"Wounded Jester"

Disclaimer: Hmmm, well, technically Shakespeare isn't under copyright, BUT...I still don't own Romeo and Juliet.

Author's Note: Many thanks to Kiara-San for telling me about enabling unsigned reviews. I was wondering about that...And many thanks to Mizamour for asking me to join the community. I actually wrote this for English class, but it came out quite nicely. I think most Shakespeare fanfics started off as English assignments at some point. It's quite interesting. By the way, Helena actually is a character from Romeo and Juliet, sort of. If someone can find her, kudos to them!All right, enough drabble, and ON WITH THE STORY! (It doesn't have quite as nice a ring as "on with the show" but it's the best I can do.)

Editor's Note: This manuscript was discovered in 2004 in a stone vault in the city of Verona, Italy. The narration has been changed into more modern English for simplicity's sake, but the dialogue has been left as it was to keep the authentic air of the piece. The manuscript was bound in a water-tight packet with a letter and a locket, which contained two entwined locks of hair, one brown, the other red.

I was six years old when I first met Mercutio. My friend Juliet Capulet and I were sitting atop a low stone wall outside the home of the Capulets. It was a bright morning in early May, and an apple tree which was in bloom shook its delicate, rose-colored petals over us. Juliet and I were dressing our dolls, she with every indication of intense, I rather more impatiently. My doll was a girl made from ragged slips of cloth, named Laura. I had long been bored of her and had only come out because Juliet had insisted I accompany her, and because it was such a beautiful day out. Juliet, I now suspect, had come out because she wished to flaunt her new dress, a beautiful affair of red velvet, though really too warm for the summer months. She was very proud of it and of her honey-yellow hair, which she had smoothed back and tied with a velvet ribbon. She made quite a contrast to me, for I was wearing an old dress of white muslin, stained with grass and studded with mended tears, for I was not a child who liked to sit still, and I was ruinous to my clothes. My feet were bare, because I had abandoned my shoes earlier in the day, and my hair was a wild, dark tangle, since I had also avoided my nurse.

We had been sitting outside for a little while only, when there came past us a pair of boys, four or five years older than we. One of the boys was a short boy with brown hair and a nondescript face. He was greatly overshadowed by the other, a tall, gangling youth with flaming red hair and a merry face. Both boys stopped when they saw us, and

across the face of the second boy spread a mocking smile.

"Marry!" he exclaimed, nudging the arm of the boy at his side. "Look you, Benvolio, 'tis a pair of wenches, one as comely as a summer day and the other about as handsome as a scarecrow. Sad, is't not, that beauty is found so often without intelligence?"

Juliet promptly began to sob theatrically, her face in her hands. I was as easily hurt as she by the boy's rudeness, but I have never been one to take things calmly. In an instant, I was off the wall where I had been sitting and rushing at him, my fists wind-milling wildly. He was greatly taken aback at first, and I landed one blow smartly in his stomach. He gazed at me, shocked, and then he began to laugh and deflected my other attempts to injure him.

"Why, Benvolio, here is a wench with some spirit!" he laughed. "I'll say she's worth ten of the little lass that sits crying on yonder wall."

At this, Juliet began to cry harder. I, though flattered, felt that my six-year-old pride was at stake, and continued to hit at the tall boy. Benvolio looked at the boy I was hitting. "'Tis indeed," he replied, in a soft voice. "She seems to like you not overwell, however, Mercutio."

"'Tis the truth," agreed Mercutio. "'Tis so. How now, youngster, what be thy name?"

I ceased my attempts to land a blow home. I was not having a great deal of success, and the boy, after his first insults, had been passably polite.

"I am called Helena," I piped, a half-smile flitting across my infant face.

"Helena--and art thou named for beauteous Helen?"

I put my head to one side. Being but six, I knew naught of the classics. "Why, who is she?" quoth I.

"Knowest thou not of the fair Helen of Troy? She that was abducted by the fine Paris and for whom a grand city fell in ruins? Ah, she was the fairest face--so they say--in all the world. And so, I suspect, thou art named not for her."

I scowled. My hands bunched into fists. "Have a care of thy tongue," I poked out my lower lip, "lest thou cuttest thyself on it."

He burst into another laugh. "I meant nothing by it!" he apologized. "Thou art a fine young wench, and I hope that I shall see thee again, fair Helena."

