There's an inescapable pounding in his head as he lifts Escalus' arm over his shoulder, hauling him onto his feet and away from the town square. A cacophony of screaming citizens, of bodies falling as they're struck by the speeding arrows that surge through the air in their lethal velocity, surround them as the trio stop and start to avoid the onslaught.
Rosaline's grunts of exertion as she holds the Prince's other arm steady, supporting him as much as she's able while they limp along, are Benvolio's only comfort in the chaos that's erupted in the wake of Paris' attack. It's a sign of life; that she is unharmed and still there, and for as much as he prays for the well-being of the man beside him, it is her safety which matters to Benvolio most of all.
He feels lightheaded, blood and adrenaline rushing through him, just as they've managed to turn a corner into a narrow alleyway, escaping the center of the madness. Hours spent in his unforgiving prison, physically pained and mentally even more so have left an enduring exhaustion in his very bones. And the absolute relief of being spared the blade of the guillotine is just as disorientating.
Royal guards — about four or five from what he can see — protect their front and back as they're lead through to more passages, each more deserted than the last, and then down beneath Verona herself into a maze of tunnels that, as they're informed, lead straight to the center of the palace.
"Hold on," he can hear Rosaline whisper, her tone assertive and less frantic now. "We're almost there."
When they are within the palace walls, they are met with another frenzy of people, only this time the madness is a welcomed one as servants and soldiers and physicians encircle them. Two men lift Escalus out of their grasp and into the nearest bedchamber, already set aside for his arrival.
Princess Isabella is close behind, pushing past advisors and the like who block her path. Her eyes are a raging storm of worry and authority, the gentle touch she gives the spot above her brother's wound contrasting the intensity of her commands.
Benvolio and Rosaline stand at the entrance, tired and at a loss for what more they can do amidst the commotion. He leans against the doorframe, his hand resting at her waist in a soothing gesture that feels so second-nature to him he does not hesitate in the action. Her own hand rests on his chest, beneath the worn and faded leather of his doublet. She clutches at the equally sullied fabric of his tunic as he tugs her closer to him, the both of them enraptured by the dizzying sight of the Prince being attended to until a gentleman dressed in black and gold-colored robes appears in before them.
"You cannot be here," he says, impatiently, hardly sparing them a glance before he's pressing against Benvolio's bicep, ushering them out of the room. Rosaline, mouth agape and resisting the order, peers above the man's head, searching for Isabella, but the newly appointed sovereign is too focused on Escalus to give attention to anything or anyone else.
Reluctantly, they step into the outer hall, where the door is promptly shut. The muted chatter from inside is the only indication either have of what's going on.
"He'll be alright," Benvolio says after a beat, the reassurance a genuine one. "He's strong, our Prince," he adds with a breathy chuckle otherwise imperceptible if not for the deafening silence of the hallway, flexing his jaw a fraction at the memory of their earlier encounter.
He watches as Rosaline's brow creases sharply, mouth held shut and gaze affixed to the illustrious craftsmanship of the door's carvings, eventually letting out a lengthy exhale which seems to carry away her stress with it. She turns to him then, straightening her stance, tears successfully kept at bay.
"I should…" she starts to say, then coughs to clear the hoarseness from her throat. "We should stay, see if we're needed. How we might help—"
"I know." He sees the hint of a smile blooming upon her lips, grateful to be understood.
Benvolio marvels for a moment at the progress they've made; at how easily they fall into their partnership, once forged by obligation now sustained by mutual trust. They do not always agree — have argued more often than not — but for the things that really matter, they find themselves united.
A spark ignites under his skin at the feeling of her fingers brushing against his, swaying and getting bolder with every pass. He lets the rugged pads of his own trace the smoothness of her palm before interlocking their hands, his thumb stroking lightly as Rosaline tightens her grip.
"Come," he offers, canting his head toward a cushioned bench just a few feet away from where they are, flush against the wall opposite Escalus' temporary quarters.
Their shoes click against the marble floor as they walk together, the echo so different from the turbulence in the streets. How many men had penetrated the city? How many more are yet to invade? How are they to know who among them is allegiant to Verona and not a spy from Mantua?
At least he knows one thing with unyielding certainty: with Rosaline, there never need be a doubt in his mind (or in his heart) where her loyalties lie.
They deflate onto the chair, hands still intertwined and thighs touching (or as close as is possible through the layers of fabric of her skirt and studded cloak). The seat is small, just enough space for the pair of them, though if they were resting on something twice the size, it would not matter. Their desire to remain unseparated is such that their position would be the same regardless.
As close as they are, he can feel the rise and fall of her breathing, can sense the weariness pouring out from her. While he had been immobile for the past day, she had been nothing but constant movement, he's sure.
"Did you not sleep, Capulet?"
