Post by swivelcanines on May 8, 2008 5:25:49 GMT -5
((Written at four in the morning. Couldn’t sleep. Had to get it out of my head. /rubs eyes and yawns/ Sorry guys.))
At the end of time, they will speak of the immortal romances. Adam and Eve. Romeo and Juliet. Edward and Bella.
There will be no hope in the distant nuclear winter and no one will recall the beginning of the end for these lovers. All they will remember is the serpent, the dagger. The wolves. Painted as portraits of evil sent from the deepest pits of hell to tear apart the truest of loves.
These people will never know the start of these eternal wars, the good from which the bad grew from. Two powers, both equal in force but radically different, hate and love. They can only start each other. Fire and Ice, wolf and vampire.
At the end of time, they won’t speak of the loves whose flames burned out early. Hopeless whispers don’t carry the names of failed, broken romances and there are no more forests to send their stories on the wind.
In a place of no salvation no one wants to listen to a story where half of the carried love dies and the other one falls into himself, never to return again. Because in a place of no hope they distort the stories until there are no vestiges of the original left.
The roles were changed and the world was turned around. From the ashes rose the Romeo, broken and beaten by a rejected love and behind him with a light step was Juliet. This time they don’t die and don’t run away. This time it isn’t about them.
It’s about the minor characters, the ones who danced in and out of the plotlines. Benvolio and Mercutio. It can be laughable that they end up together but in a world with moving marble and phasing boys, stranger things have happened.
Shakespeare does not paint a picture of a life for either of them but that does not make them any less alive.
Mercutio is hurt, stabbed by Tybalt, and bleeding out on turbulent shores. Darkness frays his sight and ever word is a stab in his side. He keeps talking, anyway.
His lips graze Benvolio’s neck as he lifts his head ever so slightly to whisper to him, “Hey.” Surprised, Benvolio looks down on him, light filling his dark eyes at the sound of the voice that lets the world turn. It wasn’t the end of the world then and there was still hope.
“I’m still yours.” The world falls away, save for the two of them, alone on the couch and looking into each other’s eyes, finding what they were looking for. Even bruised and bloody, Mercutio is the image of perfection. Even dark and voice far away, Benvolio is all he ever wanted.
One hand searches for the other and amidst the century-old grudge they have love.
A shuffle of voices tells Benvolio it’s time to wake up but exhausted, he can’t. It isn’t until he remembers him and the wounds and the fight that his eyes fly wide open, in time to catch the sight of Mercutio's back, being led away to a silently flashing ambulance, red and blues gliding across the pristine surfaces of Juliet’s house. In it’s silence every other sound is drowned, faded away until the breaking dawn erupts over him. The beginning of a new day becomes the beginning of a new war.
The Nurse looks impatient and taps her foot against the tile. Juliet is in another ward with another heartbreak and Romeo is off in the forest with the Friar. The lack of these main characters should have made the story stop but it didn’t.
He wishes so badly that it had.
There is no sleep, simply a daze that is so deep he can be arisen from it. A poison that freezes him. His soul is fighting for it’s life and there is nothing to sustain him as he sits, crouched over in his seat, waiting for a piece of news to bring back his Mercutio.
Balthasar is an omen in the wings; your love will die, he seems to say. And he finds it all in his eyes.
The messenger, the raven, he’s the one watching the situation when there is nothing to watch.
They’re a small huddle in the hall and with difficulty the Friar tries to explain what’s happening. They tried surgery but the fresh cuts heal… Romeo is upset by the news, questions him. But then why aren’t the other problems healing? The Nurse interrupts with an air of impatience, softness only coming from her light eyes, so different from all of theirs. He’s in shock, there is no way he can heal himself in this state.
Juliet is close to tears. What’s wrong with him?
With feeble hand motions, the Friar tries to explain. They said…I don’t know, pulmonary contusion, internal bleeding…
Benvolio clutches Mercutio’s hand and holds it to his face, warm and stationary, waiting for him to open his eyes so he can see that he was there all along. That he never left. That he loves him.
His heartbeat follows the same jagged rhythm as the heart monitor and the gray sunlight leaves no shadows. He doesn’t have time to care about secrets or treaties. His vision is still and fixed on Mercutio. He likes to think that in his slumber he’s dreaming of him, far away but very close, waiting on a prayer to save him.
Mercutio took pride in the fact that he never lied to himself. Benvolio knows he’d be disappointed in him, were he awake to see him.
Balthasar’s arm pulls him back and too weak to fight, he lets him. His last sight is that of blood pouring down, coming from the lips he remembers kissing, but only vaguely. He’s as pale as bone and even though he’s dying he doesn’t even open his eyes. He falls from slumber to death in a fall with no grace and all hate, a hate that will be carried for centuries and yet never once spoken of.
