A/N: Final Chapter! Yes, there will probably be an epilogue, don't you worry. I hope this answers everyone's questions. Thank you to all my wonderful readers- review and say what you thought, if you like.
Disclaimer: I do not own Romeo and Juliet.
The first thing he sensed was the sun beating down on his face. Benvolio smiled in his near sleep, brain slowly acknowledging the fact that this was the first time such a thing had happened in a few months, since about October. After that, it was too cold in New York for the sun to reach that full affect.
Eyes still closed, he stretched, thankful that there was no alarm clock nearby to bring him more abruptly out of his stupor. His clothes weren't like his pajamas. They were scratchier, maybe, longer. When he reached up a hand to push his hair out of his face, he encountered a cap resting on top of his head. That was funny- it wasn't a baseball cap or the thick one Mrs. Lapet had given him for the winter. In fact, it reminded him of the caps he and all the other males wore in…
Verona.
Benvolio sat bolt upright, squinting in the bright sunlight. He was lying down on a grassy hill, no snow in sight, which was a blessing. Gone were his American cloths and things. Instead he was back in his usual Verona wear, from rough leather shoes to the long sleeves on his arms. Next to him was a rucksack. Opening it up, he looked through it, noting the contents inside: a traveling cloak, more clothes, some slightly warmer, some dried meat, bread and cheese, a small amount of silver (no gold, which was odd for him). At the very, very bottom of the bag, there was a mound of paper.
What the…
Ben pulled out the stack curiously, vaguely surprised to see the unnatural bright whiteness of the printer paper. That wasn't going to last long here. Ben narrowed his eyes as he took in the words printed there. This wasn't anything he'd written. It was…was…
It's that revolting play.
Why was it following him everywhere? Shakespeare hadn't been born yet! Why! This wasn't even the whole thing. Benvolio started reading again, struggling a bit more than usual, before he figured it out; he was reading English, not Italian or Latin. They didn't speak English here anymore. It was funny how the potion worked- he'd barely noticed the changed language at the time.
No, this was in English, and only one scene from the five act play. It wasn't even that important a scene. Act I, Scene IV. The only thing about this scene was that it depicted a scene important to him. It was the last time he, Romeo, and Mercutio and really been together before they died.
Benvolio almost felt like laughing at fate's wit. He would treasure it.
He looked around him, vaguely recognizing the path. Down there, at the bottom of the hill, was Verona. If he continued traveling upward, he would find the graveyard. Benvolio grabbed the bag, threw it over his shoulder and started down towards the city, controlling his pace at a slow walk.
He fiddled with the sleeves of his tunic, wondering what had happened in his absence. The last thing remembered was passing out on his bed in back at the Mansion. It was too cool out to still be summer, so assumably six months had passed here as well. As he passed through the main entrance into the city, ending up in a plaza, he looked around. Nothing seemed different, besides from the weather. Because it was the off season, there were not as many people walking around as normal. That was funny- for the off season, the fountain should not be running so high. In the winter, it usually ran for only three hours a day, dawn, noon, and nightfall. Somewhere around three, as he guessed, it should not be-
He blinked, for the first time noticing the new gold statue in the center of the fountain. It actually had gotten built. This golden imitation Romeo was dancing with Juliet. Romeo was larger than he was in real life. His clothes are hair were neater, his face was calmer, more handsome. Juliet seemed smaller, more graceful, not that he had really known her. The golden statues were everything he could have expected: solid gold, beautifully crafted, and would stand for millennia.
He wasn't that impressed. He didn't need statues to remind him the cost of peace.
He was interrupted from his thoughts by a gasp and a muted word tumbling into the cool afternoon air. "For the sake of the heavens, I be not nor have ever professed to be a ghost," Benvolio snapped, whirling around to face the stunned voice. When he recognized the scruffy head, however, he found his scowl transforming into a beam.
"Balthasar!" he exclaimed, stepping forward even as the boy a year or two younger than Benvolio flinched a little. "Thou hast grown!" he continued, examining him. "Long have been the days, man. Long indeed."
"B-b-b-Benvolio?" Balthasar stammered, clutching his winter cloak tighter around himself. "Tis not possible. Thou disappeared and were not to be found on any of the corners of the earth! Thy uncle assumed the worst! Tell me, where were thee?"
Benvolio laughed at the scrambled speech and question. Hm. Should he tell them about America? No, that might make things even more complicated. "England," he decided, watching as Balthasar's mouth dropped. "I journeyed to England. For sanity reasons." He turned back to the statues. "My holiday from the waste here was necessary," he continued softly, not sure if the servant would understand. "I couldn't…"
The boy hesitated, but then nodded as if realizing that the trailed off sentence was all he was going to get. "Aye, then," Balthasar said, reaching forward to grab the bag. "Thy possessions, sir, tis my place to carry them."
Benvolio smiled again, handed over the bag, and restarted his casual walk around the city. "About my uncle. The sun has sunken in the sky. By that fallen mark, his residence should be…"
Benvolio was aware that he now acted differently from what he ever had, even before the tragedy. He could hear the people whispering of it when they thought he wasn't there. The trip must have been wondrous, they said. Just look at Master Benvolio. He smiles as easily as he breathes, and laughs again. He speaks his mind when he feels it right, now. He must have always had such wisdom, but now he acts upon it and shares. He's recovered faster than the rest of the city, and everyone would have guessed him to be the last. Where did he go? England? Who knew such a desolate place could transform such a young man?
