Chapter 1

13 Years Ago

"Out upon't!" Valentine nearly shouted.

Mercutio watched nervously as his elder brother attempted to regain equanimity, if there was any to regain; Valentine had his virtues, but patience had never been one of them.

"I know well the discomfort," Valentine sighed. "Howbeit, struggling shall not lessen the pain. Thou know'st so, for I have uttered the same words twice and once this night!"

Mercutio nodded and tried not to squirm away at the stinging touch of the wet cloth. The welts across his arms and back still burned, and the water certainly did not alleviate the agony. Nonetheless, his brother did not intend to hurt him, nor had he ever done so, and Mercutio took great comfort in knowing this. Still, he was instinctively on edge during Valentine's outbursts. He was no imprudent child when it came to these matters and he knew it was better to be ever wary than to be caught unprepared for a blow.

Still, there was much relief that came with these few moments alone with Valentine. After all, they were the one of the rare events that ever occurred in the family's household that did not end with sorrow or new hurts. These occasions were far from perfect (the circumstances would never allow them to be so) but the boons outweighed the flaws.

"What tale shalt thou present tomorrow?" Valentine asked after a few minutes. "A quarrel with another boy?"

"Yes," Mercutio replied.

Valentine paused and shook his head.

"We shall want anon a new counterfeit," he muttered. "The excuse hath been the same thrice 'ere now, though it be not at all implausible."

Mercutio smiled slightly at his brother's last remark. Valentine had a few friends with younger relatives, whom he had attempted to introduce Mercutio to in hopes that some form of friendship or at least casual acquaintance would develop. Neither of these conditions had ever prospered, though quite a few quarrels had resulted from Valentine's efforts. Mercutio found the other young boys either conceited, dull or at times, a mixture of both, and their own opinions of him were evidently far from flattering. Given the combination of the two, one could scarcely expect any fruitful outcomes.

"It will not cause trouble," Mercutio replied after a while. "Few ask for a reason. They care not."

"Apathy may be a blessing," Valentine sighed. "Even with infinite wit, 'twould be impossible to devise a lie for every incident… but do conceal that which cannot be excused. The mark on thy face could well be from a dispute with one of a few more years and greater strength. The rest must be hidden, lest thou wilt claim to have fought with a boy wielding a leather band."

Valentine put away the wet cloth and proceeded to dry the wounds. Mercutio admittedly would have preferred if this had been done in a slightly gentler fashion, but there was no point in requesting such. It had already been made clear on numerous occasions that he was not to expect any coddling or inane euphemisms from his brother.

"Understating for the sake of cossetting is arrant perjury," the latter had stated on a similar instance during which the struggling had continued for much longer, and Valentine's patience had waned to the borders of its existence. "Six years do not earn one much respect. Yet, thou dost deserve the respect of honesty. That much I will grant. If truth or necessities prove grim, let them be so displayed to thee. I shall not tarry to soften a task merely to gaze upon it later with malcontent. Mark this, Mercutio. I'll be hanged the day I'm forsworn."

About a year had passed since that day, and Mercutio had not forgotten those words. So, he sat quietly on the edge of the bed, allowing Valentine to continue with his task.

"Valentine," Mercutio said, finally braving the inquiry he'd desired to ask for a good bit of time. "Will you take me to the public square tomorrow?"

"It is not far from here," Valentine replied, frowning. "Thou canst go tither easily without assistance, as you have done many times 'ere now. 'Tis safe enough in the late morrow or midday, when the crowds loiter about."

"But I'd much prefer if you go along," Mercutio insisted. "'Tis very dull to be alone."

"And, it being so dull, one would question why thou canst not draw thyself away from it," Valentine retorted.

"Give me but one other choice and that shall change!" Mercutio cried. "Valentine, you know–"

Before he could finish, Valentine shushed him and hurried door, staring out into the corridor. After a few moments, he returned to the bedside, looking sternly down at Mercutio.

"Speak quietly, though the matter calls for wails," Valentine said. "We need not another altercation with Father this night."

Mercutio cringed at the thought of another dispute. There would be many more such occasions, better or worse. There would be fresh tears and further injury. He knew that well, but nonetheless preferred not to think of it.

"I am aware wherefore thou art afeard," Valentine continued. "Howsoe'er, thou shalt not 'scape punishment, deserved or not, with impudence. How late was the hour at which thou didst return? Ay, threats fester hereabout, but when darkness falls, greater perils lie in the streets."

"I have greater reasons," Mercutio protested. "Father and Uncle have… done awful things. More frightening than the beatings… though I know not why."

