Sorry again for this isn't edited.
To the best of his ability, it was clear as day Tybalt had no inkling of what had transpired for the rest of his day.
One moment he stood before Montague's grave, the next moment, he wandered the streets of the capital, collecting his dues for information. By the time he settled into his quarters in a feasible inn, he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling as his thoughts turned.
So far, from his small web of spies, informed him of a growing concern among the assemblymen. Word of whispers claimed of a growing discourse within Neo Verona's twilight district. Rumours of a secret Montague bastard may be among their midst and is secretly plotting to overthrow the new governing establishment. On matters of the assembly's newest policies, the discussions of trade and tax re-evaluations were still ongoing.
Despite all of Neo Verona's prosperities, the twilight district remains; where gambits of nightly pleasures and questionable vices were tolerated. In the wake of the Great Descent, it was ever a wonder how this district remained intact, despite all losses. Though it now stands a hollow shade to its former notoriety, nonetheless, it prevails within the shadows of prosperous Verona. It was only natural that Tybalt helmed a faceless mantle to keep watch over its activities. Especially when these places stood as a breeding ground for avarice and would-be tyrants.
Brushing past those matters for now, something in his mind persisted to demand his attention. Something important yet seemingly insignificant that he seemed to overlook.
He could vividly recall his meeting with Lady Portia and her small request.
He remembered standing before Escalus.
And then…
Nothing. Nothing else happened.
The rogue vaguely remembered taking up the task of following up on Portia's request. Remembering the brush of morrows towards the deceased; braving himself to visiting the tree that stole Juliet's life. There wasn't much to say that particularly stood out on that day, apart from the troublesome notes and the brief moment of solace. And yet, that stranger fervour persisted him to remember, tugging at him like a neglected child that demanded his attention.
"Tch," he clicked his tongue and rolled to his side on the bed.
To hell with it.
He sat up briefly to extinguish the small lamp-fire on his bedside; retiring his head upon his pillow as the darkness blanketed him. Moon beams streamed down through the gaps of the drapes, dying the entire room in a dark, silvery blue. Tybalt glanced at his sword hand, his mind retreating back to the baseless rumours surrounding the 'Montague bastard' before he closed his eyes and let slumber claim his wake.
Upon that night, Polaris sat at the base of Escalus, raising her head up to the silvery night.
Night times of Neo Verona was vastly strange compared to Gildaar. The moon was brighter, wider, just as the sky seemed wider than the land. Barely a mountain to supress its view, let alone a sentient cloud haunting its borders by the sea, contrary to Gildaar's weathered guardian. In its stead, the winds would billow so effortlessly without a care as the capital was situated close to the open sea. But most of all, the people in their waking lives live in idle bliss, from dawn to dusk, the city lights of its houses would flicker lively from afar.
The city itself stood like a portrait of the peace Gildaarians craved for. What the Half-shaded Moon craved for. What she thought she fought for. The sight of it alone evoked a partial envy towards the happiness of its citizens, just as she easily succumbed to fascination in its strange tranquillity.
"Is this what its like? To live in the presence of a deity?"
She turned her eye to the tree and rested her hand upon the surface of its rough and twisted bark. Beneath her fingertips she felt the flow of radiance streaming like a river within its heart. From the root, to the branches and back down onto the ground; the flow of its power returns what it receives as it fed itself to the soil.
But something lingered in the back of her mind.
Its pool of radiance will eventually fade, and all of its little authority over the land will be lost. It isn't that the tree itself is dying. It only meant that its influence over the land will soon be forfeit. She had seen her fellow endowed lose their radiance, losing the abilities that had earned them so much praise.
Will sir Tybalt be pleased if I were to tell him? Or will he be disturbed?
Her impressions based from his words; Neo Veronians were unaware of Escalus's true nature. It meant that it would make no difference if the tree would lose its influence upon its earth. After all, they worshiped a maiden with wings, not a tree that stands as the root of the land.