I looked at him, trying to decide whether he was still mocking me or not. I decided he was, but that I should not attack him again, as he did seem to be partly serious.

"Mercutio!" Benvolio called. "Lookest thou!" He raised a hand to point. "'Tis Tybalt!"

An insult wafted over the breeze toward us, from what was obviously Juliet's cousin Tybalt.

"What ho! 'Tis the Prince of Cats indeed!" cried Mercutio, and he and Benvolio ran off toward Tybalt, leaving me to stare after them and wonder if Tybalt had a tail. I returned, rather puzzled, to Juliet, who was still crying. I sighed and picked up my doll, wondering how long she would continue to cry. I stared after the boys, trying to decide whether I liked or hated Mercutio.

After my first meeting with Mercutio I saw him many times. Most times he would say something provoking enough to make me attack him, but he always took it good-humouredly enough, deflecting my blows and laughing (which simply angered me more). Then, upon my seventh birthday, I was sitting on the wall, with Juliet, as usual. Spring had lengthened into lazy summer, and lush green leaves were all around us. Juliet was playing with her doll, of which she never seemed to tire. I, on the other hand, was gazing into the sky, imagining myself flying. I spread out my arms, as a hawk does and tamed the wayward breeze. I--

"I see thou playest the bird, fair Helena!" called Mercutio's voice. I slid down off the wall. His tone had been at once friendly and mocking. "Indeed I do, good Mercutio," I replied guardedly.

"But what sort of bird dost thou play?" he queried. "Methinks that is a hawk that doth throw out its wings so stiff. But why play thou a hawk, when thou wouldst make so much a better goose?" My fists were balling, and I was quite ready to strike him, when another voice called, "Why, is't Mercutio?"

Mercutio turned, and I jumped back up onto the wall to watch. "Indeed, 'tis I!" he said cheerfully. Juliet's cousin Tybalt strode forward. "I heard that you do insult me, calling me a rat catcher!" he snarled. He had a very unpleasant look on his face as he approached my friend (enemy?).

"Insult thee?" asked Mercutio, placing a hand on his heart, the very picture of innocence. "Call thee a rat catcher? Nay, why must I call when thou dost prove it thyself?"

"Prove it myself?" echoed Tybalt, furiously. "And, how, good Mercutio, have I this proven?"

"Why, thou art named for a Prince of Cats, art thou not? An thou be'st a rat-catcher, then thou dishonorest thy family, and an thou be'st not, why, then thou dishonorest thy name! Of course, thou might choose to dishonor thy name sooner than thy family, but in that case, dishonor shall descend upon thee, and an dishonored, why should thou not be a rat-catcher? 'Tis no more dishonorable than dishonor."

Tybalt snarled, looking confused. "You jesting monkey!" he cried. "Will you walk?"

Mercutio sighed. "I will not, for I am not of nature inclined to move more than necessary, and it cometh to my mind that we are not yet of an age to carry such implements as would make a walk more than common."

"Well, then," quoth Tybalt. "Will you fight?"

"With naught but my fists like a common servant? Aye, King of Cats, I am for thee!"

Tybalt had sprung at him before the words had even left his mouth. Mercutio hastily flung up his arms to defend himself, but he was just an instant too late. Tybalt's fists crashed home with great precision on Mercutio's mouth and nose, and the red-head fell over backward with an involuntary cry, the red blood already pouring from his nose. As soon as Juliet saw the blood, she screamed and ran toward the house. I, on the other hand, flung myself forward in a blind fury that anyone but myself should dare to touch Mercutio. "Tybalt, thou rat-catcher!" I screamed as I hurtled toward him. "A plague an' a pox upon thee an' thy house!"

I leaped upon his back, still yelling, and one of my hands closed on his curly black hair. I ripped that out by the roots, even as I hit at him with my other. My legs squeezed about his rib-cage. He gave a cry of surprise and fright and jerked backwards. The world tilted, and I hit the ground hard. I tried to pull myself upright and then realized with a horrible feeling of fright that I could not breathe. There was no air in my lungs, and I succeeded only in making a squeaking noise. Then Mercutio's face was bending over mine, still laughing; how, I did not know, since the entire lower half of his face was covered in bright red blood. "Ha, pretty Helena! Thou art indeed a brave wench! And Tybalt hath been put to flight! Ha, the brave Prince of Cats, to run from a little white mouse!" I must have looked disappointed at this description of myself, for Mercutio patted my head and helped me sit up--I was still breathing in little snatches--and said, "Be not sad, little Helena. Rememb'rest thou the tale of the lion and the brave young mouse who saved him from the trap. And rememb'rest thou also that even the mighty elephant flees before the mouse! But--" he laughed out loud this time. "--Tybalt is no elephant and for a cat to run from a mouse--he shalt not forget this for many a long summer! Come, fair Helena, we must take thee to thy home, for thou seem'st to be a little short of breath!"

