Would it have worked out? I doubt it.

My alternative take on the real tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.

Disclaimer - I do not own Romeo and Juliet. They don't belong to me. They don't actually belong to Shakespeare, either, seeing as how he based the play on a poem written years before. However, some of the other characters are Shakespeare's (and some are mine in this one!)

The vial of poison was clutched in his hand, the fragile glass thin in his fist. He had every intention of drinking it as he looked at her, beautiful, still, in death. Life without her would be so meaningless, so futile, so worthless...

He refused to accept it, she couldn't be dead, not when she was so full of life when he left – and died of grief for that man? It was impossible, illogical...

He gazed once more at her frozen face, perfection caught like a painting, a master piece, no less. Her eyes were shut, her long lashes matted together, he caught his breath in his throat, it hurt too much. Had he caused this? Would he be held accountable for the death of the only woman he had ever truly loved? A feeling of guilt wracked his body and he could feel silent tears of anguish building in his eyes, her face became blurred, her features distorted – did she just move or was it the tears?

"Romeo?" It was a whisper, in her voice, deathly quiet and hoarse.

"Juliet?" he replied, his hand finding hers, poison dropped, the vial smashed, unneeded onto the floor, his fingers laced through hers. Her hand was warming, the blood returning to the veins from her beating heart once more, "My God, Juliet..."

"It worked," she spoke earnestly and joyfully, "The friar, I was so scared I wouldn't wake to see your face."

"But I thought you were dead," his voice wavered, surprising himself, "I would never have thought... I hoped, God, I hoped with all the heart I had left that you were not really taken from me..."

"I am your wife; I would never be taken from you by anything less than God himself."

"And I, as your husband, would go to God and demand you be given back."

They exchanged these vows of loyalty to each other with unsurpassed confidence blazing through their eyes. They knew they were safe now, and nothing could ever take them apart.

Mantua

5 years later.

Mercutio, Tybalt and Paris; the names of the three men who were the last victims of the feud were the first words on Juliet's lips that morning, five years after their escape to Mantua. It was a small act of duty to the dead when she laid flowers at the church there. It was not Verona, and there was no recognition of to whom the flowers belonged, but those in God's kingdom would surely be able to find them in whichever of His houses she left them in.

Romeo had not accompanied her, he didn't know of her secret pilgrimage, especially as two of the men had died by his hand. At the time she had tried to feel some form of resentment towards him, but found her heart could hold nothing but love. But now... some of that love seemed to have burnt itself out, as much as she was loath to admit it, and she had room for those feelings of betrayal. She had learnt to accept that she was married to a murderer – the death of Tybalt, her cousin, had been easier to forgive. She had never liked him, as young as she was; she had always noticed something violent and murderous about him. Paris, however, was a different matter. As much as she'd feared marriage to him he was a good man, gentle and kind, if somewhat overbearing. He had thought that she loved him, and perhaps she could have, if not for Romeo. If she had lived her life with Paris she would never have known the depth of feeling she had experienced with her husband – but that feeling was something she would never regret.

She was reclining on her bed, too tired to move, her hands resting on top of her swollen stomach, the baby inside seeming to drain all the energy out of her. A new brother or sister to their daughter, their beautiful Angela who was four and four months, she would be pleased. There had been other pregnancies, other hopes for children, but all had ended in miscarriages, and she had prayed every day of this one that this child would be the lucky one, the one to survive, it wouldn't be long now. The baby's movements were almost constant now, as though it couldn't wait to be rid of the flesh of its mother that surrounded it. She hoped it was a boy.

"Juliet!" Romeo was calling her, but she could not find the energy to respond. He would have to come up and tell her personally. She was so tired. There was the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. His, she could tell, she had become adept at working out the sounds of the house. He pushed open the door, and his eyes rested on her.

She looked as though all the life had been taken out of her. She had managed well enough with the first pregnancy, the birth, he had heard, had been difficult, but he had never seen her looking so... old. He tried to smile, but feared that a look of pity was emerging on his face instead. It was hard to think of the time before this, when she had looked so beautiful, when her very being positively radiated light and life. Although new life was the reason that she looked this way, it looked set to be the death of her.

"What was it?" she asked, concerned about the twisted expression on his face.