Her thoughts then turned to the man himself and pondered if they would ever meet again. If the past had ever taught her anything, it was so that her endowment had barely permitted many to remember or acknowledge her existence. If the people would know of her face and her name, the chances of being forgotten would lessen. But even among those who do remember her-
"-This cursed endowment," she muttered to the tree. "To think that all I ever yearned for… All I ever dreamed of becoming. It was all- fruitless."
Reality truly was a cruel mistress. One that would carelessly throw away dreams like a dying bird into a gyre. Even after a few months, she had continued to wonder how longer will she be able to endure this new life in this new land. Upon a relative acceptance, did she ever realise how much she had relied upon her feathered friend Aquila in those trying years. And now that they were separated, her mind now idles towards all the sins of the past.
"Lord of Life," she whispered. "If this truly is the fate I deserved, then I beg of you. Let me feel more pain as punishment, not let me drown in this tranquil place."
For the blood I spilt. For the hopes I crushed. I should have been there, standing before the gallows.
Polaris hugging her knees as she reminisced the peaceful days she took for granted. Where the birds would sing, and her tribe feeding and speaking to their feathered friends. How the scent of forest spices blend with the fresh dew in her early mornings. Where the land was larger than the sky and the people dressed in traditional ethak garbs. And when bedtime beckoned her, Wesley would sing her one of his Northerner lullabies. And from those memories, she opened her mouth and sung out a tune from those bygone days of innocence.
*"Trees they do grow high and
the leaves they do grow green.
But the time has gone and passed my love
That you and I have seen.
It's a cold winter's night my lord that
You must bide alone
The bonny lad was young but a-growing.
O' father, dear father,
I fear you've done me harm
You've married me to a bonny-boy
But I fear that he's too young
O' daughter, oh dearest daughter
But while you stay at home with me
A lady you shall be while he's growing-"
With the autumn harvest steadily approaching, the vestiges of summer came with a bright sun and a cold breeze.
The days pass like a blink of an eye; and on that particular day, the streets of the capital seemed livelier than usual. Upon the reopening of festivities that have been neglected since the Great Descent, the people petitioned for a memorial in honour of the lives who were lost. And in its present, here Neo Veronians prepared their goods with the assembly and the bourgeois funding for its support.
Tybalt walked the emptier paths, staving away from the public eye as much as possible. Echoes from market stalls orated their sales of their goods; from food stuff to well-fashioned wares, there was no end to their enthusiastic pitches. As costs became manageable to the average citizen, there was no telling when the city's underbelly would ride upon the back of prosperity. And so, he made his strides among the crowds and crossed the isolated streets, observing the city on different corners and crevices. As he crossed the main square where the newly masoned fountain stood, he ceased his steps for a moment.
There, a missing piece of his memory returned to him upon a familiar silhouette.
Once more, his mind played him tricks; chiding at him for forgetting the one person who had imparted him knowledge no countrymen could give. That one missing memory that plagued his waking mind for the past several days, persisting to make its presence known in the form of empty restlessness. At the sight of that thread-bare cloak and bandaged feet, he finally remembered.
'-if ever we meet again and you remember me-'
He made wide strides towards the distant figure, his mind flooding him with those missing pieces in his mind's eye. How could he forget? It had only been days since their last farewell. And yet-
The figure seemed unaware of his presence as she crossed from the bypassing bridge and onto the crowded square. Tybalt clicked his tongue as he pursued her, avoiding any human obstacle as best as he could. She wasn't difficult to find amidst these individuals. Not with those notable garbs that were woven from old hempen threads. Upon reaching her at an arm's length where there were less people, he stretched out his hand to clap her shoulder. But right before he could reach her, she spun and thrusted her sheathed weapon just inches away from the side of his neck.
Her gaze bore a ferocity of a skilled assassin, her stance guarded before she loosened at the glimmer of recognition in her eyes. With an arching brow she retreated her weapon in a half-panic, setting it back to hook it onto her side.
"…Pardon me," she stammered. "I thought you a thief."