"How could I," she responds, sounding far away, as though she's been transported back in time to when his fate had been doomed and her thoughts had been consumed with the sorrow of having failed him. He slides their hands into his lap, the act enough to disrupt her recollections. "Did you?"
"Like a babe."
Her laughter bursts forth, surprising them both. It is a much needed release, and Benvolio is all too happy to have been the cause. It is the least he can do for the woman who saved his life with the power of her devotion.
As her giggling subsides into a contented hum, Rosaline adjusts so that she may place her cheek upon his shoulder, her head nestling there intimately. The soft strands of her hair tickle, a tingling he feels all along his spine. Her body is a welcomed weight against him, growing heavy as the minutes pass and she succumbs to her fatigue. Benvolio bends his head, mirroring her pose as he leans his chin atop her crown.
And so, they wait while sleep overtakes them at last.
He's awakened by the slamming of the chamber door, so thunderous to his ears he believes himself back within the confines of his cell in the depths of the decaying dungeon. His muscles stiffen and his breath is shallow, his lapse of awareness brought to an end by the squeezing of his hand and the murmuring of his name.
"The princess," Rosaline announces, quietly enough so only he can hear. They get up from the bench, straightening their clothes and only releasing their hold on each other to give Isabella a proper greeting.
Gone are the delicate gold detailing of her collar, her gown from before replaced with a simple ensemble (or as simple as the Princess Regent's standards will allow). Her eyes are no longer swollen and red-rimmed, her mask of composure firmly back in place since the events of the morning. But she appears kinder now, too, less plagued by the pain of Escalus' trauma.
"Prince Escalus is recovering," declares a man from behind her, the same one who had kicked them out prior. Rosaline let's out a choked sob at the news, Isabella meeting her where she stands as both woman share the moment of joy, a private celebration between childhood companions. Benvolio does not miss the unspoken command from the older man: that the Prince is not to be disturbed, not even by the heir's of the city's two great houses.
"I thank you for your efforts," Isabella says, her high spirits belying her regal air. "The both of you," she repeats, looking pointedly at Benvolio with a nod of acknowledgment.
Her appraisal of him continues as she seems to examine his entire person, taking in his haggard state. He does not cower under her scrutiny, however, letting her see the effects of his false imprisonment.
"As a show of my gratitude, allow my servants to attend to you. It would be unwise to return to your respective homes during such unrest. You both may stay here for as long as necessary."
There is warmth in her expression as she extends the invitation to Rosaline, which fades when the Princess looks upon him once more. Despite her kind proposal, there is a coldness beneath of the surface that he cannot fault her for. As far as she knows, he is as guilty as her brother had been convinced he was. He thinks fleetingly on the long road to restoring his reputation, on the damage that's been done, and comes to realize that he really doesn't much care at all. He is a free man, in more ways than one.
(Though the matter of his uncle's deeds is a different beast altogether, one he has every intention of rectifying.)
More people depart from the room, and Isabella takes her leave, a troop of nobleman and assistants trailing close behind.
A young boy and maid approach them then, newly assigned to serve Capulet and Montague during their visit at Her Majesty's behest.
Rosaline and Benvolio simply stare at one another, alone again and their moods made lighter at knowing that Escalus lives; that Benvolio himself lives as well. They are small victories, some of a multitude of obstacles they've yet to face.
But for now, there is peace. They've been given the gift of time, and at least for tonight they shall take pleasure in the rare reprieve.
"Go take your bath," Rosaline says, mirth in her voice. "By the time you've finished, the fight for Verona shall be over."
He gives her a side-long glance at that, rolling his eyes at her teasing, amusement shining through his façade of annoyance. Benvolio's grin is impossible to conceal and so he gives up the attempt, smiling broadly as she goes to him.
"I'll endeavor to be much faster this time, since I know it won't be my last."
Her smirk falters, replaced with something more meaningful. Something like hope, which, in typical Rosaline-fashion, transforms into unwavering determination within a matter of seconds. "No, it shall not."
There is a pause, a brief instance where they let themselves take in the person before them: their former enemy now become their truest friend. Her hair is a mess, curls in disarray; her once glittering dress covered in dust and frayed at the edges. There are traces of her dried tears along her cheekbones, but her rich brown eyes sparkle in the candlelight.
She is stunning, and he can scarcely believe she had kis—
Suddenly, he's being pulled into a hug, Rosaline's arms wrapping around him. She melts into the embrace, face burrowing against his neck. He holds her just as fiercely, taking just as much comfort in the contact.
When they separate, it is with lingering hands at his forearm and tucking of brunette ringlets behind her ear. Slowly, Benvolio raises her hand to place a kiss upon her knuckles, his nose grazing her skin as he pulls away.
Eventually they are escorted to their separate rooms, at separate ends of the palace, but not before they exchange parting looks as they walk down the corridor, silently bidding each other good night.
Until tomorrow, and all the days to follow.
.