and necks to keep cool, men simply dunked their heads and shook like dogs, spraying passersby.
Benvolio, leaning against the stone lip of the fountain leaned away as Romeo splashed water at him. “Did you too really work up such a sweat doing archery? Its hardly a strenuous pastime.”
The young men glanced at each other and grinned. “No, no I don’t think so,” Romeo said. “It was the wrestling match that did us in, I think.”
“Ah.” Benvolio nodded sagely. “I had noticed the grass stains but I wasn’t going to mention it.”
“The gruesome testament to a grisly battle that massacred daisies, and left hundreds of grass stalks mangled and crushed!” cried Romeo cheerfully.
Benvolio raised his eyebrows. “You really a magician aren’t you?” he said to Mercutio.
“Why? Who called me a magician?” Mercutio asked curiously.
“It was that servant girl you like so much. May, or whoever. She said something like that. Something about you being… a conjurer of faces?”
Romeo laughed. “She means a liar. Who’ve you been lying to Mercutio?”
Mercutio looked sideways at his best friend. Romeo was grinning, teeth bright and even, water sheening his skin with silver gilt, droplets caught in his eyelashes and his disheveled hair, and beading in the faint dimples at the corners of his mouth. “Myself, mostly,” he said mildly. “Why am I a magician, Ben?”
Benvolio gestured at Romeo. “You’ve got him talking in real words instead of enamored poetry and circular riddles. How did you ever manage to distract him?”
“It was probably the part where I twisted his arms behind his back because he hit me with his bow,” Mercutio said reflectively.
“No, it was the part after I tripped you where you were grinding my face into the dirt and I couldn’t breath,” said Romeo philosophically.
“Really? Pity. Then you missed the part where I almost cracked my skull on the base of a tree.” He rubbed his forehead ruefully. “I’ve got a bump.”
Benvolio gave a whoop of laughter and seized Romeo by the hands, dragging him down the street.
Mercutio strolled after them at a more leisurely pace. Almost against his will he eyed Romeo’s long legs as he roughhoused with Benvolio. He had indeed lied to Maia; it wasn’t Romeo he hated, most of the time, it was himself.
“S’cuse me sir,” said a voice by his elbow. He looked down at a young lad in page’s livery, standing beside him and looking up with earnest eyes. “Do you read sir?”
“A little,” said Mercutio gruffly.
The boy held out a scrap of paper. “Could you read this please sir?”
Mercutio squinted at the paper. The handwriting was cramped and curlicued. With a shrug he passed it back. “Beyond me.”
“Oh. Well. Thank you anyway,” said the boy, starting to turn away.
“Wait,” Romeo called, jogging over. “I can read.”
He took the proffered paper from the boy’s grubby hand and read: “Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; County Anselme and his beauteous sisters; the lady widow of Vitravio; Signior Placentio and his lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; mine uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters; my fair niece Rosaline; Livia; Signior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt, Lucio and the lively Helena.” He looked up. “A fair crowd. What does old Capulet want with them?”
“My master Capulet is planning a revelry this evening. I’m sure you would be most welcome, if you are any but the house of Montague.”
Romeo and Benvolio glanced at each other, but before they could speak, Mercutio said, “We would be honored. Look for us there.”
The page bowed. “Thank you again sirs. You’ve done me a service.”
“Of course.” They watched him as he hurried off.
Benvolio turned to Mercutio. “Why are you so eager to invite us into the lion’s den?”
Mercutio shrugged. “You heard him. I’m to go. You think I’d want to go with no one but my baby brother for company?”
“I’m game.” They both looked in some surprise at Romeo.
“To Capulet’s?” Benvolio asked. “What madness is this?”
Mercutio narrowed his eyes. “Madness in love. Rosaline, yes?”
Romeo’s cheeks colored slightly but he crossed his arms. “You mean the fairest lady ever to shame the eye of Venus?”
Benvolio rolled his eyes. “But should you go to the feast, you shall see her beside all the beauties of Verona. Surely her splendor will be diminished by comparison. No one woman could be so lovely as twenty.”