He helped me up and together we went into my house, which was not very much farther away than Juliet's. The episode of that day soon faded into the back of my memory, but in later years I had cause to recall it.

When I was eleven years old, my father began to teach me how to ride. I learned quickly, of which I was proud, but my pride came before a fall. One day, though my father had expressly forbidden me to, I decided to go out riding by myself. I accordingly pulled on a dark green, hooded mantle over my brown dress, which conveniently hid my face in its shadow. I fastened it at the neck with a small brooch, gathered up my skirt, and hastened from the house. I made my way to the pasture where my horse waited, as silently as I could, for it was early, and if I woke anyone, I should not be able to carry out my plan.

My horse, whom I had named Lucio in a misbegotten attempt to compliment my brother, was a dark brown beauty with a white blaze on his forehead, and one white sock on his foot. His black eyes rolled when he caught sight of me, but he soon quieted when he recognized me. I used the fence rail to boost myself onto Lucio, once I had saddled and bridled him as my father had recently taught me. I clicked my tongue and flicked the reins, and Lucio ambled off at a leisurely pace.

My legs dangling down the brown horse's side, I watched the country-side flow easily past. Little bubbles of joy kept spurting up in my throat; it was summer again, and the leaves were green, and the birds were singing, and I thought to myself it was the most beautiful day I had ever seen. The sunlight that filtered down through the dense trees was a pale elfin green, and I shivered a little at the deliciously spooky thought that the fairies might be abroad, perhaps led by Queen Mab herself.

I had been traveling this way for quite some little time, when I saw a spot of ground shiver, hump, and suddenly rear up and hiss. There was a glint of yellow eyes, and I realized that it was a snake. Lucio saw it at the same moment I did, and letting loose a cry that was closer to a human scream than a horse's whinny, kicked up his heels and began to run. A shriek ripped itself from my throat before I was aware of it as the world flew past. After a moment or two of sheer and utter panic, I managed partially to regain my scattered wits, and with trembling hand, drew back tightly on the reins. Lucio, though, was no longer under my command. The snake had shaken him from all thought of his obligations to his rider, and he would no longer obey my guiding hand.

I felt a chill run down my spine and a cold sweat broke out upon my forehead and back, trickling down my face and neck. If I had no way to stop him, Lucio would keep running until I was thrown off or he collapsed from sheer exhaustion. I had no way to stop him if he would not listen to the reins, so my only recourse was to cry for help. Accordingly--not without a pang because I'd rather rely on myself than others--I screamed as loudly as I could, "Help! Help! Please, someone, help!" My cries rang out through the still woodland. I continued to shout at regular intervals, but for many minutes there was no answer, and my throat, already dry from screaming, began to dry with fear.

Just at about that point, when I had begun to be really afraid, there was a half-laughing, half-serious cry of "Au secours! Au secours!" and another rider was beside me. I had a glimpse of Mercutio's red hair and his thin hand grasping the bridle of the horse before there was a final long pull on the reins to the right, a gradual slowing, and finally, a stop. I sat on Lucio, breathless and disheveled, and wishing with all my heart that it had been anyone but Mercutio who had been within hearing range. He was going to laugh at me mercilessly, I knew that, and my fright was already melting away to be replaced by defensiveness.

"Well met, fair Helena," Mercutio gasped, seeming a little out of breath himself. He sat grinning, watching me, and waiting. I frowned. "I give thee thanks for saving me," I grumbled.

"Thou art most welcome," he replied solemnly, bowing deeply with his torso, though he remained seated on his horse. "Thou shouldst not flirt with Death though," he continued. "Lest he take thee and make thee stay with him in his dark palace as Hades did pale Persephone."

