Two households
The sun rose softly, casting a pink glow across the hills. The birds began to chirp shortly before and soon life would begin in the surrounding lands. Despite the early hour, one young man stood on the balcony of his room, looking across the town he called home. Though too far to see, his eyes never wavered from the spot he knew his fate awaited.
He sighed longingly as he gripped the frigid, rough railing. It was wet with morning dew but did not stop him from leaning against it wistfully. His eye was on the target, as always commanded when hunting. He would claim his prize today, he would be a conqueror at last. No longer would he be a disappointment to his family name, he would show them all.
He pulled away at the sound of his door opening. He smiled kindly to the servants entering, getting to their tasks. He startled them but insisted they get started. He had already dressed for the door and smoothed his dark hair back. He looked dashing, or so he had been told time and time again.
Smiling at a small servant girl, he made his way from the room, knowing his father would already be eating his breakfast. That man was the first to rise, always up before the sun. He always grumbled about his useless son sleeping in while the day wasted away. 'Up in the dark, down in the dark' his father commanded, normally red in the face as he glared at his son. He attended to the prince's household, always saying there was something to be done on his behalf.
Paris never believed his father, surely there wasn't that much to do. He had only dared to utter this once in his life and it did not end gently.
He paused outside the door, hearing him talking to a man servant. His father was a gruff man, blunt and vicious. He made sure everyone knew they were beneath him, even the royals were under him. A valiant soldier, a strong leader, an outspoken and well-educated man, he held his head high and barely glanced down the end of his nose. His family looked to him to lead it, to make the ultimate decisions, even though he wasn't in line for power. He was the man behind the throne, the silent devil on the king's shoulder, or so Paris liked to think of him.
Dario, was a dry humored and unforgiving man. Had his wife not been barren, Paris knew he would never have been allowed to live in such luxury. His mother had been a chambermaid, she had passed when he was young. He vaguely remembered the woman whom he more closely resembled, but it was her kindness that stuck out to him. Upon her death of a sickness that passed through Verona, Dario had Paris brought to his house. Having no other children, he quickly named his bastard son as his heir and had his kinsmen put the title of Count upon his shoulders to try and hide his sullied blood.
It was a well-kept secret, or at least no one dared to bring it up. The only time anyone had attempted to call Paris a bastard or of lower birth, Dario cut his right pinky off. It sent the message loud and clear; keep your lips sealed.
Of course, that didn't stop Dario from using it against his son.
Deep breath in, Paris knocked on the door. The breath froze in his chest as he heard a cough and then heavy footsteps. The door slowly crept open and Paris pushed his way into the room, he would not be denied an audience with his father.
"My lord." He said, nodding his head in recognition of his father.
The man in question never lifted his eyes from a tray of food over his lap. He had almost white hair, few wrinkles on his brow, eyes and around his lips from constant scowling. His eyes were ice blue, a stark contrast against his tan skin, but able to strike fear in his enemies. His nose was long, sharp and pointed, much like his chin and high cheeks bones. He did not look frail, aside from his hair and bushy brows, you'd never know his age.
"Whatever it is, it must be important if you are up this early." He grumbled, a bored tone to his voice.
"I can assure you father, I am not here to waste your time. I will make this quick and then be on my way and you can go on with your business." Paris assures him, folding his hands behind his back.
The man sighs loudly, obviously put upon by the prospect of hearing him out. He eyes his son closely, or as closely as he can in the dim lighting of the room. His nose wrinkled and lip raised ever so slightly, always disgusted by his soft son.
"I see you're dressed in that ridiculous outfit you insisted on getting." He spits, venom lacing the words ever so slightly.
Paris did his best not to react to such unwarranted malice. He was used to it. "Yes father, I am indeed. This is what is considered fashionable." He tries to amend, hoping to salvage this conversation before it got out of his control.
"It was an unnecessary waste of your time and my fortune."
Another deep breath, silent and snuck without notice. "Father, I am trying to prove a point. I am going to the Capulet manor today." He says flatly, leaving no question in his tone. He raised his chin ever so slightly, showing he would not back down.