There was a plague but it extended far beyond the two houses of Tybalt and Romeo.
They call it at 9:17. It took twenty-four hours to steal away what Benvolio was sure was rightfully his. I’m yours. And never to be again.
And now Mercutio is the worlds, the ground’s, the reaper’s. Mercutio is not his, not when they don’t even walk the same earth. The pain leaves a quake in his chest and everyone around him can hear the tears, the rips of the seams of a once full heart. Everything is numb and with his back against the wall, he slides down, down into a well from which he never emerges.
---
He finds the picture of the two them tucked away inside a journal Paul kept. It’s heart-warming that he held onto a piece of them even through-out all their problems. It’s well-worn and he wonders how many times Paul took it out to look at it. He wonders how much Paul ever cared in the first place if he so easily left him.
On the back, written in a handwriting that will never be written again, there are words that claim that the boys in the picture are Paul and Embry. It’s not true.
It’s a picture, a symbol of everything that’s wrong with the world. If there could be this happiness (God, the grin on his face, so inviting) and for it to be ruined by that hate. That’s the killer.
That’s the picture they paint centuries later when the talk of Paul and Embry. Someone died and the wolves and the vampires went to war. They don’t stop to think and wonder if someone loved Paul the way Bella loved Edward.
Embry couldn’t think of a more proper ending to an act in the larger scheme of things, aiding only to an ending that leaves Edward and Bella dead and no one remembering the reason why they started fighting in the first place.
One act ruined a whole life. That’s often how the play turns out, though.
((Probably should 'splain some stuff.
If it wasn't obvious, Embry = Benvolio (name means peace-maker, buddy of Romeo) and Paul = Mercutio (name means ever-changing mood, also a friend of Romeo). I've toyed with the idea of them being Embry and Paul ~in disguise and though Paul won't die in the current rp I was thinking of this last night and this morning when I woke up...from sleeping...-_-
Jake = Romeo, Annie = Juliet, Jared = Balthasar, Sam is the Friar and Kate is The Nurse. Tybalt represents all the vampires but if you want to get specific it's Evalena. They all seemed to fit pretty well so there you have it. Sort of like a Pack Romeo and Juliet. Sorta.
Wrote this listening to this on repeat. www.youtube.com/watch?v=E-YR2ETjZrY
Act 3, Scene 1 is the scene where Tybalt kills Mercutio.
/stumbles back to bed/ Have a good weekend, guys.))
At the end of time, they will speak of the immortal romances. Adam and Eve. Romeo and Juliet. Edward and Bella.
There will be no hope in the distant nuclear winter and no one will recall the beginning of the end for these lovers. All they will remember is the serpent, the dagger. The wolves. Painted as portraits of evil sent from the deepest pits of hell to tear apart the truest of loves.
These people will never know the start of these eternal wars, the good from which the bad grew from. Two powers, both equal in force but radically different, hate and love. They can only start each other. Fire and Ice, wolf and vampire.
At the end of time, they won’t speak of the loves whose flames burned out early. Hopeless whispers don’t carry the names of failed, broken romances and there are no more forests to send their stories on the wind.
In a place of no salvation no one wants to listen to a story where half of the carried love dies and the other one falls into himself, never to return again. Because in a place of no hope they distort the stories until there are no vestiges of the original left.
The roles were changed and the world was turned around. From the ashes rose the Romeo, broken and beaten by a rejected love and behind him with a light step was Juliet. This time they don’t die and don’t run away. This time it isn’t about them.
It’s about the minor characters, the ones who danced in and out of the plotlines. Benvolio and Mercutio. It can be laughable that they end up together but in a world with moving marble and phasing boys, stranger things have happened.
Shakespeare does not paint a picture of a life for either of them but that does not make them any less alive.
Mercutio is hurt, stabbed by Tybalt, and bleeding out on turbulent shores. Darkness frays his sight and ever word is a stab in his side. He keeps talking, anyway.
His lips graze Benvolio’s neck as he lifts his head ever so slightly to whisper to him, “Hey.” Surprised, Benvolio looks down on him, light filling his dark eyes at the sound of the voice that lets the world turn. It wasn’t the end of the world then and there was still hope.
“I’m still yours.” The world falls away, save for the two of them, alone on the couch and looking into each other’s eyes, finding what they were looking for. Even bruised and bloody, Mercutio is the image of perfection. Even dark and voice far away, Benvolio is all he ever wanted.
One hand searches for the other and amidst the century-old grudge they have love.
A shuffle of voices tells Benvolio it’s time to wake up but exhausted, he can’t. It isn’t until he remembers him and the wounds and the fight that his eyes fly wide open, in time to catch the sight of Mercutio's back, being led away to a silently flashing ambulance, red and blues gliding across the pristine surfaces of Juliet’s house. In it’s silence every other sound is drowned, faded away until the breaking dawn erupts over him. The beginning of a new day becomes the beginning of a new war.
