Somebody to Die For

Prologue: Hooligans

The merrily lit streets of Verona were reasonably quiet that evening, as slushy pinpoint drops of snow made their pleasant little plip-plop voices heard against the cobblestones. The markets had all closed up an hour ago, and everyone who could afford to be was home, tucked up in their beds or by their fires. Everyone who couldn’t afford their own comfort was attending assiduously to someone else’s.

In the middle of the town square, a group of young gentlemen lounged around. One of them, an energetic, grinning, auburn-haired man was meticulously trying to form a snowball out of the meager layer that had stuck to the ground.

His companion, a tall, well-dressed man in an extravagant hat, raised an eyebrow at him.

“Give it a rest, Romeo,” suggested the well-dressed man. “There’s hardly enough snow to even-GAH!”

Romeo, having finished his small but mighty snowball, threw it directly into his friend’s face. The well-dressed man reeled back, winced, and began delicately wiping the slush out of his eyes.

“Hah!” Romeo crossed his arms over his chest and beamed, looking deliciously pleased with himself. “So you say, Mercutio, but anything Romeo puts his mind to, he completes, and this won’t be the last miracle we see tonight! Fear not, my precious Rosaline, your prince is on the way to sweep you off your feet!”

Mercutio sighed and shook his head. “My handsome face didn’t deserve such a direct assault. I know you’re jealous of my impeccable good looks, but try to keep that envy to yourself. You could have ruined my new coat, and that just might have turned out to be a duel-worthy offense.”

“Oh? You want to fight, huh?” Romeo shrugged confidently. “Bring it on, Monsieur! I accept your challenge! Thrust! Parry! Engarde, mon ami!”

He stood up, grabbed a stick off the ground, and brandished it dramatically at Mercutio. Mercutio just looked at it, unimpressed, with the hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Well,” murmured Mercutio, slowly reaching behind him to obtain his own pointy stick. “If you’re certain that’s what you want, Monsieur…then have at you!” 

Suddenly, Mercutio had lunged into a fighting stance, and was disarming Romeo in a flash of wooden fury. Romeo stepped back, his stick clattered to the ground, and he frowned. 

“And?" Mercutio's grin only broadened. "What have you to say now, my bold romancer?”

Behind them, a stately, blue-eyed Franciscan Friar, perhaps ten or fifteen years older than the others, sat on a rock and enjoyed a dainty sip of wine from an elegant hip flask. He laughed silently, enjoying the rowdy “duel.”

Beside him, a skinny, bespectacled young man sighed. “Please don’t encourage them, Lawrence. Hey, Romeo, Mercutio! Is it really a good idea for us to be making a scene in the street like this? Someone might get annoyed and call the guard…”

“Eh, I don’t think so.” Romeo shrugged. “Nobody’s going to give us a hard time when we’re in the company of the Prince of Verona’s younger brother! Isn’t that right, Your Majesty?” He winked at a stiff-looking blond man in uniform, standing aloof from the others with his arms crossed, apparently ignoring them. When Romeo addressed him, the blond man looked over, shot them all a withering look, and then returned to stoically watching the snow.

“Hey, hey,” realized Romeo, suddenly straightening up, “aren’t we going to be late? My Rosaline, she’s waiting for me. Fear not, my beauty, your knight in shining armor rides towards you, even as we speak!”

Again, the Friar laughed.

“Eh? What’s so funny?” Romeo glared at him. “All you do is sit there and cackle at us. What’s in the flask? If it’s good, you’d better be planning to share.”

“A group of alluring gentlemen like ourselves would do best to be fashionably late,” remarked Mercutio. “It adds to the mystery.”

“Um, yes,” agreed Benvolio. “I think party crashers are better off being late, in general.”

Romeo, however, wasn’t listening. Brushing the snow off of himself, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and then sauntered forward into the night. Shrugging, Mercutio and the silent prince followed him. Benvolio hurried after. 

The Friar was left alone, sitting on his rock, gazing at their retreating backs them through the falling snow. After draining the rest of his flask, he stood up carefully, turned around, and padded off in the direction of the church.