There is a moment of silence before his father waves over the man-servant who had retreated smartly to a corner. "Take this from my sight. Leave me be with the fool who pretends to be my child." He demands, practically shoving the tray into the poor man's hands.
Paris wanted to give a sympathetic look at the man or utter a quiet apology, but knows he can't. That is weakness and has no place in this conversation. He lets him leave in guilty silence, willing away the forming lump in his throat.
"You are a fool if you think Orsino will even give it a second thought to give his only child's hand in marriage to you, you are mistaken." He gruffs, his hands clasping on his lap.
This stings some, Paris knew his father had little faith in him, he had hoped he'd have some on this matter. He once again stuffs it down.
"I believe you are the mistaken one here." He retorts boldly. He takes some satisfaction in the slight narrow of his father's eyes at his challenge. It begins to fuel a fire within him. He will not let his father have the upper hand in this argument. Before he can try to steal his son's thunder, Paris steps forward to the end of his bed.
"I have attended many parties at the Capulet house and have spent much time by the Lords side... as a companion. I have kept my intentions a private matter and have only looked from a far distance. I have not done anything dishonorable or to sully my reputation in his eyes." Paris points out, looking at the bedpost as he idly runs his fingers over the smooth surface. "Juliet is a beautiful young woman waiting to bloom. She is a few years my junior, but I believe that will work in my favor. To my knowledge, she has had no other suitors, so I shall be the first and only to throw my hat into the ring. I know she is young still and he may be apprehensive, but I come with a title, her children will have titles and royal relatives, his family will be somewhat more elevated since their titles are bought."
"As is yours." Dario spat, shaking his head. "You are right when you say she is young and that makes you a fool."
"She comes from a respected family."
"She comes from bloodied hands. Only the Montagues can match the blood dripping from her kinsman's hands. It was her father who started the feud!"
"And it is the hope of my cousin to end the bloodshed. I aim to assist in that." Paris defends, looking sharply up at his father.
His father holds up a shaky, crooked finger, eyes squinting at him. "He will demand you make enemies of his enemies. Then what will you do?"
The young man pauses at this, carefully thinking over his decision. "I will not betray my kinsmen. I will offer him grandchildren with greater titles and-"
"Stop," Dario commands. "You have obviously made up your mind and no matter what I say, you will not hear my advice. I will not waste my breath or another moment on this matter. Marry the girl, pray she gives you a son and that she does not drag you down to her level. Merchants... No better than peasants." He said, spitting on the floor beside his bed.
The Capulets were new to the titles. Only three generations, Juliet the third. The title was bought, fortune made in shipping cloth of all things. Obviously, they had branched out and their name widespread. It was also no secret that Lord Capulet started the war when he attempted to woo Lady Montague just days before her marriage. While he was not the one to draw first blood, it is in this house offenses memory that it is spilled.
Paris nods, not the concession he wanted, but it was what he would take. "I accept your unwilling blessing and will be on my way. I will let you know if something comes of my meeting later today." He said, turning on his heels and leaving as quickly as possible.
Shutting the doors behind him, he closes his eyes and leaned against the solid wood. A moment was taken to allow the small victory to set on his heavy shoulders. A smile creeps to his lips, turning up the corners. He would be allowed to marry.
Clearing his thought, he pushes off the door and walked down the hall and stairs with a new bounce in his step. His destiny awaited him, it was time to grasp it.
Getting to the bottom of the steps, he looked around quickly and found a maid scurrying about with a rather full bucket. "You there!" He calls, startling her to where she nearly dropped the bucket.
"Me sir?" She asks, her face going pale sheepishly. Obviously, she had gotten one too many bad experiences with his father during her time in this house.
"Yes, of course, you girl." He says, trying his hardest not to be annoyed with the girl who was holding him up. "I am going to the Capulet house. Send for my page, tell him to meet me at the house at once. Bring my horse too as I shall be going on foot." He commanded as he fixed the sleeve of his shirt.
