The field of golden blades of grass swayed in the warm breeze. The main road was some feet away, but for now the road wasn't a friend if it ever was to begin with. America had exhausted himself of all the traveling – and he forgot how slow horses were, in comparison to cars or planes.
The black stallion nibbled on a patch of live grass – a rare treat – as its rider lay close by, his back on the ground and his head gazing at the mid afternoon sky. His arms were above his head, hands as a pillow. One leg bounced on the other's knee, and he had a piece of wheat in his mouth. It almost reminded him of the nineteenth century, the old cowboy days where exploring the unknown west and riding the plains was what he loved to do. It was a shame that this wasn't the Great Plains and that he was running for his life, or he would have dove into the memories further.
With a quiet sigh, he plucked the wheat stock from his mouth and flicked it away while picking a fresh piece up. Replacing it, he watched the fluffy clouds overheard and wondered why he felt some sort of storm coming in. The weather didn't show any signs of turning dark or dismal, but deep in his heart he felt like something was wrong. 'With that weird dream, though,' he thought with a shrug, 'I wouldn't be surprised.'
His eyes followed a thick patch of clouds as it slowly passed overhead. The horse looked at him and he glanced at it for a moment, and then sighed again. "I dreamt my lady came and found me dead," he explained to the equine (although he wasn't sure why he was talking to a horse in the first place.) "Strange dream that gives a dead man leave to think!" The horse had lost interest in its rider and turned instead to eating once more. America sat up in thought. He wished he could have stopped talking, since this was clearly Romeo rambling again. Alfred didn't take up talking to horses as a habit, so it had to have been Montague. There wasn't any use in fighting his jabber mouth, however, so America kept quiet and let his inner Romeo continue talking to absolutely nothing. "She breathed such life with kisses in my lips," he spoke with a dreamy smile, "that I revived, and was an emperor."
Didn't Japan have an emperor? Why was he living in Japan if England woke him up? Or was it a metaphor? America shook his head and wondered if he would ever understand whatever these people were talking about. He figured he wouldn't and decided to head out again, before it got too dark. He jumped up and brushed himself off, dirt and bits of dry grass on his clothes, and started to prepare himself for the journey when another person rode up on a chestnut horse, heading towards him. America felt like he should have known whom it was and chalked it up to being one of Romeo's friends. 'Wonder what he's doing out here,' he thought to himself in little interest. He continued to prepare to get on his horse, but as he readied himself to take a step he thought again. 'Maybe he's here with a message from England?'
Lowering his leg, he looked to the boy, who hopped off his horse, and ran over to him with a wide grin on his face. "News from Verona! How now, Balthasar!" So his name was Balthasar. Romeo knew him, obviously. "How fares my Juliet?" His smile turned warm at the mentioning of Juliet, although Alfred noticed that Balthasar winced at her mentioning. "Nothing can be ill, if she be well."
The brunette boy hopped off his horse and nervously fiddled with a cap in his hands. He looked down at the dirt and kept his face that way, and Romeo's patience was thinning. America stepped forward, the smile on his face faltering from the hesitation this boy had. "Well?" he asked, getting the boy's attention. America could tell by the tone that it was his own impatience that was pushing the news, not Romeo's.
Balthasar sighed quietly and hung his head in shame. "Then she is well, and nothing can be ill," he murmured. For a brief moment, America felt like everything would be okay. He didn't question why Balthasar sounded so sad when he spoke; England was alright, so everything was okay, right? That's how it was going? But his next words shot those hopes down. "Her body sleeps in Capel's monument, and her immortal part with angels lives," he continued, his voice shaking. He closed his eyes as if he were afraid to be struck by Romeo or yelled at. "O, pardon me for bringing these ill news," he concluded, finally looking up at Romeo with eyes expecting anger.
America's smile was long gone. Instead he stood looking at this strange, yet familiar, boy in questioning. He didn't quite catch all of that, only bits and pieces, but he wasn't sure how to react to it. Well, Juliet was dead. But Arthur was alright, wasn't he? Maybe he split away from her at the last second and managed to escape. Surely, that was the case. England wouldn't let a silly little girl's fate affect his own. He wasn't that stupid …
Still, a feeling of pain was rising in America's chest. It felt like his heart was trying to escape from his body, like someone was trying to rip it from his chest. Didn't Arthur say something like Juliet only went into a coma, but she wasn't dead? So, was Balthasar lying? Or did he not know any better? America was becoming confused. England said that Juliet was just in a coma, but Balthasar said … He closed his eyes tightly. 'What's going on?' he mentally begged. He wanted to explain that this was all a giant misunderstanding, that Juliet was alive, that she was okay. He couldn't bring himself to do it, however, because Romeo's soul was being overcome with grief.
