It had been almost three months since the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet was revealed in its full, merciless entirety. An affair that had lasted less than a week and ended in the death of six people; a story weaved through an ancient hate and around the love of two young people. The gold statue erected in the name of the couple, a joint effort by Capulet and Montague, stood, recently finished and gleaming beneath the rays of the sun.
Admittedly, it was very beautiful. An image of Romeo's arms wrapped around his wife's waist, while her head was turned, so their eyes met, a pair of shiny sapphires meeting onyx stones, with love somehow portrayed through the inanimate gems, captured in time. It was the talk of the town, a monument and a memorial.
It was a monument to the uniting of the Capulet and Montague houses.
It was a memorial to the couple who was lost.
It was a reminder so it never happened again.
His head tilted slightly as he considered that last thought and a sad, almost wistful smile tugged at his lips. It could have all been so easily avoided. Romeo could have missed the ball, or danced with a different girl. Someone could have walked in on him and Juliet, there were so many ways it could have gone.
Romeo's letter to his father had explained everything. The unexpected whirlwind of love and passion, devolving into anger and pain. The secrets and the lies, and the ugly truth of the stupid, childish animosity the two families had. Oh, no, Romeo had not denounced the feud specifically, but in every word he had written, every letter he had penned, the horrible realization that it could have been completely circumvented if only- if only- the adults had shown a modicum of the maturity they were supposed to be known for.
He snorted.
He hoped the couple was happy. They had left everyone behind and he hoped they thought it was worth it. He had memorized the contents of the letter, playing out the events from beginning to end, filling in the gaps with his own imagination, over and over, constantly haunted by what they must have felt to be unable to face the prospect of living without each other.
Now they didn't have to worry about that.
He did, though.
How could he live without his best friend, Mercutio? He was the man who didn't belittle him out of spite for his sense of honor, even at the expense of his own family.
How would he go on without his pseudo little brother, Romeo?
What could there be that would uplift his spirits more than the entertainment the fiery Tybalt provided? Yes, even the temperamental Capulet would be missed.
How would he endure hearing the story over and over without knowing who Juliet truly was? What was she like, to draw Romeo to her so quickly and so thoroughly? He would never meet her, only have the recollections of her relatives that were now colored by their romanticized belief in the terror the couple must have gone through.
He didn't think so.
He thought the couple must have been wrapped around each other, blind in their newfound adoration and love to anything else. They must have been giddy with the adrenaline of sneaking around, able to be caught at any moment. They must have been, to forget about all the other people who cared about them. Then, when the prospect of being separated presented itself, he imagined they must have been desperate to stay together.
He thought it might have been naïve of them.
Now, reclining on a bench, staring at the statue as if it was the center of his world, with sorrowful, weary eyes, he wondered what else this event had changed. Romeo and Juliet had taken the spotlight of the tragedy, while everyone else had faded into the background.
Mercutio, for all his eccentricities, would not be mentioned as the story was retold, unless it was as a vague bystander.
Tybalt, in all his passionate emotions, would be painted as a villain, when really, he was only acting as others had expected him to.
Lady Montague, with all her gentleness, would probably not be given any thought at all, considering how unexciting and droll her death had been.
It didn't seem quite fair.
The statue didn't seem quite finished.
It told a story of love, but not of the loss.
"It's not right is it?" A voice said, barely a whisper over his shoulder.
A reluctant smile twisted his lips. "No, no it's not."
"They don't understand the suffering of the families; only what they think Romeo and Juliet must have felt. Not what is being felt, here, and now."
"Always."
"Yes," a note of melancholy rang in the word, "what will always be felt."
And the two unlikely companions, Benvolio and the Prince, stared at the statue, mourning the loss of their friends, and their friends' place in the tale.