I shivered and scowled. Why must he make a joke of everything? It was quite true; I could have died. "No doubt thou willst joke e'en at thine own death," I snapped. He shrugged. "Jesting is no crime an danger be averted," he said, sounding serious for once. "At any rate," lapsing back into his old self, "thou hast no cause for worry, indeed, Helena, for Persephone was a fine, demur young girl, as beautiful as the day and indeed, not at all like thee in any way."

Part angry, part trying not to laugh, I tried to strike him with my fist. He dodged easily and grinned at me. "Fair Helena, I would protect thee from Death himself, should he ride upon his pale horse to attend thee. He is the dark, and thou--thou art the light." Just as I was beginning to wonder whether Mercutio had suddenly gone mad, he continued. "Though not so light, I think--thy horse seems fairly winded."

"Oh!" I cried in exasperation, wheeling Lucio around. Mercutio turned his horse too, and we cantered back to town together, both of us cheerfully shouting insults at one another. I was never quite as angry at Mercutio as I seemed.

My escapade resulted in my being confined to the house for the next several weeks, during which time I did not see Mercutio at all. I was bored and lonely and spent most of the time reading. When finally I was allowed to venture out, the weather did not bode well. Dark clouds loomed in the sky, and a soft wind sighed in the trees; nevertheless, after having been cooped up inside for the past two weeks, I thought I would surely go crazy if I didn't have a taste of fresh air. Accordingly, I put on a warm green dress and a heavy black cloak and made my way out to the nearby woods.

The trees were black and forbidding, most unlike the light green friends who had greeted me before. It was utterly still, and the air itself seemed to press down upon me. I shivered, and I was just thinking that I had better go home, when I heard a shout of "Help!" from somewhere in front of me. I paused for an instant, wondering if I had imagined it, but it came again, louder this time. Sighing, I hitched up my skirt and began to run toward the cries.

I barreled through a thicket of thorns, scratching my hands and face badly before emerging, decidedly bedraggled, into a muddy thicket in the middle of the woods. There was very little sunlight leaking down into the glade, for the trees met thickly and tightly at the top, but I could see quite plainly. I saw Mercutio, his red hair plastered to his head, standing up to his shoulders in mire. "Mercutio!" I exclaimed in astonishment. Though he looked slightly frightened, he grinned at me. "Good Helena," he exclaimed. "I am, as you see, dun in situation and in color, and, hadst thou not arrived as thou did, I might have been done in life as well."

"Save thy jests," I snapped. "I still have to draw thee from the mire. How didst thou manage to get thyself into such a situation?"

He shrugged. "I was walking with my head in the clouds, and as my feet were hidden from my head, blundered into a patch of swamp, from which I could not escape. I have been sinking for the better part of an hour. I am indeed glad that thou hadst decided to take a walk for today, or my situation had been very serious indeed."

"Thy situation is as bad as it was before, as far as I can see. Thou are still in the swamp."

"Ah, no, as I have said many times, beauty is a sign of small intelligence; therefore thy intelligence must be large, and thou willst soon have me up--an only to knock me down."

I scowled at him and looked around for a large branch. I found one quite easily and stretched it out to him. He floundered toward it, but fell. My heart nearly stopped, as his head dropped beneath the sucking mud, and he came up again a moment later, gasping for air, but managed to grab the stick this time, and I pulled back hard. Mercutio kicked with his legs and then flew out of the mud with a sucking sound to land beside me as I collapsed to my back with the sudden release of pressure. He lay beside me, coughing, his hair plastered with mud, his face streaked with dirt. "I thank thee," he gasped finally. "Playing dun had grown wearisome, good Helena."

"I have no doubt of that," I replied firmly. I sat up. "Shall we away?"

Mercutio pulled himself into a sitting position. "Thou hast made a most intelligent suggestion, witty Helena. Let us away, so that I may become mired in soap rather than mud, the soap being the more congenial of the two."

I nodded and grinned at him, causing him to raise an eyebrow at me. "I have been wondering how I should repay thee for saving my life these two weeks since," I said. "Fate appeareth to have chosen for me."

"That she hath," responded Mercutio cheerily.

Mercutio and I had many more adventures over the next two years, though none quite so memorable. But one night which stands out in my memory was the year that I turned thirteen and was invited to a party at the Capulets'. When I arrived, the halls were blazing bright with candlelight, and a group of musicians had already begun to pluck a poignant melody. Couples, dressed in every color under the sun, and arrayed in a multitude of ornate masks. The dance was slow and stately, and the palms of the couples traced the air in front of each other's hands, never touching. I stared, mesmerized, loosely holding a golden mask dangling before my blue dress. A light touch on my hand caused me to leap up with a startled cry.