Without warning, Montague took over and America's hands balled into trembling fists. "Is it even so?" he murmured, his eyes reopening. Romeo started backing up and away from Balthasar. He turned and started to walk in a random direction. Balthasar reached a hand for his friend but was pushed away, and he tried to walk again. It didn't matter where he was walking, because he couldn't escape the reality that his wife was now dead. A few paces in, and angry tears were welling in the corner of his blue eyes. Romeo bit his lip and sank to his knees, a fist beating into the ground in rage as he shouted, "Then I defy you, stars!" His free hand clutched his chest, and he cried on the ground with Balthasar watching, and America unable to get control.
America couldn't feel the tears falling from his face, as these were Romeo's and not his, but he still felt some grief in his soul. He had seen things like this before, although the roles were usually reversed: a wife receiving news that her husband was dead. They never spoke as oddly as these characters were, and God knows why they were speaking in such a weird way, but their sorrow always affected him in a way he couldn't explain. It wasn't sympathy, but it wasn't empathy. How could it be, if he had never lost a significant other before? Every time he delivered a letter and a flag, it hurt him to see the reactions, the look on the faces of the ones left behind, knowing that their son, or their husband or boyfriend, had died for him.
Juliet hadn't died for her country. She hadn't even died, yet Romeo felt that same heartbreak that America's citizens felt. He felt bad for the boy, and wished he could have told him that she was really alive. He wanted to explain it to him, but had the worst feeling that it would do no good.
Romeo had since gotten up and, in anger, mentioned something about lodging and getting papers. Alfred heard him say he would "hence" that night. What did that even mean? What was his plan? If there was one major downside of sharing a being with Romeo, it was that he could never read Montague's plans even as he was the character. He was forced to go along with it until the very end, and it was often too late to do anything about it.
Romeo's conscious was much more awake now. He sent Balthasar off to do something and now he was left alone. America forced Romeo away for a second to try and get a grasp on what was going on. Balthasar hadn't even mentioned how Juliet had 'died'. Couldn't Romeo see that there was something suspicious going on? But, then again, if he had heard that his wife was dead, he wouldn't exactly be looking for loopholes, either.
Alfred sighed heavily and closed his eyes, wiping whatever tears Romeo had left unfallen away. Geez, this guy cried so easily. He must have looked so pathetic. He looked over his shoulder at the path to Verona, then craned his head towards Mantua. He didn't move to it. Instead, Alfred only stared down the road to Verona again. The play said that Arthur was alive; the character said he was dead. Which one was the truth, and which one was the lie?
Walking to his horse, America hopped on and led the stallion down the beaten path to Verona, in Balthasar's steps. He had to go back. He couldn't tell if it was him or Romeo who was in control. Both wanted to go back to Verona, the idea of banishment not on either mind. Alfred only knew that he had to find out if Arthur was all right. That's all that seemed to matter.
America wasn't sure how long he had been riding. He would guess an hour or so, since the sun hadn't sank very far in the western sky. It was probably five or six – not like the time mattered. Alfred had the nauseating feeling that something was going to happen, something far worse than whatever had happened up to that point. But nothing that bad could happen, right? It would all be okay in the end, right?
"As I remember, this should be the house." America glanced up at a building before him. It was small, more like a stone hut than a house at all. It looked run-down and in horrible condition – why was he there? This couldn't possibly be the tomb; this wasn't even Verona, only the outskirts. What did Romeo have to do here? It smelt, but not of anything America could name off the bat. It reminded him, however, of the trenches and the bodies of people in warfare. It reminded him of death, and chills ran up his spine.
Alfred wanted to turn and continue on his way, but Romeo had since taken over. He approached the door and knocked on the rotting wood, crossing his arms and leaning back. "Being holiday," he mumbled with a small frown, "the beggar's shop is shut."
However, the door swung open, and America could see through Romeo's eyes a short and stout man, hunched over slightly, at the door. "What, ho! apothecary!" Romeo spoke, and America wondered what an apothecary was. He'd heard the word somewhere, but what did it mean? He also wondered why Romeo had called the man a ho, but that wasn't as important.
