Editing DbS (section)

== TWENTY-ONE ==
⚇乂⚇

'''A HORSE IS A HORSE, OF COURSE, OF COURSE… (LIKELY EXPLANATION. I’M WATCHING YOU)'''

ROMEO WAS PRESENTLY FREAKING OUT. He paced the floor of the inn, eyes on the ground, worry etched across his face. He looked several years older than he really was- something like fifteen. 

He hadn’t heard from Verona, or his servant, whom he called Balthasar. I wasn’t sure if that was actually a name- if it were actually ''his'' name- or not. And if it was, well, leave it to Shakespeare to make up weird names.

He paced, back and forth across the room, eyes darting to and fro, a wild look on his face. He muttered every step of the way, always speaking of dreams, a crazed look about him. He looked insane.

A knock on the door made Romeo fly at it, leaving me a moment’s peace, no sound except the frantic unbolting of the lock on the door and the satisfying creaking of the door as it was swung open by Romeo. 

I stared at Romeo’s back, barely being able to see it, as the bed I presently sat on mostly hid the door from sight. 

“Balthasar!” Romeo cried, an exuberant look on his face. “What news have thee?”

I frowned, touching a hand to my ear. ''Something’s wrong with the translator,'' a nagging, worried, voice spoke in my mind. I was not able to force the voice to be silent, so I focused on Romeo and Balthasar.

Balthasar was perhaps a little older than Romeo- certainly not Benvolio’s age, nor Mercutio’s, though. His shoulder-length black hair was neat, although I was sure he had ridden straight here. A calm air was about him- a good foil to Romeo’s not-so-calm air. 

“Romeo,” he spoke clearly, voice level, giving his friend- master?- a steady look. “All is well in fair Verona.” He had nothing else but this message. So, Romeo pried out more answers.

“How is my mother? And my father? And- oh- Abigail? And-” a dreamy look passed over his face “-Juliet?”

Balthasar gave him an odd look. “Juliet Capulet? Why do you ask?”

Romeo almost blurted out how he had been married to her not twenty-four hours before. I could tell he wanted to speak of his great love for her, but he hesitated, probably remembering what had happened last time he had declared his love for the Capulet family. 

“They’re enemies. Long-held rivals. Romeo’s dad- Montague, right?- was a military leader. Of course he’s worried about his worst enemy,” I supplied in answer to Balthasar’s question.

The boy gave a nod. “Ah,” he said. “Well, you’ll be pleased, sir, that you will no longer have to worry about the Capulets. Juliet, the sole heir to the fortune of your rivals, sleeps peacefully among the souls of those whom have passed on.”

Romeo did not process his words. “So Juliet is well-rested, then?”

I bit my lip, knowing this was not what had happened. Balthasar paused, an unreadable expression passing his face. “She’s well-rested indeed. She’ll be resting forever, now.”

Romeo frowned. “People don’t sleep forever, Balthasar. Stop speaking in these riddles, man!” I recalled Benvolio saying this very thing to Romeo earlier. How the turns had tabled. 

“Juliet is dead,” he said in an unenthused, almost nonemotional, way. 

Romeo sunk down onto his knees, holding his side, as if he had been sliced with a sword. “Dead..? That can’t be….”

Balthasar gave a curt nod to Romeo. “Apologies for bringing this sad news. It was merely my job. Good day, sir.” He did not stay to listen to Romeo’s monologue. 

Romeo could not speak. I wanted to comfort him… but how do you comfort a newly wedded widower? 

There was silence for three minutes. Only the sound of labored breathing from where Romeo was, the occasional cry of victory from the ever-gambling and ever-drinking people downstairs. 

Finally, Romeo looked up. “I’m leaving,” he stated, standing up.

“Now?” I asked, hastily putting away my stuff for fear he would leave right now.

He thought a moment, brushing a shock of wavy hair out of his face. “No,” he said, thinking still. “I’ll leave in fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes was not a lot of time. But it was enough. We hadn’t had much packed- we barely had time to grab a bag for each of us and the travel guide before we were off, galloping off and away on Egg Tart and Mister Ed. We had stopped galloping maybe a mile out from Verona, trotting, and then walking for a while. 

Then, we reached Mantua… and you know the rest of it. Romeo stared furiously at the ground, unmoving. 

“Romeo?” I asked, trying to be as gentle as I could- the guy had just lost his girlfriend- sorry, ''wife-'' and his best friend within twenty-four hours. 

Romeo mumbled a yes, his energy sapped after the momentary energetic idea of returning to Verona.

“We’re leaving in five minutes, right?”

“Mmmm.”

“... You good?”

“Mmmm.”

“You don’t look good-” ''of course he’s not he’s grieving'' “- you sure you’re alright..?”

“Mmmm.”

Thus, we headed off towards Verona. Our horses weren’t as “young and spry” as the guy who had been watching them, who somehow had a lot more horses, had said. But we had to take them back, and so we did.

Romeo urged his horse onward, pulling in his heels towards the horse, squeezing him.

Mister Ed was worried, and I could tell. He wasn’t focused as he had been. And although he was a younger horse, he wasn’t going as fast as I knew he might want to. 

He glanced over to his older friend and whinnied, the sound nearly blasting out my ears (I was right near that horse when he did it, too- on a scale from one to ten it’d probably be an eleven). A soft neigh came from his friend, the dappled horse galloping along as fast as he could but slowing.

I slowed my horse, Egg Tart following his friend’s example and slowing as well. Romeo sighed in annoyance at our slowed paced. ''Understandable,'' I thought, casting him a quick sideways glance. ''But if we keep these horses going at a gallop for the full thirty-ish miles, they wouldn’t have much life in them once we got back.'' 

We staked out in the nearby woods. I wasn’t too keen on being caught and killed- and neither was Romeo. Although it barely took an hour to reach Verona, we staked out for six or so hours, and it took another fifteen minutes to slink around the city and to the graveyard that was right near the old church where Romeo had hastily informed me the Friar (Lawrence? Probably-) was the Father. 

Romeo, upon reaching his wife’s grave, sank to his knees once again. I expected him to pull a Hamlet, but he was silent. No word came from his mouth and the bushes seemed to understand that it was an emotionally-charged moment. Not a soul stirred and only the steady breathing of Romeo was heard. 

The moon cast a silver glow on the body that lay on a cushioned table near the upturned dirt- a custom, I assumed, of the Shakespeareans- illuminating her face. Her dark hair fell away from her face, and she almost looked like she was sleeping. Her thin frame was clad in a crimson, a peaceful look on her face. And then Romeo spoke.