“I shall see no such thing,” Romeo said stubbornly. “I will gladly accompany you to the feast, and there shall see my Rosaline still the fairest of all maids there.”
Mercutio rubbed a hand across his eyes. Whatever had possessed him to involve the two Montagues? Hadn’t he heard Rosaline’s name? He was dreading the evening already.
Torchlight flickered over the stucco walls and cobbled streets, as the group approached the gates of the Capulet mansion. “Should we go in without invitation?” Romeo asked, hanging back.
“I have been invited,” Mercutio called carelessly over his shoulder.
“Besides, what’s the fun of making excuses?” Benvolio added. “We’ll go, dance a few measures, and be gone, and they can measure us as they will.”
“That’s just what I’m worried about.”
Benvolio turned to look at his cousin, slowing his step and holding the torch closer to the blond man’s face. “Worried they’ll know we’re Montagues? It’s a masked dance, fear not! Besides, you were the one who wanted to go!” He turned and hurried after Mercutio who had walked ahead without them.
Romeo jogged to catch up. “Here, give me the torch. If you’re so eager to make merry, let me carry it.”
Once again Benvolio turned to his cousin. “Don’t you want to dance?”
He looked away. “I fear I cannot.”
Benvolio reached out and shook him by the sleeve. “Nay, cousin, quit this nonsense! We must have you dance. Isn’t that right Mercutio?”
Mercutio turned. There was a silent imperative in Benvolio’s expression Say something! He sighed in resignation. “You’re a lover, Romeo,” he said, hating the words. “Let Cupid’s wings make you light. Be merry.”
“That’s just it!” he cried. “Cupid has wounded me so I cannot fly.”
“Rosaline, is it?” Mercutio asked acidly.
It was hard to tell in the light of the torches, but Mercutio knew his friend well enough to tell when he was blushing. “When last we parted, her words were… sharp.”
“Oh, now it becomes clear.” Benvolio rolled his eyes. “You got too far up her skirts and she gave you a tongue lashing, and now you fear she will be angry to see you.”
“I wasn’t up her skirts,” Romeo snapped defensively.
“No?”
“No. She wouldn’t let me get that far.”
“So now you curb your revelry out of shame?” Mercutio taunted. “That’s not the man we know. Be more of a tree, boy!”
“You can’t loose if you don’t play the game,” Romeo said stubbornly. “Love stacks the deck. Best to fold early.”
“Oh come now, you put too much weight on love.” Benvolio said. “She is a gentle beast.”
Romeo shook his head solemnly. “You have obviously not been so abused by her as I. Love is a rough thing.”
Mercutio gritted his teeth. Oh the irony. But he marshaled his voice into buoyant carelessness with the ease of long practice. “Then if love plays rough with you, play rough with love! Come we burn daylight!”
“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Romeo said, biting his lip.
“Why else?” Mercutio asked impatiently. They had halted before the gates.
“I had a dream last night.”
Mercutio froze. The images flashed again, the noonday square, the flashing blades, blood on clean cobbles. Damn Romeo! To his mild surprise, he managed to speak without inflection. “And so did I. What of it?”
“What did you dream?” Romeo asked.
Damn, damn, damn him to the depths of hell. But when Mercutio answered, his voice was calm, even indifferent. “That dreamers often lie.”
“In bed asleep,” Romeo shot back. “But their dreams are true.”
Mercutio waved a hand. “Nonsense! The fairy queen was with you, making you delude yourself in sleep. A quick and cunning trickster she, but no truth in her prophecy! Never think it. Lovers dream of love. Courtiers dream of curtsies. Lawyers dream of their precious fees. Dreams seem real because people dream about what reality they know, but dreams are fairy phantasms, no more real than fickle marsh light.”
“You talk nonsense!” Romeo scoffed.
“True. I speak of dreams. Nonsensical and without meaning.” His voice turned harsh and ragged, each word punctuated with a pause. “Dreams. Mean. Nothing!”
Romeo looked surprised at his venom, but before he could respond Benvolio was calling them, “Come on you idiots, do you want to go or not? We’ll be late and miss the dancing.”
On to part two!
Rating: R
Length: 9475 words (total)
Warnings: character death (do I have to say angst?)