"My dear Helena, I am surely not as hideous as all that, though this mask perhaps does not improve my visage."

I smiled at Mercutio, whose flaming red hair was clearly visible over the top of a glittering green, snake-like mask. "Wert thou invited as well?" I questioned.

"Nay, Helena, though thou knowst it not, thy question is intelligent," Mercutio replied. "At this point, thou art thinking how ridiculous is thy question, for an I am here, I was invited, was I not? Thou thinkst truly. But yonder standeth my good friend Romeo, and he is of the house of Montague."

"Montague!" I gasped, staring at the figure which hovered, barely visible, behind a huge stone pillar. The Montagues were the great enemies of the Capulets, and in my memory, three great fights had broken out between them on the streets of Verona. The Prince--the uncle of Mercutio--had, upon the occasion of the last one, laid a sentence of death upon any who continued the quarrel. But it was still true that a Montague would find a very cold reception indeed in the house of the Capulets.

"Is thy friend mad?" I questioned, looking at Mercutio.

"Nay, not mad, merely sick."

"Sick?"

"He pineth for a young lady by the name of Rosaline, and as he discovered she was to be here, hath thrown all caution to the wind and come, hoping to catch a glimpse of his lady-love."

"Thou wouldst never do anything so foolish," I said, looking at him.

"'Tis true, 'tis true. I should induce the lady I loved to come to me, were there danger, but this the young Montague cannot do, for the lady looks upon him not with a favorable eye. Now, wilt thou dance?"

I was astonished. He was asking me to dance? A blush started to warm my cheeks, and I looked at the ground. Mercutio could have no thought in his head other than that a dance would be an enjoyable experience, and I was presumably the person he knew best. "Of course I will dance with thee," I responded, still inordinately pleased, and he leaned over my hand, kissing it with a roguish gleam in his eye before leading me onto the dance floor.

Later that evening, I left the Capulets' house with an excited, exuberant feeling. As I came to the road, I witnessed Mercutio and Benvolio laughing after Romeo, who had disappeared into the cover of the darkness. I heard the young Montague, on the other side of the wall, murmur, "He jests at scars that never felt a wound," and I wondered briefly to whom and on what count he could be referring. From the word jest, I deduced it was probably Mercutio. I was slipping toward my house, which was only some few yards distant, when someone touched me on the shoulder. I jumped but did not scream, for I realized instantly that it was Mercutio, Benvolio having just left, on his way to his own house.

"Good e'en to thee, fair Helena," Mercutio exclaimed. "I would have a five-minutes' conference with thee."

"Thou may'st speak with me, but briefly, as't'is late," I said.

"Ah, good Helena, I should not keep thee from the arms of Morpheus an I were not jealous of the God."

"Thou art jesting as usual," I said blankly. "I laugh, good Mercutio, but what wouldst thou have with me?"

"I was, as thou sayest, jesting, yet can a man not tell the truth in a jest?"

"Thou shouldst know; thou art a greater jester than I, and far more natural." I could not resist throwing in a pun myself for good measure. Mercutio clapped a hand to his heart and stumbled backward in mock pain. "A hit! A hit!" he cried, laughing. "Thy wits are sharp and as a sauce would burn." He moved toward me again. "Now, Helena, for once I am being serious when I say that I love thee."

"Thou what?" I gasped. "Mercutio, art thou sickening with the plague?"

"Nay, nay, I sicken only with poison from the arrows of Psyche's purblind mate."

"An this be a jest--" I began uncertainly.

"Thinkst thou so?" he asked softly, much more softly than was his wont. Suddenly, in a gesture far more rapidly characteristic of him in its dramatic swiftness, he was pulling me toward him. The moonlight fell full on his face as he bent toward me, giving him an unearthly appearance, but I soon forgot to notice, as his lips were pressing against mine and his arms were about me. Mine soon followed suit. "Thy friend Romeo hath wits of dull clay," I said, a moment later.

"What dost thou mean?" Mercutio asked amusedly, his eyes still twinkling with ever-present humor.

"Moments ago, I heard him complaining that thou were jesting at his scars, as one who had never felt a wound."