"Nothing... I just..." he still wouldn't dare to say anything that might hurt her.

Romeo still looked like he had walked out of a painting by a master. His face was angular and strong, his body well built and perfect. The sight of him was enough to make anyone fall in love, and Juliet just kept falling in love with him all over again. If ever she doubted her feelings towards Romeo, she just had to be with him. It was enough for anyone to fall in love with him.

"Are you doing well?"

"Yes... everything's fine. Nurse is taking excellent care of me – and Angela."

"She looks more like you every day." He murmured.

"But she has your eyes and ears."

"If you insist," he smiled, and then remembered why he had come, "I was going to visit Friar Lawrence, he told me he was visiting Mantua for the day, so I thought I should see him."

"Send him my greetings, and tell him that, as always, I remain ever grateful for what he did for us."

"I shall tell him that to the very word,"

"As if you would dare say anything else!" she retorted, teasing him gently.

"I'll be off now, love," he said, leaning over to kiss her on her forehead – the skin felt clammy and his lips were instantly repelled by it.

This was Juliet, he was forced to remind himself, Juliet your wife, the woman you were prepared to die for... but that was a long time ago now.

She noted the pained look in his eyes as he backed out of the room – the looks of regret and of worry, and he knew that she recognised it. Romeo looked as though he was about to say something else, before shaking his head and almost running down the stairs. He was scared. And so was she.

---

The birth was painful, Juliet had been up the whole night crying as though her soul was being ripped from her body, but finally it was over. The pain, though, had been nothing compared to the feeling of betrayal she had felt when, after the tiny boy had slipped out of her body, alive and crying, that Romeo was not there.

She had not seen him for five days, not since he said he had been to see Friar Lawrence, not since she had caught him looking at her in that pitiful way, that image was now burned into her skull, it kept coming back every time she tried to think of her husband.

"He's a man," the nurse had consoled her unspoken words of disappointment, "men do these things, they forget, their minds are not set right in their heads. I remember well my husband, god rest his soul, he would go out for a walk and come back three days later with a hole through his foot... heaven knows how that one happened..."

"He's not just a man, he's Romeo," she had protested, weakly, "he's my husband, he should be here. It is his duty to be here, by my side."

"Sweet, things do not always happen the way they should. You should not have ever fallen for a Montague. He should not have loved a Capulet – but yet these things happen. But enough of that – your son cries out. He needs you." She indicated the tiny child in Juliet's arms and Romeo's faithful wife tended to their sons needs. If Romeo didn't want to be a part of his life, she would have to be all that the child needed.

---

Romeo had arrived back the next morning, with a headache and a cut from a sword that he had done his best to cover up, but nothing could escape Juliet's gaze as she viewed her husband that day. She said nothing, she made no accusations of infidelity, no interrogation as to where he had been, and she demanded no apology. She merely presented to him the child and announced that his name was Paris.

He had been quick to conceal the look of shock on his face when she informed him, just as she had been careful to hide the glow of triumph she felt emerging onto hers. She knew she had hit a sensitive mark, and she was pleased, pleased partly because it showed he still had feelings enough for remorse, or regret, but also because of the rush of joy she found when realising that she was exacting her revenge.

She knew she would have rather she died than be wedded to Paris, but she had never wished for Paris's own death.

"How was Friar Lawrence?" she asked, determined to be sweet and innocent.

"He was well; he gives his blessings to you and the baby."

"I am glad. Will he inform our families?"

"Our families no longer belong to us – they cast us out – why would our children be of any concern to them?"

"I don't know... what could the son of the only heir to the Capulets and the only heir to the Montagues do?" a smile grew on her face, "He can unite Verona in ways that only we have ever dreamed of," Although uniting their city had never been in their minds, she noted quietly, all they had cared about was themselves. Too wrapped up in their own wants and desires to care for a city. The feud had, on the surface, been destroyed. They had run away to Mantua to be free from it, and from their overbearing parents, but they knew that behind the elaborate facade of friendship that had been displayed there was always going to be unrest, simmering just below the surface. All that it would take would be someone, not unlike Tybalt, to scratch at the wound before it bled openly again.

The tiny boy that lay in her arms could do so much and he would have so much to do.