Summary: Mercutio's been in love with his best friend for a long time, whether he admits it or not, but some stars cannot be defied, and he will have to confront himself and his fate. The events of the play from Mercutio's perspective.
I intended this fic to fit within, or beside, the original plot, to compliment or supplement it, but it is a different story, really, examining some of the same themes as the original in different ways. Much of the dialogue from the play I included is abridged or paraphrased but I strove to make the overlapping scenes as true to the original story as possible... but if you know Shakespeare as well as your own kitchen, you will notice I have taken certain liberties. Gah. Too big for LJ. Two posts then.
It was noon. The wide square was empty, the air still. The light was bright; crisp light, silvery and very pale. It sharpened edges, making contrasts stark. Shadows were deep, and highlights washed out.
The tower clock in the church steeple chimed slowly, each toll ringing hollowly across the tiled roofs and cobbled streets, sounding almost muffled, as if heard through a thick cotton hood. And then there were two figures in the square, two young men, one dark and solidly built, the other tall, gangly and fair. They circled each other, wary and hostile, but there was no sound, just the slow tolling of the bell, and a hum, like cicadas in long grass.
Then there was a glint of sunlight on steel as one figure drew a long rapier. A second sword swished out, gleaming, and the figures circled, eerily silent. Metal met metal, parted and met. Steel and sunlight, blinding bright.
And then one blade was buried in the tall man’s breast and there was blood on the cobbles and darkness was bleeding into the daylight.
A scream choked unborn in his throat as Mercutio bolted upright in bed, gasping. Sweat plastered his white nightshirt to his back, and he was shaking uncontrollably. The sheets were twisted and kicked at the foot of the lumpy mattress, the three flat pillows scattered on the flagstone floor.
Chest heaving, the young man looked slowly around the familiar chamber. Bright light streamed through the eastern window and barred the floor with brilliance. Nothing was out of place, and yet there was a coldness on him that would not be banished with the day.
Swinging his legs out of bed, Mercutio rose and stumbled to the window. Out in the courtyard, the first bustles of morning were beginning, as they did every day, and there was nothing out of place about them. He pushed dark hair back from his forehead in sweat-damp spikes and rubbed his eyes fiercely.
The dream was fading but a few sharp images remained; the courtyard, stark and bright in noonlight; the swords, crossing, slashing, leaping; the blond man stabbed, staggering, falling, dying… bleeding to death on the sunwashed cobbles.
“Laundry day, Maia?” Mercutio drawled, leaning against the doorframe and crossing one ankle over the other.
The young woman looked up, tossing another armload of dirty clothes into the basket, and swatted a strand of thick dark hair out of her eyes. “Every day is laundry day. What’s gotten into you?”
He wrinkled his nose at the sour smell of the soiled linen. “Obviously it’s not laundry day often enough.”
“Obviously your lordships aren’t being careful enough with your clothes,” she snapped. “Us grunts have better things to do than wallow in your dirty linen. Like make you meals and draw you baths and kiss your filthy asses.” She tossed the last tunic from the pile on the floor into the basket and eyed him shrewdly “What’s wrong?” she asked more gently.
Mercutio rubbed his jaw, staring at the wicker pattern at the edge of the basket. “I dreamed about him again.”
“Really? And I heard a cock crow this morning. What’s changed?”
Mercutio pressed his lips together. “I dreamed that he died. Killed in a duel, with a Capulet.”
“Your greatest fear?” She hefted the basket, and shouldered him out of the doorway.
He followed her out across the courtyard toward the fountain where the washing was done. “My greatest fear? Why wouldn’t it be? He’s my best friend. There’s nothing wrong with fearing for my best friend’s life.”
She gave a tight little smile that he glimpsed in profile. “Nothing at all.”
“Don’t give me that,” he snarled. “I see the way you look at me. The pity, the disgust. I can’t help it, what I dream.”
“Who you love?”
“Shut up!”
“Sometimes I think you hate him,” Maia said thoughtfully.