"Romeo's brain is not of the highest order," Mercutio agreed, grinning. "He realizeth not that one who has felt a wound may jest about scars all the more, having knowledge with which to back his jesting. Romeo's heart's in the right place--else, I think, he would not be alive. Now, fair Helena--fairer by far than the sun, for she will shed light only by day, and refuseth utterly to do so at night--so is she so unjust--I will take my leave of thee till the morrow, at which point we may resume our conversation."

I waved to him as he ran down the cobblestone street and went into my own house, my heart singing inside me.

I woke late the next morning, to find the sunshine streaming hotly into the room and got up leisurely. I was very tired, for I had not been abed until late the night before. I got into a spring-green dress covered in embroidery, ran down the stairs, slipped out of the house and went to look for Mercutio, whom I found lolling in the center square by the fountain, with Benvolio. He waved at me cheerily, and I waved back, running over. We spent several pleasant hours together, having a sparring match of wits between ourselves and Benvolio, when my nurse came and found me, and administered a great scolding to me for leaving the house without permission. I was summarily taken inside and unable to escape for a few hours longer. When I managed to return, I saw that Romeo had joined Mercutio and Benvolio and that they were in the midst of a discussion with Tybalt of the house of Capulet, Juliet's cousin.

As I arrived, I heard Tybalt say, "…therefore turn and draw!" He appeared to be speaking to Romeo. My heart started thumping quickly, and my breath started to come just a little faster. Romeo was answering Tybalt, though I was as yet too far away to hear all that they said, "…do protest I never injured thee…name I tender as dearly as mine own…be satisfied."

At that, Romeo turned away from Tybalt, and then Mercutio sprang forward with an angry expression on his face. From experience, I knew that he was angry with Tybalt for impugning Romeo's honor, and with Romeo, for not defending himself. I heard Mercutio cry, "Oh, calm, dishonorable, vile submission!" and something about alla stoccata, before his rapier was out, and Tybalt's was out, and they were circling each other with wary expressions on their faces. I was running toward them now, and I heard Romeo yelling to Mercutio to stop.

Mercutio ignored him, his face grim, though underneath it, I could see that he was still laughing. I finally reached them, as Romeo drew his own rapier and yelled, "Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!" And then he thrust out the rapier--I could see he was attempting to knock their blades away--and Mercutio's sword was knocked upward, but not Tybalt's. Tybalt's blade kept going…I shrieked and found myself beside Mercutio. Tybalt was fleeing as quickly as he could. Mercutio was standing with a peculiar expression on his face. "Mercutio?" I gasped.

"I am hurt," he exclaimed, and the unbelieving note in his voice tore at my heart. Why, oh why, hadn't I gotten here sooner? He was still talking, glaring at Romeo and after Benvolio. "A plague o' both your houses…I am sped. Is he gone and hath nothing?"

The blood was leaking through his vest. Benvolio, displaying astonishing incomprehension, asked, "What, art thou hurt?"

Mercutio nodded, brushing it off at a scratch at first and then--to my horror--admitting it was enough. Romeo, for whom I could already feel a burst of anger building hot inside me, touched Mercutio's arm and exclaimed, "Courage, man, the hurt cannot be much." I want to believe him--oh, how I wanted to believe him, but as Mercutio stumbled and I caught him, pulling his arm over my shoulder, he answered, managing to smile at me for my help, "No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but 'tis enough, 'twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man." He started to laugh, but halfway through, it was transformed into a rough cough which shook his whole body. I stared at him, frightened, and gradually the coughs abated. He swallowed and went on, "I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o' both your houses! Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death!" Again he was shaken by a coughing fit, but he recovered more quickly this time, and I listened as he continued to speak, trying to blink back the tears springing to my eyes. "A braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic!" He turned to Romeo. "Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm."

His face looked worn with pain as Romeo, not knowing what else to say, managed, as though he had only just realized the severity of the situation, "I thought--I thought all for the best." I knew he had, but the hot flame of anger against him was still within me, as was a cold, cold feeling of fear for Mercutio. Mercutio, though, seemed to realize that it was more Tybalt's fault than it was Romeo's, for he managed another smile and touched Romeo on the cheek in a gesture of forgiveness. Then he turned to Benvolio and me and groaned, "Help me into some house, Benvolio, Helena, or I shall faint." Then, to Romeo again, "A plague o' both your houses! They have made worms' meat of me. I have it, and soundly too. Your houses!"