His voice diminished to a whimper and he could not bring himself to speak more on the topic. Shivering, he bit his lip to hold back a sob. Valentine seemed equally lost for words. His face blanched and he bowed his head, muttering something incoherent to himself. He had a habit of doing so, and Mercutio often wondered what angered or comforting phrases his brother uttered to himself. Whether the words were that of a prayer or quiet curses, they seemed to provide some reassurance.

"Marry, thou know'st not why," Valentine said at last, his voice softer than before. "Thou shouldst not need know why and 'tis a lamentable thing that thou needest ponder the nature of this evil. I would ne'er conceal that which thou canst comprehend, but any explanation now would be in vain. I mean not to say that thou lackest wit, but this treachery is not within childhood conception."

He came to sit beside Mercutio and let out another long sigh.

"I cannot promise that thou wilt be spared the same horrors in the future," he said, solemnly. "Though it grieves me to say so. Nonetheless, I shall do as I can to assuage the hurts when they come, or stay the few that I may. I cannot tell thee simply, 'be not afeard', but do not let fright govern thy life. We shall seek out the joys, wherever they be hidden by the sorrows. Incomplete compensation, but a blessing yet."

"And when terror returns?" Mercutio managed to stammer through his tears. "What then is there to do?"

"Then, may we have the strength to endure our trials," came Valentine's grave reply.

He ran a hand through his russet hair and shook his head. When he spoke again, his voice had grown even more laced with bitterness, with a strange underlying resolution.

"The time grows short 'ere we shall pay a visit to our kinsmen," Valentine sounded as though he was speaking half to himself. "An important event indeed. There we shall meet the villain with his crooked grin and other devious gestures. Around such a man, chariness can never come in too great a measure. He can be deterred…"

The simple mention of this "villain" brought a surge of apprehension over Mercutio. As a very young child, he had hoped that life would only hold one abysmal adversary; the stories always spoke of a single central antagonist, but as usual, the old tales held only lies. His uncle was vile in his own deceitful fashion, and somehow his actions seemed even more egregious, as they had always occurred in the same edifice that citizens gathered at to seek justice. If only the people of Verona knew what iniquities the Prince's own cousins had committed in shadowed chambers, the ornate palace would no longer epitomize rectitude.

"Valentine?" Mercutio asked tentatively. "Why does the Prince not stop his kinsmen?'

"The source of Escalus's idleness on the subject has been stated in thy inquiry," Valentine answered. "'Tis a hapless thing that the fiends that afflict us are the Prince's kindred. It ensnares him in quite a riddle. Our kin's repute would be sullied if he condemned his relations. Private words are of no effect, yet clear punishment would undoubtedly become a public matter in time, a matter at which Verona would rise up in whispers and gossip of what other secrets are kept by the ruling house. Favor is not with our struggles, Mercutio, but this shall not have us undone."

He then rose from the bed and took Mercutio up into his arms.

"Come," Valentine whispered. "I shall bear thee to thy chamber."

Mercutio said nothing in reply but buried his face in his brother's shoulder. It was not often that Valentine would carry him, but Mercutio certainly enjoyed it. There was something soothing about the embrace that made him ignore the lingering smell of wine on Valentine's clothes, one that he was often wary of when associated with other older men.

The walk to his bedchamber was short and Mercutio soon found himself set back into the soft covers of his own bed. He was relieved to be out of the open hall, no matter how short the time in it. There was always a chilling fear of being caught by his father during these clandestine meetings with Valentine. He was quite certain that their father suspected something of the sort, but chose not to hinder them. Valentine did do a fine job concealing Mercutio's bruises and other wounds, and assuring that they healed properly. This prevented the need for a doctor whose inquiries about the manner of injury would undoubtedly harm the family's reputation.

Nonetheless, Mercutio always feared that his father would one day decide to end his meetings with Valentine. The latter was now a young man nearing the age of twenty-one, but Mercutio knew well that Valentine's will was still far inferior to that of their father. He did not know how he would withstand the pains without his brother. There had been a few nightmares depicting this, which had led to many tearful nights.

"The hour grows very late," Valentine said. "Tomorrow I shall try to find time to take thee to the public square. Till then, rest, and let us hope that dreams shall not trouble thee."

With that, he left for his own chamber. Mercutio listened for the soft thud down the corridor signifying that his brother had made it back to bed without being stopped. He then wrapped the blankets tightly around himself, for it was a cold night. Sleep came quickly to the exhausted child. However, his brother's parting words were defied and Mercutio was soon jolted awake by a nightmare. He had managed to suppress a cry this time. Peering out into the dimly lit room, he found that he was still alone. There was no sign of anyone stirring in the corridor.

After some thought, he decided against rushing back to Valentine's room. He was old enough to push aside the terrors of dreams himself. Nonetheless, the memories of chilling hands and cruel voices remained with him, and despite his longing for rest, pacifying slumber did not come for another long hour.