Mercutio laughed bitterly. “Sometimes I think I do too. Good God, I wish I could hate him!” he cried suddenly, slamming his fist against his other palm. “I hate he doesn’t know, that he never notices, I hate that he goes all mushy over every girl he sees and never realizes what it does to me, I hate… I hate that I want him!”
“It’s a sin, you know,” she said indifferently.
“If you think it’s sinful, why do you talk to me, knowing my secret?”
She set down the basket on the stone lip of the fountain, arching her back with a sigh of relief. “Because you’re my friend. And I believe in love.”
Mercutio’s eyes darkened. “I don’t love Romeo. Love is fickle and trite and lasts only as long as she keeps you out of her skirts.”
Maia pulled a shift out of the basket and dunked it in the fountain. “Don’t listen to what he tells you about love. Romeo doesn’t love those girls that he pines after and tumbles and leaves. That’s childish lust and capricious fancy. Love is something… strong, and fated. Something you’d die for.”
Mercutio spat in the water. “I don’t believe in fate.”
The streets of Verona were crowded. There were peasants in their drab rags, the nobles rubbing shoulders with them, stepping over filthy puddles and piles of animal dung. Dogs, chickens and geese wandered underfoot, contributing their part to the cacophony of chattering voices, street hawkers’ cries, and the heavy stench of mud and manure.
Mercutio strode through the throng with his hands shoved in his pockets and a moody cloud darkening his face. The sheathed blade of his rapier banged against his thigh with every step. People stepped out of his way without meeting his eyes.
There was some commotion in the street ahead, shouting and a scuffling crowd gathering. And then he heard the clang of a sword blade on metal and his heart contracted once, painfully. He swore to himself; the dream still had him on edge. The image wouldn’t disappear. Blood matting blond hair, lips parted in a gasp, impossibly blue eyes wide and shocked.
He forced his way through the crowd that had gathered, elbowing people out of the way. In the center of the ring of onlookers was a small battle. He could see the liveries of both the Montague and the Capulet households, and dread curled in the pit of his stomach.
His rapier sang brightly as he drew it out of its sheath and the people around him drew back hurriedly. He launched himself into the fight with a wild cry, engaging one of the Capulet kinsmen with his blade. Fighting his way into the center of the melee he glanced around desperately, searching for one face, and narrowly missed being skewered as a reward for his distraction.
Turning back to his own duel he yanked the other man’s blade out of his hand with a neat twist and dispatched him with a blow to the head, and then moved on, still searching for Romeo, unable to shake the deep foreboding fear the dream had left him with.
Someone stumbled into him and he turned to find a sweaty, gasping Benvolio almost in his arms. The young Montague grabbed at Mercutio to stop his fall and righted himself. “Mercutio!”
“Have you…” He broke off, looking over Benvolio’s shoulder. “Look out!” Mercutio heaved the slight young man to one side, bringing his sword up to meet the falling blade of a dark, stocky young Capulet.
Their blades locked at the hilts and the two men were face to face, each trembling with the effort of forcing the other’s blade away. “Good morrow, Tybalt,” Mercutio drawled.
“Good morrow. How did you come to this fight?” the Capulet managed. “‘Tis none of your house.” He was winded and redfaced, but it was a face Mercutio had last seen, triumphant and laughing, in a dream.
Mercutio sucked in a breath, gritting his teeth with the strain on his arms. “House of Montague is house of mine!” The last word was a grunt as he yanked his arm down and to one side and their blades parted in a screech of steel.
The swords crossed and crossed again, thrusts and parries, until a booming voice resounded over them. “Rebellious subjects, cease this madness at once. You profane our streets with your hatred!”
Tybalt stepped back, disengaging. Mercutio would have ignored the familiar voice of the Prince and run him through if it hadn’t been for Benvolio grabbing his arm and hissing in his ear, “Hold. Hold damn you! What madness is this?”
Mercutio grunted in response and subsided, glowering over at the young Capulet cousin. Prince Escalus was reprimanding the two families, but from the bored look on Tybalt’s face it would hardly do more good than it had last time.
The crowd began to disperse, and the Prince and his retinue began to move away. Mercutio stepped out of their way, but not before the Prince caught sight of him. “Mercutio,” he chided, “Were you part of this?”