At that, he staggered and would have fallen, had not Benvolio helped me support him. Mercutio was breathing heavily, and his face was dead white and covered in sweat. Leaving Romeo staring after us, we got Mercutio within one of the trellises that hid the houses from the road, but once there, it was obvious he could go no farther. We propped him gently against the trellis, and he looked up at us through dulling eyes, his chest heaving.

"Fair Helena--" he gasped, a trickle of blood overflowing from his mouth and running down his chin.

"Oh, do not speak, do not speak," I exclaimed.

He grinned weakly and opened his mouth again in spite of me. "What wouldst thou havest me be, Helena? A monkey? Monkeys do not speak, for all that I have more than once been--" he began, but before he could finish, a gasp escaped from him, and a last shudder wracked his body, before his head fell limply back to rest against the trellis.

A sob caught in my throat. I was dimly aware that Benvolio's hand was on my shoulder, but I ignored him. Slowly, I stretched a hand to touch Mercutio's. I was shivering as though I were very cold. Another sob escaped my lips, and another, and another. Then Benvolio had left to tell Romeo, and I was alone with Mercutio's lifeless body. My hand fell onto the sword he still held clutched in his hand, and I stared at it for a moment; then I carefully unlatched his fingers and picked up the rapier. It was light even in my unskilled hand. I ran a finger along the edge; it was sharp, very sharp. If I--no. No, I could just see Mercutio teasing me about flirting with Death--and I knew then that I was not a creature of Death. Death should never take my maidenhead.

Carefully, I used the sword to saw through a lock of Mercutio's bright hair. I fingered it slowly, staring at the many different strands, all a different shade of orange. The pain in my heart so great that the sobs would no longer come, I bent and kissed him gently, one last time.

I approached with trepidation the walls of the convent, for they loomed high and dark above me. I clutched the one pitifully small bundle of belongings I held in my hand and took one last look at the outside world. Heavy gray-white clouds blanketed the sky, and the knot in my throat tightened as I looked back at the barren trees and bushes, swaying ever so slightly in the gentle wind. How long it had been! How many months of agony before Friar Lawrence convinced me to enter the convent! Not only Mercutio, but my childhood friend Juliet and her lover Romeo were dead of the awful feud that had raged between the houses of Montague and Capulet, until in devouring their most precious flowers, it had burnt itself out. Juliet--she had killed herself when she found Romeo dead, yet I still lived. Did I?

I stepped through the gates of the convent, saw the heavy wood swinging to. I felt as though it were shutting out all light, all life, all laughter from my heart. A gentle coldness felt as though it were setting in. I should give into it…and it was then that I realized that if I did give in to the coldness Death should indeed take my maidenhead, a living death, but Death nonetheless. I forced myself to see past the vision that had floated before my eyes for months--the vision of Mercutio's white, bloody face--and into the world as it looked now. Suddenly, a squirrel ran across my path and sat up, an acorn between its paws. I gazed down at it, surprised.

It saw me, but instead of freezing, as squirrels generally do if frightened, it bared twin buck teeth and started chattering at me violently as if to say, "This is my acorn, and thou may'st not steal it!" I felt a laugh bubbling up inside me--it was funny--and the world was funny--and then the laugh came out and I was splitting my sides, because I hadn't laughed in months, and now this was funny, and everything could be laughed about again, because that was something Death couldn't touch--laughter. All of a sudden, a huge bolt of lightning cracked through the clouds above me, and I was laughing, laughing, and, yes, crying a little too, and the dreadful, awful coldness was gone, and there was rain pouring down, rain pouring down everywhere, and then I was dancing and drinking the rain and laughing. Nay, though Death claimed me tomorrow, Mercutio should have my maidenhead, though I wait a thousand years. A thousand years!

To whom it may concern: The lady of these pages, Helena Risoro, lived in the Convent of San Girolamo for ten years, before dying of a fever, leaving me the sole surviving witness of the events of the tragic feud between the Montagues and the Capulets, which led to the deaths of my friends Mercutio and Romeo. Helena gained a reputation for helping as many of the poor and sick as she could, and especially for her cheerful manner everywhere, even among the dying. She was often in trouble with the Mother Abbess, but she was greatly loved. I visited her some months before her death, and at her request have preserved this record of experiences in my family's vaults.

--Benvolio of the house of Montague