Their conversation was brief and quick-winded. The element of speech in the story didn't help, and America soon found himself lost in what was happening. He kept up only in the actions: the man backed away and tried closing the door … Romeo bribed him out with money (go figure) … and the man handed him something. Romeo looked down, and America saw a tube in his hand. It wasn't small enough to be hidden in his grasp, but it would fit if he hid it within his clothing. But, why did he feel the need to have to hide it? What was it, anyway?
Back on the horse he went, and America traveled faster down the path to Verona. America wished he didn't have to go; he would have rather looked further into that drink the man had given him, but just thinking about it was enough to make him feel like he would throw up. Still, he knew that England could very well be in trouble and he had to go to him. His determination to help Arthur was greater than his growing fear of returning to the place from whence he was banished. Would England be walking around, waiting for him? Would he be asleep on a bed of stone? Or would he be in a coffin, dead?
He didn't have much of a chance to think about it, because he found himself passing the sign to Verona's entrance. Romeo glanced over his shoulder briefly at it, and America felt the temptation to leave rising in Montague. Immediately as he came in, he could hear people gasping and crying out his name like he had returned from the dead. 'He's got some guts coming back here,' he thought. 'Mantua doesn't sound that bad now that I think about it. And besides, England can take care of himself!'
Wait, what? If he had control of his body, he would have slapped himself. What was he even thinking? Romeo seemed to get the message as well, for he once again focused on getting through Verona and to the tomb of the Capulet family. 'Don't be stupid, America!' he scolded himself. 'You're the hero, aren't you? Being Romeo isn't gonna change that!' He was still the hero, and he still had someone to protect.
If he was alive, anyway.
Everything started to slowly pass by him like a blur: the people, the places, everything. One minute he was alone, and the next Balthasar was seen on the roadside waiting for him. One moment he was on a black stallion, and now he was on foot with his friend. Day was beginning to turn more and more into night and by the time they had reached their destination, the sky was turning purple and navy. Stars were very slowly beginning to pop up. Polaris showed its ever-stoic face, and Romeo looked up at it for a moment.
America remembered how England said the North Star guided sailors back home; as it was the only point that would never change. He wondered if that was true, and wondered if a star could really guide people home. The star wasn't his map, but he felt like it was leading him to the tomb – and to England. The star rested above the tomb like a sign that made America feel like no matter what he had done differently, he would have ended up there.
Romeo was talking to Balthasar, who was listening, but America completely toned him out. It was one of his monologues. It wasn't like he'd understand him anyway. As Alfred thought more on the tomb, the more he began to fear what he would find inside. Someone had spotted them earlier and ran off – who was it? Was it a friend of Juliet's there to visit her? Or was it someone Romeo would have to kill?
Balthasar quickly left, leaving Romeo alone. He leaned against a stonewall that surrounded the tomb and glanced to the right. A gate leading into the tomb was only a few feet away, but Romeo seemed wary of going in. Alfred wondered why, and got his answer soon after he pondered it. He stepped towards the gate and spotted someone standing outside the tomb, carefully caressing the door like he had to protect it. America didn't recognize him. He was about as tall as America with chocolate locks and green eyes, which showed themselves when he turned to look behind him. Romeo's fists, however, were clenched and his teeth were being grit together. 'Great,' America thought dismally, 'another guy I'm probably gonna have to kill.'
"This is that banish'd haughty Montague," he spoke while frowning at America, "that murder'd my love's cousin, with which grief, it is supposed, the fair creature died."
Whoa, whoa, whoa. 'My love?' England was cheating on him the entire time? America almost went slack-jawed at the thought when an idea dawned to him. England had mentioned someone who kept trying for Juliet's hand, some guy named Paris. America frowned and figured this was the guy. So Romeo did know him, and he probably had a reason for being upset. Seeing the guy who liked your wife standing outside her tomb was a little more than just awkward.
America could almost sympathize with Romeo. Jealousy, or something like it, was raging in his stomach, an uncomfortable feeling that America wished he could have gotten rid of. 'Wait a second,' he thought. 'England said that Juliet poisons herself because some guy is gonna marry her-'
This was the man who may have very well cursed England to death.
It was a somewhat ironic turn of events. America had previously been wishing that Romeo wouldn't kill this man, but now he was beginning to think otherwise. Paris didn't know that all of this was his fault, but America could have cared less about Paris. He didn't care about Juliet or Romeo, either. He only cared about England, and the fact that Paris had jeopardized his well being made America want to kill him.