Mercutio shrugged with careless insolence. “I might have been.”
The Prince sighed. He was a middle-aged man with graying hair, made older by weariness. “I would have expected better of you. As my kinsman, its your duty to keep the peace in my name.”
Mercutio bowed his head. “I’m sorry Uncle. My temper bested me. I’ll try harder next time.”
The Prince frowned reprovingly “Your temper didn’t have to best you. You surrendered without a fight, you always do.
Mercutio just shrugged again. As the retinue moved off, one young man detached himself from the crowd and fell into step beside Mercutio. “You know, cousin” he said, confidentially, “There’s another reason not to pick a fight with the Capulets.”
“Really?” Mercutio said distractedly. He was looking for Benvolio who seemed to have disappeared in the crowd.
“Indeed. I intend to marry Lord Capulet’s daughter.”
That caught Mercutio’s attention. “What? She’s just a child.”
“You’re wrong. She’s thirteen summer last, and as fair a creature as I have ever dreamt. One has to catch these flowers before they’re fully bloomed anyway, or you’re apt to find that someone else has plucked them first.”
Mercutio’s upper lip curled slightly. “So have you spoken to Capulet about this, Paris?”
“Not yet,” said Paris cheerfully, “But I will this afternoon. And I don’t foresee there being a problem. After all, are we not the Prince’s own nephews, and a fine match for any lord’s heir?”
“I suppose.”
“Well what about you? Have you got a girl? Or are you content with the whores at the Black Bull?”
Mercutio raised an eyebrow. “A timid girl who’s never seen a man naked is far less fun than an experienced whore.” Or a servant boy who knows how to keep his mouth shut, Mercutio added silently to himself.
Paris glanced at him. “You’d really rather have a old used baggage who’s loose as a bucket than a fresh, innocent little thing who has nothing to compare you to?”
“That’s what this is about? Worried about your performance?” Mercutio leered at him. “It’s alright cousin, I understand. It happens to the best of us.” But there was not quite the usual level of jovial humor in his tone. Too many times he had found himself naked with a woman and suddenly the only thing keeping him up was the thought of a lean blond haired Montague.
“You’re in an odd humor today," Paris said.
“Just tired.” Mercutio made an effort to smile normally. “I must be off now. Did you see Romeo in the crowd perchance?”
“No, I didn’t. Looking for him?”
“Yes.”
“Benvolio went off there,” Paris pointed toward the Montague manor. “And where Ben is Romeo will be eventually too.”
“Right. Good luck with Capulet."
“Thanks!” Paris waved an enthusiastic goodbye as his cousin hurried off.
The Montague townhouse was a tall elegant structure, pale stucco blazing in the midday sun and red tiles muted with dust. Vines in their green summer luster twined around pillars and climbed walls, and the gardens were riotous with color.
Mercutio swept the scene with an appreciative gaze. This place was as familiar to him as his own chambers, but most days he hardly noticed it. Today however there was a chill in his stomach making it hard to take anything for granted.
He strolled across a tiled courtyard and out into the gardens. His boots scuffed through the dust. Up ahead he heard familiar voices, and Benvolio appeared around a flowering hyacinth bush, with Romeo two steps behind him.
“Ah, there’s a man who’ll set you straight!” Benvolio cried.
“Let him try!” said Romeo with all too familiar defiance.
“What has gotten him bent?” Mercutio inquired as he came close enough to be heard.
“The man is sick in love! You sort him out! I’ve listened to his drivel for long enough. See if you can’t shake him of it.”
“Never fear,” Mercutio said, clapping Romeo hard on the shoulder. “I’ll shake him like a dog shakes a hare in his teeth.”
“I’m not ill,” Romeo complained. “Really, a man’s love should be his own business.”
“Not when it damages his love for his friends,” Benvolio called as he walked away.
“God-given truth,” Mercutio muttered.
“What was that?”
“A thought of no consequence,” said Mercutio, rallying his attention. “Let us occupy ourselves with some valiant pastime to drive away these womanish wiles.”
“I cannot fathom the pastime that would relieve my heart of its suffering, but by all means, please try!”
