Heh, yeah . . . finally decided to finish this thing, seeing as how it's been almost a year . . . cough Yeah, sorry about that . . . I love you all for reading it anyway . . . Maybe we don't want Tybalt to die (pats him), but, well, that is his fate . . . and it can only be properly ended there . . .

(I've sat down and waited a year, and I'm still not Shakespeare. Therefore, don't assume I am or something odd. If you are Shakespeare, I'm impressed you're up and about and reading fanfiction . . . and please don't sue me . . . )

The day was oppressively hot again, so hot that I could feel my senses dulled by the very temperature. Yet I was a man of my word; in the square I planned to meet Romeo, in the heat of the day—and so I would.

Besides, I would miss this for nothing.

I had trouble persuading my friends to go out in this heat, however. "Can't we dine first?" Petruchio moaned, sweeping from his forehead the golden curls that were less-than-angelically dripping sweat. A few of the others nodded.

"Go on," I spat, irked, refusing to look at any of them. "Go on and choke and thy dinners. 'Tis my business. Miss it, then." No one made any move. I couldn't help but smile; I still had admires on one front.

"Wherefore now?" another asked after a moment. "Wherefore Romeo Montague?"

I did not want to speak of it, but my friends needed an explanation. For honor, they knew, duels were for—but for what type?

I took a deep breath and tried to explain. "Thou rememberest the party last e'en—"

At first Petruchio laughed, smiling in nostalgia. "As if I could forget! Thy cousin Juliet danced with me, and pointed me out to her nurse! 'Twas good, dost thou think?"

"I didst not see," I said coldly, glaring at him.

Petruchio's entire memory came back, and he grimaced. "Ahh . . . thou wast sent out. I recall."

I sighed, glancing around at all of the faces of my claque. "Everyone?"

Petruchio replied hesitantly for all of them as they nodded slowly in agreement. "Thy uncle's voice be loud . . . "

I clapped my hand to my forehead. "'Twas Romeo Montague, that villain. He came hither last e'en and I was rebuked for woulding him away. And," I glowered, making sure Petruchio in particular was listening, "the villain boy spoke with mine cousin Juliet and danced withal. She sent him a message this morning."

Petruchio's eyes widened. "She sees a Montague boy?"

I rolled my eyes. "Didst the letter come to thy house, then? She would see him, if she could, and my uncle does nothing to stop her. He does not know, and would not listen to me. But I shall ensure this is foiled."

"But what of the law?" another piped up.

Petruchio slammed a foot down on his. "This runs deeper than any law of the Prince's."

He smiled at me, and I allowed one back. I still had my followers, if not my family.

We reached the square. The afternoon air was thick with heat and humidity, casting an eerie mirage-like glow over the empty square. Most of the citizens were within their houses, napping or eating, out of the sun. I was thankful for that; it would make things much easier.

Naturally, I could see the entire square. There were two figures in the distance, silhouetted in the sun, their shadows vague.

Petruchio had better eyes. "'Tis only Mercutio and Romeo's cousin," he sighed.

"Aye, but they will know where he is. I recall they are close to him," I snapped, still edgy. I shifted my sword belt, which was growing irritatingly sweaty. "Follow me close, for I will speak to them."

Mercutio and Benvolio, like two deer, had perked up to watch our small procession approach them. Mercutio's eyebrows furrowed.

I smiled and nodded my head politely, always the gentleman. I was, after all, raised a Capulet—even if not one by blood. "Good e'en gentlemen. A word with one of you?"

Mercutio sniffed, looking me up and down. "And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something. Make it a word and a blow." He nodded to my sword.

I stiffened my gaze, letting him know quite clearly that I was not in the mood to be teased. "You shall find me apt enough to that, an you will give me occasion."

"Could you not take some occasion without giving?" Mercutio smirked, raising his eyebrows in that irritating playful way he was so fond of. He knew I was easily provoked, particularly (and ironically) when teased about my very quickness to start fights. His jesting nature made Romeo laugh. It made me want to spit.

I tried to press my business. "Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo—"

"Consort?" Mercutio raised his eyebrows even further, cutting me off with an insolent smile of mock stupidity. "What, dost thou make us minstrels? An thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords!" He seized his sword abruptly from his scabbard. "Here's my fiddlestick; here's that shall make you dance! Zounds, consort!" He whipped the sword right between my eyes. I reacted in cross-eyed shock for a moment, but quickly recovered, staring down the sword with pursed lips and cold eyes. The fire inside me did not light; I suppressed it into cool, molten, solid anger, made aged with the waiting spite. I did not want Mercutio.

Yet Benvolio could sense even this covert animosity. He reached out a hand to stop Mercutio. "We talk here in the public haunt of men," he whispered, his dark eyes darting about the square. "Either withdraw into some private place, or reason coldly of your grievances, or else depart. Here all eyes gaze on us."

I sniffed at his pacifism. Yet, over his shoulder, as if a prayer answered by God, I could see Romeo entering the square at a lively pace. I could not suppress the slow, malicious grin that spread across my face. "Well, peace be with you, sir; here comes my man," I said silkily to Mercutio. I dropped him like a cat with a beaten mouse and dove for my true prey.

