Disclaimer: Romeo and Juliet belongs to Shakespeare, but the mad awesome version I refer to belongs to Baz Luhrman.
A/N: This idea came to me, and I wanted to keep it true to Shakespeare's text as well as Baz's idea. I think I did okay, but I would like to do better.
The rain came down heavy, like the sky was in mourning. The darkness of the pre-dawn was only intensified by the thick layer of clouds. And the rain.
Under black umbrellas, a sombre crowd gathered, heedless of the weather, to stand and wait, dressed in clothes of mourning, outside the church.
Two ambulances drove away, each carrying a separate bundle of white. The dark crowd waited, silent, watching them go.
A man, standing on the steps of the church turned, faced the black-and-white crowd. His sentence fell like the tolling of the church bells.
"All are punish'd!"
None disputed him. Eyes were cast down, silent tears were shed, hearts were burdened with sorrow.
"All," the man shouted, emphasising the word, "are punish'd!" The man turned away from the crowd, washing his hands - too late, too late - of the whole affair. It would be over now, yes. But at such a cost.
At the rear of the crowd, a single figure moved away. She stood alone in the rain, heedless of the water that cascaded down on the city. She moved away from the church, where the two families stood silent, mourning the loss they had brought down on themselves. She moved away, her head bowed, the rain - or perhaps they were tears? - running in channels down her face. She moved away, walking unprotected through the rain until she reached a secluded spot. Underneath a tree which did not shelter her from the rain, she stopped. She cast her eyes around, and, s3eeing no-one, drew a gun from her purse. She turned it over in her hand, staring at the way the water rolled off the smooth metal surface.
"O, unhappy fate," she whispered, "Who greets this pale morn… What horrid sin deserves such heartless scorn?" The rain made the metal of the gun slick in her hand, but still she gripped it tightly. "Why do hands that once shed blood be so still? What course did thou dictate that weaken'd will?" She turned the gun in her hand again, almost restlessly. "Why now?" She murmured, as the rain soaked her down to her skin, "Why now do blades lie silent and decline to cut and bloody youthful hands?" She wiped her face free of rain and tears. "For love's death I ken that blood spills no more. The grave is silent, and silent the core."
She stopped a moment, and stared at the gun in her hands, as though she had forgotten she was holding it. She shivered for a moment, realising that it was still raining heavily, but made no move to get to shelter, or to dry herself off. The thick jacket she wore was dry, but it did not shelter her - the rain poured down her neck, across her legs, through her hair and into her face. The jacket was dry, but she was not.
But it was only rain. It would pass.
The young woman stared at the gun, then smiled sadly - though more sadness than mirth was in her smile. Silently, heedless of the rain, she pulled the bullets from her gun, and, one by one, dropped them. She watched them as they bounced on the pavement with heavy drops of rain.
"If love be a crime, then I shan't commit." Once again, she smiled, a smile full of heartache and sadness, and cocked the gun.
"Please, act not on it!" a voice cried out, as a figure emerged from the rain. "Still you and your blade! Has not enough blood been shed in Verona? I beg thee, hold!"
The woman turned, puzzled, to face the speaker. "How now, who speaks?"
The young man came up to her, but not so close that he would be able to wrest the gun from her hand. He, too, was soaking, having come into the rain with neither jacket nor umbrella. His red hair was flattened, but his eyes were lively with fear. He looked to her, beseechingly, pleading with his fearful eyes. "A man who's seen much death."
The woman stared at the man, then down at the gun in her hand. Then she smiled sadly at the young man. "Sir, you fail to see the reason this blade that I now carry is waiting on hand. It is not for me that it has been drawn."
The young man was panting, as though he'd just run a distance. Or in great haste. "Why then, do you draw?"
The young woman looked down at the gun again. The rain still fell, heavy like tears from a broken heart. The droplets landed, shattering on the gun, and then reformed, and rolled away.
"I unsheathe it, sire, only to look once more upon such which has brought great ruin to so many fair lives, 'fore forever I do away with it." She cocked it again, but in such a way that the final bullet sprung from the gun and fell from the raindrops, rebounding tinnily on the pavement. Both the young woman and the young man stood in silence for a moment, and the only sound was that of the falling rain.
"You have seen much death?" The woman broke the silence first. "So then, you must know."