The Nurse looks impatient and taps her foot against the tile. Juliet is in another ward with another heartbreak and Romeo is off in the forest with the Friar. The lack of these main characters should have made the story stop but it didn’t.
He wishes so badly that it had.
There is no sleep, simply a daze that is so deep he can be arisen from it. A poison that freezes him. His soul is fighting for it’s life and there is nothing to sustain him as he sits, crouched over in his seat, waiting for a piece of news to bring back his Mercutio.
Balthasar is an omen in the wings; your love will die, he seems to say. And he finds it all in his eyes.
The messenger, the raven, he’s the one watching the situation when there is nothing to watch.
They’re a small huddle in the hall and with difficulty the Friar tries to explain what’s happening. They tried surgery but the fresh cuts heal… Romeo is upset by the news, questions him. But then why aren’t the other problems healing? The Nurse interrupts with an air of impatience, softness only coming from her light eyes, so different from all of theirs. He’s in shock, there is no way he can heal himself in this state.
Juliet is close to tears. What’s wrong with him?
With feeble hand motions, the Friar tries to explain. They said…I don’t know, pulmonary contusion, internal bleeding…
Benvolio clutches Mercutio’s hand and holds it to his face, warm and stationary, waiting for him to open his eyes so he can see that he was there all along. That he never left. That he loves him.
His heartbeat follows the same jagged rhythm as the heart monitor and the gray sunlight leaves no shadows. He doesn’t have time to care about secrets or treaties. His vision is still and fixed on Mercutio. He likes to think that in his slumber he’s dreaming of him, far away but very close, waiting on a prayer to save him.
Mercutio took pride in the fact that he never lied to himself. Benvolio knows he’d be disappointed in him, were he awake to see him.
Balthasar’s arm pulls him back and too weak to fight, he lets him. His last sight is that of blood pouring down, coming from the lips he remembers kissing, but only vaguely. He’s as pale as bone and even though he’s dying he doesn’t even open his eyes. He falls from slumber to death in a fall with no grace and all hate, a hate that will be carried for centuries and yet never once spoken of.
There was a plague but it extended far beyond the two houses of Tybalt and Romeo.
They call it at 9:17. It took twenty-four hours to steal away what Benvolio was sure was rightfully his. I’m yours. And never to be again.
And now Mercutio is the worlds, the ground’s, the reaper’s. Mercutio is not his, not when they don’t even walk the same earth. The pain leaves a quake in his chest and everyone around him can hear the tears, the rips of the seams of a once full heart. Everything is numb and with his back against the wall, he slides down, down into a well from which he never emerges.
---
He finds the picture of the two them tucked away inside a journal Paul kept. It’s heart-warming that he held onto a piece of them even through-out all their problems. It’s well-worn and he wonders how many times Paul took it out to look at it. He wonders how much Paul ever cared in the first place if he so easily left him.
On the back, written in a handwriting that will never be written again, there are words that claim that the boys in the picture are Paul and Embry. It’s not true.
It’s a picture, a symbol of everything that’s wrong with the world. If there could be this happiness (God, the grin on his face, so inviting) and for it to be ruined by that hate. That’s the killer.
That’s the picture they paint centuries later when the talk of Paul and Embry. Someone died and the wolves and the vampires went to war. They don’t stop to think and wonder if someone loved Paul the way Bella loved Edward.
Embry couldn’t think of a more proper ending to an act in the larger scheme of things, aiding only to an ending that leaves Edward and Bella dead and no one remembering the reason why they started fighting in the first place.
One act ruined a whole life. That’s often how the play turns out, though.
((Probably should 'splain some stuff.
If it wasn't obvious, Embry = Benvolio (name means peace-maker, buddy of Romeo) and Paul = Mercutio (name means ever-changing mood, also a friend of Romeo). I've toyed with the idea of them being Embry and Paul ~in disguise and though Paul won't die in the current rp I was thinking of this last night and this morning when I woke up...from sleeping...-_-
Jake = Romeo, Annie = Juliet, Jared = Balthasar, Sam is the Friar and Kate is The Nurse. Tybalt represents all the vampires but if you want to get specific it's Evalena. They all seemed to fit pretty well so there you have it. Sort of like a Pack Romeo and Juliet. Sorta.
Wrote this listening to this on repeat. www.youtube.com/watch?v=E-YR2ETjZrY
Act 3, Scene 1 is the scene where Tybalt kills Mercutio.
/stumbles back to bed/ Have a good weekend, guys.))
Thanks guys. And I'm sorry I made you cry Maria xDD