Mercutio let out an exasperated breath. “How about archery?”
“The English longbows?” Romeo perked up. “It’s been a long time since we used those.”
“I expect we’re both out of practice. It would do us good.”
The long rows of trees in the orchard behind the Prince’s palace offered a clear view of the target; a man’s clothes stuffed with straw. The trees also threw pools of cool shade, precious in the midday heat.
The two young men strung the bows, joking and laughing, just like they used to.
“The draw is heavier than I remember,” Romeo commented, flexing his arm as he drew back the string experimentally.
“Nay, the man is lighter,” Mercutio said, knocking an arrow. “He’s been ill and off his supper.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Romeo’s grin vanish. “Your jests feel as if you kick at broken ribs.”
Mercutio just grunted, drawing the string back. Whatever he said, the draw did strain his arm more than he recalled.
“You’ve never been in love anyway,” Romeo said.
Mercutio’s arrow flew wide and thunked into the ground a hundred yards beyond the target. He straightened slowly, staring after the arrow, but not seeing its flight.
“You tensed at the last second,” Romeo said critically. “It made you jerk your arm and miss. Here.”
Mercutio wasn’t paying attention until he felt Romeo’s hand on his arm, and found his best friend was behind him, nocking another arrow and trying to guide his arms. Mercutio submitted numbly. His arms were longer than Romeo’s and the Montague was pressed close behind him to reach the bow. His body was lean and solidly muscled, smelling faintly of the day’s sweat and dust, and the inherent citrus of his body.
“Steady.”
Mercutio’s hand shook on the string as Romeo’s breath gusted in his ear, hot and damp.
“Steady!” he repeated, laying a hand over Mercutio’s.
Mercutio gritted his teeth. “You aren’t helping. At all.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He heard the hurt in his friend’s voice, and could have kicked himself, but the blond boy stepped away from him, and that was the most important thing. Suddenly, Mercutio could breath again.
“Sorry,” he said gruffly. “What were you saying?”
Romeo was behind him, but he could hear the faintly aggrieved note in his voice. “Just that you do me wrong by discounting my suffering at the hands of love, when you yourself have never suffered love’s torments.”
Mercutio drew an unsteady breath, releasing the arrow as he let it out. “The blind man accuses his neighbor of short-sightedness,” he said sourly, as he turned.
Romeo, eyeing Mercutio’s latest shot, didn’t hear. It had fallen near the feet of the straw-stuffed target. “If cupid’s aim were twice as good as yours, I would suffer his stings less often.”
Mercutio rolled his eyes and wacked at the back of his friend’s leg with the bow. “You try, and see if your aim is so much better. I can’t imagine it would be, since you’ve spent so much time as the target, rather than the archer.”
“It’s not my fault. I am forever fated to be cupid’s prey.”
“Prey without a prayer?”
“Precisely.”
Romeo’s arrow narrowly missed the target’s arm and lodged, quivering, in the trunk of a nearby tree.
“A pity neither of us is Cupid,” Mercutio said. “Lovesick trees are definitely an improvement on lovesick Romeo.”
“However, were I a tree,” he said earnestly, “I am afraid you would find my humor somewhat wooden.”
It was too good to resist. “I fear, were you a tree, your humor would not be the only thing wooden.”
Romeo cocked an eyebrow at his friend. “They say a measure of wood improves a man.”
“No, no. A measure of wood makes a man.” Mercutio winked. “I believe it’s the switch that improves a man.”
“The switch to wood?”
Mercutio twirled an arrow lazily between his fingers, grinning. “Many ladies would agree.”
“So all in all,” Romeo said, “better for man to be a tree?”
“At the expense of his humor?” Suddenly Mercutio was serious. “I value a friend’s humor far more than his wood.”
Mercutio dunked his head in the fountain and came up blowing water out of his nose. He ran his fingers through his hair, slicking back the dark strands and wiping water from his eyes. On the other side of the fountain, Romeo did the same. The water made his hair look darker, a shade closer to bronze than gold, and it dripped down his neck plastering his shirt to his chest and back.