Soon the blasted thing would be stifling since the Capulets insisted on having their homes hotter than the flames of hell, but he could not worry about that just yet.
She nodded and tried to speak, her lips floundering around hopelessly. He just nodded and shooed her off with a motion of his hand. There was business to attend to, he had not a moment to waste, though he was buying himself time with the walk.
He headed to the kitchens, giving the cooks there a knowing look as he stole an apple from them in passing. One of them shout something foul at him, but he pays no attention to them. He is caught up in his own world as he tries to steady his body, feeling as though he were drunk. How could he possibly have such a good stroke of luck as to get his father to somewhat agree to something he wanted?
Was it perhaps because the old man had no faith in him and thought he was setting him up tp fail? Or was it because he knew it was useless to spare the breath putting his son down once more?
Paris tried to shake such negative thoughts as he walked through the silent street the led from the house to the heart of the city. It was but a short walk from his home to that of the Capulet's, but he needed to think quickly. He had been prepared to argue his point longer, he needed to come up with the words to sell himself.
He was a good looking man. His hair was dark, curly though and slightly unruly. His skin was olive, light brown eyes that mirrored his mothers were soft as he looked at the world around him. He shared her flat faced nose, full lips, and dimples as well, though he inherited his father's thin face. He was kind, good at heart he hoped, but even he knew he could be arrogant. How could he sell all of this as something to be desired in a kinsman?
He toyed with the sword handle at his side, wracking his brain as he fought the rise of nervousness. It could take hours, days, even years for him to get the Lord to agree to the marriage, hoping to hold out for more. He needed to be bold and act without hesitation if he was going to obtain his prize without any fight.
It was in these thoughts he lost himself, not paying any attention to his surroundings. It was a habit, his feet knew the path to the house better than his own mind he swore. It would have been perfectly fine had he not found himself suddenly bumping into someone, knocking himself back half a step.
He quickly gripped the handle of his sword, prepared for a fight as he looked at the young man before him. He had light brown hair, nearer to golden, and his eyes a deep brown... That nose and chin though he would know anywhere, every Montague had them... But as the young man grabbed his shoulders to steady him, he saw they were not alone.
A young woman stood against a wall, her head cast down and away from them. The long golden hair and the purple gown gave her away, though Paris kept his lips sealed. He knew this girl to be a relative of Juliet's, though who exactly she was was a mystery as the sun did not illuminate her face. What had he stumbled upon?
"Sir, I asked, are you alright?" The Montague asks, sounding to Paris as though he'd asked it once already.
Paris looked back to him and nodded. Hard to tell them apart as well. He supposed he'd have to learn all the names of both families if he was to marry into the fight and assist in bringing about the change.
"Yes, I am quite alright. My apologies for interrupting you two. I'll be on my way." He said, bowing as he stepped to the side.
Paris hurried to the end of the alley but stopped once around the corner. He paused a moment longer, his curiosity getting the better of him.
"Rosaline... Please, I beg you to reconsider my words and offer. I mean every word. I will give you my name and claims. I will steal the silver from the dining room and we can leave at once. We can go to the ends of the seas to be together!" The man pleads, sounding desperate.
There is a pause. Paris recognizes this name, a cousin. She is normally silent and doesn't come to the family affairs. Her or her sister. Their father killed and their mother grief-stricken... The matriarch of the family took them unwillingly under her wing.
"I have humored you enough and I will not stand to be made a mockery anymore. Do not send me any more of your awful poetry. Do not sneak to my balcony again and the next stone you throw at my window, I will ensure is shoved through your eye." She hisses.
A shudder runs through Paris at the sharp edge of her tone. She could even strike fear in the heart of his father.
Wanting to spare the unnamed man the embarrassment of hearing further denial, Paris hurried on his way. The poor man... He should have gone to her father directly, Montague or not. The idea of running away was too awful for Paris to consider, one had to truly be desperate. The shame it would bring surely couldn't have been greater than that of being declined by the woman's father.
The shame of some men.