He could see the new way his uncle and the servants treated him. With more respect. They saw him as a worthy heir to the Montague family. They recognized him as a leader from a family of noble leaders. Not just the members in his household – the Prince, too, as he had been summoned a few times in order to straighten out the mess he had caused by disappearing and reappearing suddenly. And not that he'd ever really talked to Valentine without Mercutio there, but his friend's brother seemed to look up to him too. He'd even caught some of Tybalt's old friends staring at him in the marketplace.
He'd spoken to Lord Capulet for the first time on his own, as well. It wasn't about anything important, just generally inquiries of health, daily activities, the acknowledgement that he was now Lord Capulet's nephew-in-law, and the awkward farewell.
His in-laws were the Capulets. What had he done to Romeo to make him deserve this? If there was one thing his trip to America hadn't solved, it was his inward shudder at the Capulet name. He'd have to work on that. It was now a time of peace, after all.
As soon as he'd straightened most things out at home (which took a few days- his uncle kept switching from angry to concerned to back again) he'd excused himself to go visit the church. It was a relief to see the familiar building again. He must admit, American temples were not up to scratch. He prayed for a few minutes, and then went to seek out the friar.
He search involved fifteen minutes wandering from cell to cell, not believing the empty sight that met his eyes, and then speaking a bit too rudely to the priest in his impatient. The panic started to slowly set in when he realized the inevitable.
Friar Lawrence was no longer serving the Catholic Church of Verona.
Benvolio knocked on the door of the cell closest to the one that had been Friar Lawrence's, forcing himself to wait for the response before opening the door and charging in.
The friar in the room jumped as the door slammed. Benvolio surveyed him. He was a smaller man, in around his early thirties. He looked the averaged friar, all and all. They did all mostly have the same look about them. Well, no, he took that back. This friar had honey colored hair, as opposed to the usually grey-white. He was different.
The man inside seemed to recognize him immediately. "Master Montague!" he exclaimed, trying to recover from his fright. People probably didn't just barge in all that often. "'Good e'en to thee, I…I…Pray tell, what is thy purpose? Thy color hath forsaken thee. Tis all well?"
"Friar Lawrence is gone," Benvolio choked out, trying to keep his hands from forming fists at his sides. "I had need of him."
The man gave him a small smile, immediately growing more relaxed. A person in need of comfort was something he could deal with easily. "To serve the God fearing, mine calling lies," the friar answered him. "I seek to minister."
Benvolio stopped for a moment, thinking, scared as to whether he wanted to continue the conversation for fear of hearing all of the wrong answers. He continued anyways, ignoring the fact that this man could crush his dreams with a few words. "What know thee of Friar Lawrence's craft?"
The new man looked slightly perplexed by the question. For a second Benvolio felt a bit guilty for his demanding manner –he didn't even know the friar's name, for goodness' sake- but he ignored the feeling. "Liquid remedies?" the second friar finally came out with.
"Aye," Benvolio answered, trying not to make his words come out as an impatient snarl. He forced his body to keep still as the new friar took forever to answer. Could he do it or what? For the love of-
"Aye," the man finally answered. "Far from mastery lies mine level of skill, but in this spite-"
"Thank God!" Benvolio burst out, interrupting the friar, who looked a little shocked at Benvolio speaking so, but he couldn't get a word in. "And thank thee, thank thee, I could thank thee for years! Please, come forth with the greatest urgency. Gold will not be lacking in thy trials, or in the coffers, I promise. The greatest urgency, please. The utmost importance." He stopped to draw breath, for the first time noticing the bothered expression of the friar. He probably had no idea what Benvolio was talking about.
The man was shorter than Benvolio, meaning Benvolio had to look down a little bit to make eye contact. "I hath not fallen into madness," Benvolio said clearly, trying to make his demeanor as serious as possible. "On the predawn of my journey, the thought of knowledge the good friar may have had lingered in my mind, so the lure of the friar's comfort, to speak of my cousin in his last moments, tempted me enough to make the visit to his cell to speak of it. Upon my arrival…" he trailed off, thinking of that fateful day. What next? He got the magical potion injected into his blood?
"Yes?" the younger friar prompted, looking like he was trying to be helpful.
"Friar Lawrence…bestowed upon me," Benvolio made up quickly. "This potion. It was to belittle my…my, ah…"
"Thy…?" the young friar echoed again. His echoing of words was quickly getting annoying.
Inspiration hit Benvolio like a shooting star. Quickly, he rolled up his right sleeve. "Look," he ordered, bearing his forearm where the scar was faithfully still there, leaving him with a reminder that everything that had happened in the last six months was real and not some insane figment of his imagination. His skin still wasn't completely recovered, after being cut open just before Christmas and having the same wound reopen a month later. His right arm had seemed to acquire a permanently red and inflamed state, and was still tender to the touch. "Friar Lawrence- he gave me a potion that agreed with my temperament. The normal one the physician uses….I have an allergy."
The younger friar nodded in understanding. "Ah, I see. Sir, thou art strong, to have suffered in pain so without thy potion for as long. As in my calling, I will do all in mine powers to help."
Benvolio's face broke into a grin as he described all that he knew about the potion. When he bid the Friar Gabrielt (as he learned later) farewell, there was a new bounce in his step.
Friends are forever. Verona, here I come.