They weren’t the only ones; the fountain in the center of the square was the main attraction during the hottest part of an August day. Children shrieked and splashed, women washed linens and patted damp hands on their faces and necks to keep cool, men simply dunked their heads and shook like dogs, spraying passersby.
Benvolio, leaning against the stone lip of the fountain leaned away as Romeo splashed water at him. “Did you too really work up such a sweat doing archery? Its hardly a strenuous pastime.”
The young men glanced at each other and grinned. “No, no I don’t think so,” Romeo said. “It was the wrestling match that did us in, I think.”
“Ah.” Benvolio nodded sagely. “I had noticed the grass stains but I wasn’t going to mention it.”
“The gruesome testament to a grisly battle that massacred daisies, and left hundreds of grass stalks mangled and crushed!” cried Romeo cheerfully.
Benvolio raised his eyebrows. “You really a magician aren’t you?” he said to Mercutio.
“Why? Who called me a magician?” Mercutio asked curiously.
“It was that servant girl you like so much. May, or whoever. She said something like that. Something about you being… a conjurer of faces?”
Romeo laughed. “She means a liar. Who’ve you been lying to Mercutio?”
Mercutio looked sideways at his best friend. Romeo was grinning, teeth bright and even, water sheening his skin with silver gilt, droplets caught in his eyelashes and his disheveled hair, and beading in the faint dimples at the corners of his mouth. “Myself, mostly,” he said mildly. “Why am I a magician, Ben?”
Benvolio gestured at Romeo. “You’ve got him talking in real words instead of enamored poetry and circular riddles. How did you ever manage to distract him?”
“It was probably the part where I twisted his arms behind his back because he hit me with his bow,” Mercutio said reflectively.
“No, it was the part after I tripped you where you were grinding my face into the dirt and I couldn’t breath,” said Romeo philosophically.
“Really? Pity. Then you missed the part where I almost cracked my skull on the base of a tree.” He rubbed his forehead ruefully. “I’ve got a bump.”
Benvolio gave a whoop of laughter and seized Romeo by the hands, dragging him down the street.
Mercutio strolled after them at a more leisurely pace. Almost against his will he eyed Romeo’s long legs as he roughhoused with Benvolio. He had indeed lied to Maia; it wasn’t Romeo he hated, most of the time, it was himself.
“S’cuse me sir,” said a voice by his elbow. He looked down at a young lad in page’s livery, standing beside him and looking up with earnest eyes. “Do you read sir?”
“A little,” said Mercutio gruffly.
The boy held out a scrap of paper. “Could you read this please sir?”
Mercutio squinted at the paper. The handwriting was cramped and curlicued. With a shrug he passed it back. “Beyond me.”
“Oh. Well. Thank you anyway,” said the boy, starting to turn away.
“Wait,” Romeo called, jogging over. “I can read.”
He took the proffered paper from the boy’s grubby hand and read: “Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; County Anselme and his beauteous sisters; the lady widow of Vitravio; Signior Placentio and his lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; mine uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters; my fair niece Rosaline; Livia; Signior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt, Lucio and the lively Helena.” He looked up. “A fair crowd. What does old Capulet want with them?”
“My master Capulet is planning a revelry this evening. I’m sure you would be most welcome, if you are any but the house of Montague.”
Romeo and Benvolio glanced at each other, but before they could speak, Mercutio said, “We would be honored. Look for us there.”
The page bowed. “Thank you again sirs. You’ve done me a service.”
“Of course.” They watched him as he hurried off.
Benvolio turned to Mercutio. “Why are you so eager to invite us into the lion’s den?”
Mercutio shrugged. “You heard him. I’m to go. You think I’d want to go with no one but my baby brother for company?”
“I’m game.” They both looked in some surprise at Romeo.
“To Capulet’s?” Benvolio asked. “What madness is this?”
Mercutio narrowed his eyes. “Madness in love. Rosaline, yes?”
Romeo’s cheeks colored slightly but he crossed his arms. “You mean the fairest lady ever to shame the eye of Venus?”
Benvolio rolled his eyes. “But should you go to the feast, you shall see her beside all the beauties of Verona. Surely her splendor will be diminished by comparison. No one woman could be so lovely as twenty.”
