Notes: For Ambrose.
AU; Not proofread, I can be cruel to characters, but sometimes I pity these babies.
Prompt:
Ambrose
hm, ok. what about: AU where Tybalt doesn't die and has to live with what he's done?
*disappears in a puff of smoke, with an evil laugh*
Mercy
When he cracked one eye open it was to a dim light cast on a faraway wall and he fancied himself in the afterlife. The memories were vague and almost nonexistent at this point, but the pain dully set in until it had grown too strong to ignore.
It was there, in his chest and, as he slowly started to remember, he realized it was there in his soul as well. The cut of a knife had never bothered him as much as this before. The pain usually reminded him of letter openers, small daggers used to cut away seals. One had, as a child, accidentally hit the palm of his hand and left a nasty gash that had marred and never faded. The scar should still be there, though he always meticulously managed to hide it behind the leather of his fingerless glove.
He lifted that hand now and with a frown studied the marred skin. The leather wasn't there to hide it and a pang in his head reminded him that he should not move around too much. He lay down and tried to steady his breath. Then, systematically, he started patting himself down on all spots and places he could reach without moving his shoulders too much. A blouse, pants, no leather trousers and no shoes but bandages and he cried out loud.
Footsteps came rushing to him and the voice of one of the nuns exclaimed happily. "A miracle." She chanted. "A miracle. The Capulet lives."
But living had been the last thing this Capulet wanted.
Slowly, as time passed by, Tybalt felt his body improve and restore until all limbs would move again. The scar on his neck, the wound on his arm, the bruises on his stomach and chin, they were all there and they were healing. But Tybalt's eyes had become dull and he would often sit outside of the abbey, clutching himself and making himself very small – as if he wanted to be invisible.
The great Tybalt, a swordsman with unequaled skills was trying not to exist and his family let him. The Capulets were mourning the loss of another child: Juliet. The news should have been the final blow but Tybalt felt as if his brain somehow had not registered it. Juliet was gone, but he was numb and he hardly seemed to care. What good is Juliet? Lovely Juliet. Defiled Juliet whose lover lies rotting in the Montague tomb?
How could that same man have missed his artery? Tybalt wanted to know what devil played with him to have him survive the evilest deed he'd ever done, for he could not forgive himself.
On one of those days a small, blonde haired man joined him on the bench and looked up at the sky. His smile was one of comfort, clearly meant to cheer the other up, but it didn't reach his eyes. It was forced and invented like everything else in Verona. "I sometimes come here to cry. It's okay, Mother Superior says, it's okay for us to cry." Benvolio turned to him and his expression turned serious. "I miss him too, Tybalt. I miss him too much."
That day Tybalt found out that happy charitable Benvolio had been in love with the mad Prince's nephew. And once again he wished for his death.
"You can't have him." Tybalt had growled at him.
"No." The man had replied. There was no hate in his voice, just pity. "You've already laid claim on him. Now he's but dust."
Tybalt's heart ached and once Benvolio had left he had cried out one name, over and over again until the nuns carried him back to his room for some rest.
The leaves turned grey.
Tybalt would sometimes pay him a visit inside the Escalus' tomb. He would stand by his side, would touch his shoulder, would place a hand on his cheek, would lean forward to steal a kiss. But Mercutio was now a slab of rock, simulating what had once been the man, and Tybalt feared the rock would wear because of all the gentle and not so gentle touches he bestowed on it. The real Mercutio he couldn't touch no more and he left his silver locket on top of the man's grave.
In it the pictures of Juliet and Mercutio shimmered and waited for an eternity to be found.
No one dared to remove it from the grave.
If Tybalt had lived he would have done things different. If he had lived again he would have been more careful and less carelessly.
Waking hurts. Every time he vaguely understands that Mercutio is dead and that knowledge brings to him trepidation.
If he would be living now they would both go for a stroll, enjoy the last rays of sun before winter would come and push each other into the heaps of fallen leaves. Because if Mercutio would still be alive they could go on as they were, as they had been, and Tybalt would stop pretending for all. They may plainly see what they already openly suspect: That Mercutio was his lover and therefore shouldn't have died.
And if he could live again he would change the past. He would only scold but stop at that. He would not try to hurt the Montague and he would leave his dagger in its sheath. And Mercutio would dance in between them and catch no blow- he'd only catch lips for Tybalt would kiss him till he felt he could let go and everyone on the city square was allowed to see. If this was sin it was heaven, because the alternative was hell.
Because Mercutio was his lover and shouldn't die.
"Kill me."
Hurt. Withdrawn.
But no one came to put a blade against his neck and fulfil his wishes. No one.
One person did come to Tybalt, however, unexpected and silent like a shadow.
"My uncle claims he's got use for a blade. Now that I'm with heir he feels that we need another protector. Would you be available for the job?"
Tybalt merely grunted for there was nothing in life he was available for. His purpose was gone and his life as a swordsman ruined. He had nothing left and eyed the boy by his side. Very young, with red hair and a mischievous grin. He told himself it were the similarities to the one he lost that caused him to agree rather than the feeling that rumbled deep within his being.
Valentine, Mercutio's younger brother, became the new heir to the throne of Verona. Though his reputation wasn't the same as that of mischievous Mercutio, the boy appeared to have the same spirit. But the looks, although similar, didn't match, and Tybalt locked himself away in the Escalus home.
He fought well, but his blade lacked soul. He stood stoic when attending meetings and refused to go to any given ball. The feeling of dying started to dull because there was nowhere he could go. The echoes of Mercutio whenever he looked in his bedroom's mirror kept haunting him; the spirit laughed at him and taunted him. Until one day the spirit presented himself and faded into the face of another.
She'd been born the year Mercutio had died. Her name given to her in memory of the brother that was lost and as she grew up the resemblance became more and more evident.
Tybalt noticed.
Valentine noticed.
Mercutia looked nothing like her dark-haired Montague mother, nor did she remind of her father. Her smile was all Mercutio, as were her elegant movements and the silky puns that came from her tongue.
Valentine took Tybalt apart and it took only a whisper to seal the deal. An arrangement was made for the girl to be married to him as soon as she would come of age.
Uncle Tybalt. A man who was always near and slept under the same roof for so many years suddenly became a husband once the first blood had shown. He held her on their wedding day and felt her tremble like a leaf in his arms. Shushing her, he stroked her with his gloved hands and spoke words of comfort. She was scared, as she should be, but he found he couldn't get himself to regret this all because she's so much like him.