He frowned. "And what sort of woman responds to a thief with a sheathed sword? An unsheathed blade is more effective than the latter."
"Certainly, but I'd caution against it," she murmured her retort.
To look upon her so closely now put the pieces back in order in his mind.
Polaris.
A strange woman who shared her insights on the mysteries of Escalus.
Now that he remembered, there was little he knew of what to say. With the lure of her mysterious nature immediately demystified, he found it difficult to conjure up a single question.
With small step forward, she reluctantly asked; "Do you… perhaps, remember me?"
He gave her a curt nod.
Polaris gleamed a euphoric smile, seemingly overjoyed at the notion of being remembered. Tybalt couldn't help but fold his arms in amusement.
"Is it so rare a feat to be remembered?"
She laughed, "Good sir, you have no idea. Certainly, this meeting in itself is worthy of celebration."
What sort of life had she led to find joy in this? By the simplest smile, he was beginning to understand what might have warranted this response. Having to remember her passing remark of her unusual circumstances of being forgotten, a thought crossed his mind.
"And what do you hope to achieve, wandering in the streets like this?" he asked. "Did this 'affliction' of yours aid you in avoiding the watchful eyes of the carabinieri?"
"Carabinier-? Oh, you mean the guardsmen?" she tilted her head. "As you guessed, this cursed endowment allowed me to slip passed the guards, but as for the former question… Well, you can say I merely wish to take in the sights I see if I am to remain stranded upon this land."
She turned her attention to the crowds, prompting Tybalt to follow her gaze. Men in working clothes set their ladders against the stonewalls, tying banners and changing flags in preparation for the oncoming memoriam. Women and men alike had already begun to pin a small bouquet of roses and irises on almost everywhere within his vantage.
"What sort of event warrants these blooms?" she asked. "Is it a ceremony, or celebration?"
"One that honours the lives lost to the Great Descent," he answered.
Polaris raised her head up to him, "The Great Descent… I remember you mentioning that. And you say that the land once hailed from the sky?"
"Aye," he nodded. "With our history lost to us for generations untold, no one would have known how Neo Verona was able to hold itself up for so long."
Glancing upon their surroundings, Polaris smiled and said; "If you are willing, walk with me, sir Tybalt. I wish to hear more about this land and what transpired to its present prosperity."
He looked at her dubiously, "And what do you hope to gain from knowing our ways?"
"Nothing," she answered. "Absolutely nothing, but to satiate my curiosity. I grew up hearing tales of wonderous heroisms and tragedies, you see. Tales of wanderlust and high hopes that came with overcoming villainy for the sake of prosperity-" she paused, "-I merely wish to know, how a nation like this was able to overcome its darkest hours."
He narrowed his eyes; "The struggles of Neo Verona aren't something for an outsider's amusement, Polaris. Let alone satiate one's curiosity."
"I didn't mean to demean your struggles," she quickly said. "I ask in all sincerity."
"Then why make mention of stories of valiant heroism? Why assume that our struggles are as simple as that of bedtime stories?"
She rested her hand upon her hip, shaking her head, "Bird's beak, that certainly wasn't my intention. I only asked because I wish to understand your ways. Perhaps my wording is wrong, but as I mentioned before, I mean it in all sincerity."
Despite her words, she retained a calm smile, as if to overlook his brash questions in favour of a peaceful exchange. A part of his pride wanted to retaliate, but he knew better.
"I see." He said curtly. "My apologies. I misread your intentions."
"None taken," she nodded. "Ah, but on the matter of misreading one's person, I can't really blame you for assuming me to be some intelligible wild-woman who wanders on a whim without cause."
Tybalt raised his brow, taken aback by her words. "I said no such thing."
"Your eyes did," she playfully retorted.
"Huh?"
"A mouth can lie, a hand can steal, but the eyes speak honest and truth of how they look upon the world," she chuckled. "Or so the saying goes among my kin. Now, will you take upon my request, or will you leave this wild-woman to her own devices and continue on wandering?"