The two houses had lost both their heirs, in a manner of speaking, the Prince's decree of banishment still stood and Juliet would never have dared to face her family on her own, without Romeo by her side. Both Capulets and Montagues had fallen into ill favour with the Prince, at any rate, as he blamed them and their feud for the death of Mercutio and Paris, both kinsmen of his. His feelings of bitterness against the omnipresent war in Verona's streets were made clear after their departure. They had been informed by the friar that it wasn't so much their relationship that had caused the feud to halt, but the Prince's threats to execute anyone seen to be pursuing bloodshed.

---

He had wanted to call him Mercutio. Romeo still mourned for the loss of his friend, and his friend's wit. He missed the way Mercutio could always brighten up his day with a sometimes coarse, but always amusing joke; he missed his ability to laugh, even in the face of death. Romeo hadn't laughed when he was about to die, rather he wept. He didn't die though, yet still the tears threatened to emerge. What had he done to deserve this? A malicious wife, fading every day but determined to pull him down with her, one son, named after a man he murdered and no true friends. Benvolio had abandoned him to focus on creating a Verona free from violence, a Verona where he was not allowed to set foot. Life had dealt him, as always, the worst cards. Juliet had been the best time of his existence – but all that was left of the Juliet he truly loved were memories – memories that were vanishing in front of him.

He should have felt guilty for missing the birth of his child; he should have been to church and confessed about how he had betrayed his wife with women he didn't even know. He ought to tell Juliet and beg for her forgiveness. Had Friar Lawrence known what he went and did in the days after he met up with him, he was under no illusions about the anger than would have been directed towards him. He did regret deceiving his mentor; he did feel ashamed for not confiding in him.

It wasn't exactly as though Juliet had been a good wife and stayed at home all the time, though, was it? He knew she sometimes went out during the day, he wouldn't know her whereabouts for hours, he would only know that somehow he would come back to find her not home. Was she, too, being unfaithful? He couldn't help but wonder.

They were dangerous thoughts.

---

Sometimes, when Juliet lay next to Romeo she could see his flaws. She noted how his nose seemed to be too large, how his eyes squinted a little, how the top of his arms were marked with spots. She often found she could not recall the image of perfection she had once seen him as, although given a few days apart she remembered again.

One day she noticed a particular commotion outside her window, and she rose to see what was happening, out of sheer curiosity. Two covered carts had pulled up outside the house next door. They contained household possessions and other furniture, it became clear that someone was about to inhabit the previously abandoned house. Juliet rarely spoke to anyone in Mantua save for Romeo, her nurse and her child – or children now. She was not brought up to be naturally sociable, she was there to display as a prize, almost, by her parents. It had been breathtaking when Romeo had spoken of her, when she had found the courage to speak to him and they held a conversation, with him speaking to her like she existed in some context other than her father's daughter.

She had, however, taken to wandering about the city, she liked to know where she was and see people going about their day with an air of ignorance about the world above them.

The man who stepped out of the first cart had the air of junior nobility about him. His posture suggested power, but his attire told an observant viewer otherwise. His cloak had obviously seen better days, and the shoes on his feet were falling apart.

His face was shadowed in the start of a beard that looked out of place. She could make out dark lines under his eyes, he had obviously experienced many sleepless nights. Looking again she realised that despite the signs of tiredness marking his face, he was young. Possibly even younger than Romeo, she realised, with a start. He did not compare with Romeo's looks, even with his recently developed flaws, the newcomers face seemed out of proportion, the nose turned up obviously and his cheeks were undefined and round. He wasn't handsome, not by a long way, but he was.... intriguing.

His eyes looked up to the window where she stood and, for a brief second, they locked. A small curve emerged on his lips and she quickly averted her gaze. But the pull she felt from the strange man was too much, she turned back to look at him, he was still focussed on her window.

Their eyes met for a second time. Romeo was not in the house, he hardly ever was during the day, she broke contact and turned. She emerged out of the front of the house and stopped when she saw him.

"Hello," she began, an awkward start, "Are you going to live here?"

"Yes," he replied, his eyes were laughing at her unease, "I take it you reside in that house," he indicated the window where she had been standing.

"Yes, yes, I do," she stopped, "My name is Juliet."

"An honour to meet you, Juliet, I am Angelo."

I would be eternally grateful for any kind reviewers. :)

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