The man nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. "The dead, young Juliet and Romeo."
"Love cannot end hate," the young woman nodded sadly, putting the gun back in her purse. "Only death can love defeat."
"And death hate." The man added. The young woman nodded, then turned her eyes to the ground. Rain fell across her face, streaming down her face like tears. The young man himself felt the tears from his eyes mingling with the rain. Romeo was dead and gone. He'd loved, so the story was emerging, the young daughter of Capulet. Wedded in secret to end their parent's strife… but all that resulted was this. More death. But born of love, could this death end the hate of countless years?
The man studied the woman. When he'd first seen her, he thought she was ready to kill herself. But this woman, it seemed, was also sick of death. 'Tis true there has been,' he thought, 'more than enough here.' He frowned. 'Seems strange, though, that I do not know this face that tears make un-fair.' Out loud, he said, "Can I ask your name?"
The woman looked up. "Aye; it's Silvana." She wiped her face with the back of her hand. "You?"
"Benvolio."
The woman, Silvana, nodded, showing no surprise. "Coz to Romeo."
"You knowest me well." Benvolio said, surprised. "Yet I know you not." He frowned at the young woman, wondering if he'd ever seen her face before. In the crowd of the Capulets, perhaps? She was certainly not a Montague; he'd never seen her before. "What house from come you?" He asked, then amended, "Though it matters not."
Silvana sighed. "Montague not I, nor a Capulet." She blinked rain from her eyes. "But one who wished to be."
"But be which name?"
Silvana shrugged, suddenly bitter. She kicked at the bullets lying on the pavement. "Names mean little now, when death clears all blame."
Benvolio bowed his head and looked away. Death clears all blame… Yes. Romeo and Juliet lay fallen, embraced in bitterness and strife where love could not save them. In love and hate they died - their own love, and the hatred of their families. But by dying, they ended what hate could not.
But why Romeo? Why not another? Why was it not enough that Mercutio's death by Tybalt's hand, and Tybalt's death by Romeo's hand? Why did there have to be so much death?
Why did it have to end this way?
Benvolio lifted his eyes, and found the woman staring at him. Her eyes were dark and fathomless. An innocent bystander in a war not of her house. It wasn't just Montagues and Capulets who faced heartache because of this now-ended battle. All are punish'd. Benvolio remembered the Prince's words. All are punish'd. Even those not of the two warring households. All are punish'd.
Silvana held Benvolio's gaze. She remembered him well. She'd seen him - and his kinsmen - many times. Had cheered for them, scorned them, watched them, avoided them. Who could have foreseen this? That after all this death and hate and tears, she would be here, now, standing alone with one of the Montagues?
'Such a twist of fate,' she thought, 'After all this time.' She watched the man who had come to her 'rescue'. Had he known, she wondered. Had he known her? Her face, her name, her intentions? Probably not. Definitely not. In the eyes of the house of Montague, and in the eyes of the house of Capulet, she was nothing.
'But who could be blamed?' She sighed. 'The fault is all mine.'
The rain continued to fall, as though by falling it could wash away the stains of the feud.
The hearts of young girls are fickle, and Silvana was no exception. From the time when she was young, she had loved and hated two men in equal. Tybalt and Mercutio. As she had grown, she had made it known to her parents that she would be of the house of Montague, the house of Capulet, or nothing at all. Her mother's advice had chilled her then, and Silvana had never spoken to her mother of it again.
To Love A Montague Or A Capulet Is To Doom Yourself To Heartbreak.
But still she persisted… And then Tybalt slew Mercutio, and Romeo Tybalt, and Silvana saw her world collapse.
Silvana blinked, bringing herself back to the present. Benvolio was still watching her. There was dull recognition in his eyes, but whether it was recognition of her, or recognition of shared suffering, she did not know.
"Why do you linger?" She asked. "There is nothing here."
"Nothing but a fair face which tears despoil."
Silvana stared, then turned away, eyes filling once more. What fools we mortals be… That we so toil… She forced her tears away, and shivered. The rain was colder now.
Benvolio ran a hand through his sodden hair. "Come away," he said, "This place is not fair for us." The woman nodded, and came close to fall in step with him. They walked through the rainy streets, together, heads down, but drawn close by some undeniable thread.
The bullets stayed where they had fallen.