It took a moment for him to digest her words, then scoffed a little at how she speaks at her own pace. He admitted it amused him a little, how she can speak like a playwriter yet inform him like a tutor. Without him ever realising it, the thought brought a genuine smiled upon his usual frown.
He wordlessly offered Polaris his arm to her, to which she gladly taken it with ease.
"Lead the way, sir Tybalt and I shall follow."
"Just Tybalt. There's no need for formalities."
With her hand hooked with his arm, he glanced once more at her strange attire. The very sleeve of her was long enough to cover her hands, with a large, hand-sewn eyelet for her thumb to poke through. As if to prevent the length of its sleeves to be in the way, in was held together in ribbons of cloth around her sleeve-covered palms down to her arms. It made him curious just how advanced or primitive this 'Gildaar' was to have this as her usual attire. Her eyes wandered to the surviving spires and glanced upon the crumbling walls. Tybalt had no inclined destination, realising that escorting her while he patrols might work as a good cover.
"Do all your kinsmen speak like you?" he asked.
"…What a strange question," she remarked.
"Why strange?"
"Hm… I must confess, I've never really thought about it." She said with a short pause. "Is the way I speak so strange to your ears?"
"Your eloquent choice of words gave me an impression that you are either someone of a noble-upbringing or that your countrymen are taught a variety of wit and manners."
Polaris laughed, shaking her head, "That's quite an impression you have, Tybalt. Certainly, there are different sorts of dialects and mannerisms in Gildaar, but it all depends on which territory they hail. But even in my upbringing, let's just say I was brought up rather differently from my own kin."
Her smile then grew to that familiar sombreness he saw before.
"It's all so strange. How I can speak of it so fondly now that I have parted from that land," she sighed. "Especially when everything there is anything but good."
"What do you mean?"
With a small tilt of her head and a shrug, she answered;
"Gildaar is… a land of many scars. A land festered with vengeful minds and unforgiving deeds. And by the sins of their forefathers, the people assume themselves as avengers of their forefathers' injustices. Worser still is how slow we are to realise our mistakes; and how little is done to remedy it."
The sudden shift of her tone brought a solemn mood, her words evoking memories of the tragedies that befell under Montague's rule. And for a moment, he felt he understood her more.
"…What are your impressions of this city?" he asked.
"It is a good city," she mused. "With a strange taste for spires and complex roads and buildings. As for its citizens, they seem happy and content with their lives."
"Despite all that you see, even prior to the Great Descent, there was a worse calamity that Neo Veronians had endured," He then led them down into a narrow alleyway and continued to walk. "Prior to its fall, this land was ruled under a tyrant. Born from an insatiable avarice against the very family he overthrew. And even after the tyrant was slain, Neo Veronians dared not speak his name among their kin. As if the very name of him would open the wounds of their hatred over his oppression. To answer your question, despite what you see, there are people who still dwell in the past. Hundreds of them. Perhaps a thousand of them. But there are those who have the resolve to look past their pain to find a future where all may prosper."
The strides they make were steady as the narrow path they walked led to the open canals of the city. Tybalt turned them to walk along the waterside, a few people walking past them without a glance at their direction. A few times, he glanced upon her profile as he waited for her response, returning his focus on the road ahead as they continued onward.
"That is… quite the surprise," she said quietly. "The eyes of the people show their willingness to be happy, yet I never suspected fair Neo Verona to carry such a weight. …That was terribly insensitive of me to ask of this to you so lightly."
"No need to think it about it too much," he said. "An outsider like you wouldn't have known. It can't be helped."
"…I suppose you are right."
A moment of repose silence fell between them, granting him a moment to observe their surroundings as they walked. Upon seeing that there wasn't much to take note of, he turned them to the direction of a busier street. Noting on the present silence between them, he decided to fill its gaps with a question that had lingered in the back of his mind;
"You said on our last meeting that radiance lingers on every sentient being. That your homeland is abundant with it. You describe it as a means to control over the laws of nature. Would you care to elaborate on that?"