Now Romeo had taken the side America was once on, begging Paris to leave. "Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man," he begged. Romeo shook his head and cast his gaze to the ground and to the poison he had bought, which was in his pocket. "Fly hence, and leave me." Paris didn't reply, and Romeo looked up with desperation. "I beseech thee, youth, put not another sin upon my head by urging me to fury. Be gone!" His hands flew forward and he shoved Paris slightly, even if he was pushing him closer to the tomb doors.
America had no say in what happened next. His anger had faded, and he found himself again sympathizing for Romeo. He remembered how messed up he had been after killing Tybalt and how he, himself, was affected. Still, could Paris be forgiven? Romeo didn't know that he was the cause of all this, either. Hell, he didn't even know that Juliet was alive. Was she alive? America had been trying to think that she was, and that Arthur was fine as well, but Romeo's influence was taking a toll on his optimism.
He had two paths to believe: the script, or the characters around him. Deep in his mind, he knew the script was right. But he felt that deep in his heart, he was beginning to think otherwise.
America snapped out of his thoughts when he felt something in his hand, a familiar feeling. He glanced down and saw the rapier from his belt now held in his hands, and Paris was drawing his own sword. The brunette man lunged at Romeo, and the fight began. Though, this wasn't anything like the fight with Tybalt. Tybalt's fight had been pure rage, and America couldn't remember any of the details. This time, Romeo had a goal of getting inside the tomb and getting Paris away from Juliet. His sword thrusts had meaning; his feet moved with purpose. He avoided any injury, other than a few cuts to the hand, and was winning by the look on Paris' face.
Alfred was a hero; he always won. Why did he find himself not wanting to taste victory? He didn't want to kill another person. He just wanted to get into the tomb peacefully. But conflict was always around the corner for Romeo. Asking for a peaceful route was blasphemy in this tragic tale.
It was over as quickly as it had begun; Paris lying on the ground with a gruesome wound to the side. America dropped to his knees by the dying man's side in a moment. Was Romeo regretting his actions? Or was he going to strike the final blow? In his hand was his rapier, but he didn't seem intent on causing this man any more suffering – or ending it.
The rapier was finally dropped, and America tried to look into Paris' eyes. They were closed, his face contorting with pain as his breaths became labored. "If thou be merciful," he managed to croak out, taking a pause to hiss in pain, "open the tomb, lay me with Juliet." Paris didn't open his eyes. He only grit his teeth and tried to even out his shaking breathing as his hand clutched his wounded side in vain.
It was painful to watch, someone suffering like this. Alfred winced and turned away slightly, remembering the same sight with every war he'd been in. He had done this damage, though, and he couldn't take it back or help him. For once, he understood the command of the character and gently swooped him into his arms. He almost dropped Paris, but had fallen to one knee to steady himself in time. Had the man stopped breathing already? He glanced – and sure enough, his chest was still and his head lolled to the side. Alfred closed his blue eyes. He couldn't focus on Paris now.
He tried to stand again and managed to get himself up with Paris in his arms, and he turned to face the door. 'I guess all the strength of being a nation is gone now,' he thought in dismay, 'since I'm not a nation anymore.' He was Romeo Montague, not the United States of America. If he were still a nation, picking up one fully-grown man would have been a simple task. He could pull England's cars and swing buffalo, but now he couldn't even keep a dead body in his arms. His shoulders slackened a little more at the idea. How pathetic.
As he stepped towards the tomb door, he craned his neck to scan the height of the tomb. It didn't feel right going in there. He couldn't bring himself to open the door and go inside, not without mentally preparing himself for what he would find. Leaning against the stone frame of the door for a minute, he looked down at Paris and then out at the darkening sky. 'I never thought I'd be in a situation like this,' he thought with a hollow laugh. He was carrying a dead man into a tomb, the same tomb that held his 'wife'. "God," he whispered as he turned back to the door, "I mean, if You're up there, just…" Alfred swallowed the lump in his throat. "If You're there, then let England be okay." That's why he was here. The small flicker of hope that he was alive was dying quickly, and America didn't want it to go out.
There was a time when Alfred had a religion, when he believed in God and the purity of the world. But after all the bloodshed he'd seen in his unusually long life, he had turned away from any faith. Faith couldn't explain the unexplainable things he had seen, done, and been through. For him to pray over someone he was quickly finding himself caring for was a leap of faith he didn't have in the first place.
Thoughts cast aside; Alfred pried the door open with some difficulty. He slipped inside the darkness soon after, and the door closed behind him as the outside world faded away.