Mercutio put up his sword but kept out his wit. "But I'll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery!" he shouted after me, still pretending to misunderstand me. Such silly puns. "Marry, go before to field; he'll be your follower. Your worship in that sense may call him 'man.'"

I curled my lip, hoping Romeo at least at the sense to accept my duel like an honorable man. He would have received my letter by now, certainly. He knew what was afoot. Yet perhaps, as a Montague, his manners would be less than perfect.

As for his fighting ability—well, I expected to be home clean for supper in less than an hour.

Romeo looked up, a giddy, stupid grin across his face, finally noticing me. I looked him straight in the eye as he came to his friends.

"Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford no better term than this," I spat at his feet, laying down the gauntlet. "Thou art a villain."

Romeo blinked, utterly bewildered. He must not have gotten the letter. Foolish boy. Did he not return home to sleep? It would only make things too easy.

"Tybalt, the reason I have to love thee dost much excuse the appertaining rage to such a greeting. Villain am I none." His soft brown eyes, more like a lamb's than a man's, met mine, and then, in the lowest of insults, dropped them and bowed.

He mocked me!

Everyone was silent for a very long moment. Romeo had excused himself from a duel. I knew what was running in everyone's minds was the same as what was running through mine: Was he serious? Did he honestly expect to walk away in peace?

"Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries that thou hast done me!" I spluttered, face burning. Was I to simply let go of everything— my dishonor, Juliet's corruption, the stain on the Capulet name— because he was a coward? "Therefore turn and draw!"

Romeo remained calm, a dreamy, giddy smile cast upon his face as if nothing could disturb him, not even death. "I do protest I never injured thee, but love thee more than thou canst devise, 'til thou shalt know the meaning of my love. And so, good Capulet, which name I tender as dearly as mine own, be satisfied." He nodded.

I gasped, feeling my breath running short. His love of the Capulet name? He mocked! He slandered! How dare he!

I was not the only one astonished. Mercutio's mouth fell slackly open. He stared in disbelief at his best friend for a moment, and then stammered out, "Oh calm, dishonorable, vile submission!" he pointed me out to Romeo furiously. "Alla stoccata carries it away!"

Romeo's face remained as listless as ever. Mercutio reddened, and he whirled to face me. "Tybalt, you ratcatcher, will you walk?" He drew his sword again.

I was no Romeo. Yet Mercutio was not whom I wished to deal with. "What wouldst thou have with me?"

His wild eyes flashed. "Good king of cats, none but one of your nine lives, which I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight." He teased, drawing back on the childish cat reference in the most mature way. "Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears? Make hest, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out!"

I would have none of this cowardly precedent. Blood pounded in my ears as he taunted me with his sword, his eyes—his very being. I drew. "I am for you!" Our swords flew to position.

At the clink of my sword from its scabbard, Romeo was thrown from his quiet mood. Still, he was not much above that previous dishonor. His face paled and he tried to plead with Mercutio like a woman—or Benvolio. "Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up," he affected a weak laugh, as if he wanted Mercutio to think he even doubted he would do it.

Mercutio's eyes did not even look to him. They remained on me, ready. "Come, sir, your passado."

We began, the crash of swords instantly bringing me into my element. I was filled with the aura of adrenaline and speed, thrusting in and out in perfect counter with his retaliation. He was, I admitted, a worthier match than Romeo or Benvolio had ever been. As the kinsman to a prince, he was well-trained.

Though I focused on the skillful sword and fiery eyes of Mercutio, I could hear and see Romeo circling around us, futilely trying to part us. "Draw, Benvolio, beat down their weapons!" he pleaded. His cousin did not move. "Tybalt! Mercutio! The Prince expressly hath forbid this bandying in Verona streets!"

Romeo, the law, both stupidities in my way. Nothing was decent anymore. I could fight and I was going to, as a man and a man with honor. Mercutio had insulted me, and he served in Romeo's place; both of us knew this. I would deal with him the honorable way, as I myself had not been entitled to.

Yet Romeo proved nearly as stubborn. "Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!" he pleaded to us, ducking in and out, fouling our moves. Finally, in the epitome of sacrificial moves, he dove straight between us, his body a shield, a wall, blocking both of us from each other.

I could not see Mercutio's face, but I heard him let out a noise of irritation. His sword arm dropped as he prepared to push his friend from the fray. Yet I had no patience for such wait. I jabbed blindly, just past Romeo's side, startling him. I pulled back, recoiling from my attack as a cat from a pounce.

My sword did not pull back easily.

I raised my eyes up. Romeo had stepped to the side in order to turn to me, wide-eyed and pale. I could now see Mercutio's face quite clearly, drawn into wide eyes and a shocked, open mouth. His eyes met mine, and I knew instantly what had happened.

He stumbled backwards, let his sword fall to the ground with a metallic clatter, and made a sick noise in his throat. He seized his middle with both hands, but I could see the stream of blood erupting from the wound, pouring over his hands like a scarlet river. Romeo turned and gasped. Benvolio dropped his sword.

Petruchio was suddenly at my side. "Away, Tybalt!" he shouted breathlessly, pale and shocked as everyone else. I felt the blood that had rushed from my body upon discovery of my successful thrust surge back into me.

I ran.