Polaris shifted her hold on his arm a little, donning a pondering look before she answered;
"Hm… as I told you before, I am no expert on the matter entirely. But when I say that Gildaar is abundant with radiance, I meant that there are Gildaarians, and to an extent certain creatures that are born with such pools of power. They are what we call the 'endowed'. They are beings gifted with an authority or influence over a particular rule of nature; from the casting of light; to the raising of fire; hearing one's thoughts; even down to reading of prophecies."
That took him by surprise, then realised the cause to his lack of memory of her.
"Then this supposed affliction of yours-"
"-is an unfortunate case of my endowment, yes," she nodded.
"…Then what is this endowment of yours?"
She gave him strange look, then reluctantly answered; "…Assimilation."
"Huh?"
With a deep breath, she explained; "It's… difficult to explain. The endowment I have allowed me to remain unnoticed by many, and at times, I am able to… mirror the endowments for a moment's notice. As I said it is difficult. And for as long as I could remember, there have only ever been-" she then counted her fingers with her free hand, then stopped as if it dawned on her "-five. Five individuals who lived long enough to remember me… Haha…"
And with that, her head slumped in obvious despair. He was beginning to pity this poor woman just by her explanation alone; finally understanding what sort of plight she might have endured by her circumstances. A part of him had begun to doubt if it was ever wise of her to even share this knowledge with him, let alone speak of the wonderous existence she calls 'Gildaar'. He let that thought slide for now, and decidedly began to inquire on other things.
Their stroll continued on, with his companion staring and asking short questions for what purposes certain buildings were made for. He answered as curtly as he did, getting the sense of what her country lacked in contrast to his for every question answered. And upon the inquiry of clothes and how they were made, he answered that only tailors, armourers and housewives and maids would know of the secrets of its craft. The question alone gave entry for him to ask of her own clothes. And in her answer, she said;
"As a child raised from the Mountain Bird tribe, it is to be expected that all should know the craft of weaving dilla threads into ethaks," she tugged at the tunic she wore as emphasis. "Trade from the capital is almost impossible, and so we harvest our goods from the dilla trees, string its sap and bark into silk threads and weave it into these robes. Not all of Gildaar would wear these things, as most would prefer taking upon the ingenuity of Northerner industry to thread more sophisticated clothes."
He couldn't deny how it impressed him, as he never took much thought of a labourer's woes in the simple harvest of hemp and cotton. And as noon had passed, his patrol around the city had reached its last spot, his wariness averted a little when he saw that there were no pursuers in the midst of their stroll.
"Tybalt."
"Hm?"
"You don't happen to be someone important in this kingdom, are you?" she asked.
"…Whatever gave you that idea?"
"…Don't be alarmed when I say this, but," she leaned in closer to his side and muttered. "It seems that you are being watched."
From a great distance where they stood, he saw familiar silhouette of one of his spies standing by the bottom edge of an aqueduct bridge.
This does not bode well.
"It seems I must take my leave here," Polaris said, releasing her hold of his arm.
"So it would seem," he said darkly. Tybalt turned to face her; his expression now stoic as he asked, "Will we meet again?"
Polaris blinked in mild surprise, then gave him a warm smile;
"If you remember me the next day, I shall be waiting there by Escalus's side from dawn to dusk."
Those words, laced with that smile gave him a tug of warmth in his chest. His lips quirked a smile with curtly nodded, before it melted back into his usual furrow when he turned his back on her.
If I remember, she says.
As he made his strides, his cautious instinct sharpened as his mind returned to the present problems that linger in the shadows of prosperous Verona.
*The song Polaris sings is in reference to the poem/folk song 'The Trees they do grow high'. If you want to look it up, its the Diane Taraz version on youtube.
The more I write this story, I realise that this version of Tybalt seems kinda OoC. I mean, for real, does it seem out of character of him? Part of my tired logic is that this is post-epilogue Tybalt where we've seen him seemingly grew softer and less vengeful. But if this doesn't feel like Tybalt at all... well... sorry. This fic was written as a means to get my writing groove back.