“I shall see no such thing,” Romeo said stubbornly. “I will gladly accompany you to the feast, and there shall see my Rosaline still the fairest of all maids there.”
Mercutio rubbed a hand across his eyes. Whatever had possessed him to involve the two Montagues? Hadn’t he heard Rosaline’s name? He was dreading the evening already.
Torchlight flickered over the stucco walls and cobbled streets, as the group approached the gates of the Capulet mansion. “Should we go in without invitation?” Romeo asked, hanging back.
“I have been invited,” Mercutio called carelessly over his shoulder.
“Besides, what’s the fun of making excuses?” Benvolio added. “We’ll go, dance a few measures, and be gone, and they can measure us as they will.”
“That’s just what I’m worried about.”
Benvolio turned to look at his cousin, slowing his step and holding the torch closer to the blond man’s face. “Worried they’ll know we’re Montagues? It’s a masked dance, fear not! Besides, you were the one who wanted to go!” He turned and hurried after Mercutio who had walked ahead without them.
Romeo jogged to catch up. “Here, give me the torch. If you’re so eager to make merry, let me carry it.”
Once again Benvolio turned to his cousin. “Don’t you want to dance?”
He looked away. “I fear I cannot.”
Benvolio reached out and shook him by the sleeve. “Nay, cousin, quit this nonsense! We must have you dance. Isn’t that right Mercutio?”
Mercutio turned. There was a silent imperative in Benvolio’s expression Say something! He sighed in resignation. “You’re a lover, Romeo,” he said, hating the words. “Let Cupid’s wings make you light. Be merry.”
“That’s just it!” he cried. “Cupid has wounded me so I cannot fly.”
“Rosaline, is it?” Mercutio asked acidly.
It was hard to tell in the light of the torches, but Mercutio knew his friend well enough to tell when he was blushing. “When last we parted, her words were… sharp.”
“Oh, now it becomes clear.” Benvolio rolled his eyes. “You got too far up her skirts and she gave you a tongue lashing, and now you fear she will be angry to see you.”
“I wasn’t up her skirts,” Romeo snapped defensively.
“No?”
“No. She wouldn’t let me get that far.”
“So now you curb your revelry out of shame?” Mercutio taunted. “That’s not the man we know. Be more of a tree, boy!”
“You can’t loose if you don’t play the game,” Romeo said stubbornly. “Love stacks the deck. Best to fold early.”
“Oh come now, you put too much weight on love.” Benvolio said. “She is a gentle beast.”
Romeo shook his head solemnly. “You have obviously not been so abused by her as I. Love is a rough thing.”
Mercutio gritted his teeth. Oh the irony. But he marshaled his voice into buoyant carelessness with the ease of long practice. “Then if love plays rough with you, play rough with love! Come we burn daylight!”
“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Romeo said, biting his lip.
“Why else?” Mercutio asked impatiently. They had halted before the gates.
“I had a dream last night.”
Mercutio froze. The images flashed again, the noonday square, the flashing blades, blood on clean cobbles. Damn Romeo! To his mild surprise, he managed to speak without inflection. “And so did I. What of it?”
“What did you dream?” Romeo asked.
Damn, damn, damn him to the depths of hell. But when Mercutio answered, his voice was calm, even indifferent. “That dreamers often lie.”
“In bed asleep,” Romeo shot back. “But their dreams are true.”
Mercutio waved a hand. “Nonsense! The fairy queen was with you, making you delude yourself in sleep. A quick and cunning trickster she, but no truth in her prophecy! Never think it. Lovers dream of love. Courtiers dream of curtsies. Lawyers dream of their precious fees. Dreams seem real because people dream about what reality they know, but dreams are fairy phantasms, no more real than fickle marsh light.”
“You talk nonsense!” Romeo scoffed.
“True. I speak of dreams. Nonsensical and without meaning.” His voice turned harsh and ragged, each word punctuated with a pause. “Dreams. Mean. Nothing!”
Romeo looked surprised at his venom, but before he could respond Benvolio was calling them, “Come on you idiots, do you want to go or not? We’ll be late and miss the dancing.”
On to part two!