Try though Benvolio might, Tybalt remains elusive and his letters to Lord Capulet go unanswered. Desperate to confirm Romana’s condition, he decides to approach the Capulets directly to see how his beloved fairs. 

Heavy rain falls as Benvolio stands outside the Capulet manor, concealed in the shadows of the trees. He watches the guards standing before the gates and curses his lack of forethought. In his rush to get here, he didn’t give himself time to form a plan on how he’d find his way inside. A voice calls out to him, disrupting his thoughts.

“If it isn’t Benvolio.”

“Friar Laurence.”

He comes to a stop near Benvolio, holding his umbrella over both of them.

“And what brings you to the Capulet residence on such a fine day?” the Friar asks lightly. “Not trying to start trouble I hope?”

Benvolio clenches his jaw. 

“I heard the Capulet girl was ill,” he says, the words heavy in his mouth. “I wanted to wish her well.”

“How gallant of you. And some people believe your families can’t make peace. But what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be asking for entry before the guards?”

Benvolio’s gaze falls to the ground. The Friar girns, shaking his head sadly.

“Oh, I see. It seems the Capulets aren’t as open minded as you. Shame really.” He pauses, eyes turned to the gray skies before his face lights up once more. “How about I lend a hand?”

“How?” Benvolio says, frowning.

“You can pose as my disciple.”

Benvolio hesitates before nodding.

“Splendid!” The Friar turns from the gate, heading back the way he came.

“Friar Laurence? Where are you going?”

“To get you a cloak, my boy. No one will believe our little farce if you lay your face bare for all to see, now will they?”

After acquiring a disciple’s cloak, Benvolio follows the Friar through the gates and into the Capulet manor. He keeps his head down, his heart beating wildly in his chest. If just one person recognizes him—

“Lord Capulet,” Friar Laurence says with a bow. 

Benvolio studies Lord Capulet as he bows. He looks thinner and unkempt, the dark circles under his eyes a new feature since they last spoke.

“My condolences for your tragic situation,” the Friar says. “Truly, it is a sad thing to lose a child so young.”

“Hold your tongue, Friar,” Lord Capulet growls. “Romana is still with us and I’ll see that it stays that way.”

“But of course! I meant no offense. I only meant I can understand what you must be going through.” The Friar sighs heavily. “It is why I’ve come to offer the girl a prayer.”

Lord Capulet stares for a moment before nodding his approval. He turns on his heel.

“Follow me, and be brief. She needs her rest.”

“But of course.”

Benvolio follows after them, his heart in his throat. He prays Romana’s condition isn’t as bad as he feared. He isn’t prepared for what he sees when he enters her room. 

She lies unconscious in bed, her forehead slicked with sweat. Her cheeks, once rosy and round, are swallow and pale. Her breathing is labored, her brow furrowed in pain. Tears spring to his eyes, and he turns away from the sight. As the Friar approaches her bedside, Benvolio notices Lord Capulet standing by the door, his expression grave. Benvolio approaches.

“Lord Capulet,” he says, voice low. “A word, please.”

Lord Capulet’s gaze narrows. When Benvolio adjusts the hood to reveal his face, recognition enters his eyes. His anger is swift.

“You dare—”

“Not in here,” Benvolio hisses. “Please, milord. As you said, your daughter needs rest.” 

Lord Capulet’s nostrils flair, but he holds his tongue. He turns to the nursemaid.

“Keep an eye on her.”

“Yes, milord.”

Sparing Romana a glance, his heart breaking anew, Benvolio follows Lord Capulet out.

“You dare enter my house, unannounced and in disguise,” Lord Capulet growls through clenched teeth. “I should have you killed where you stand.”

“I meant no offense, milord.”

“No offense?” His face grows red. “You—”

“I merely wished to ask after Romana once I heard—”

“My daughter has nothing to do with you!”

“With all due respect, milord,” Benvolio says evenly, “she is the woman I love most above all others and when news of her health came to me, I was so beside myself with worry that I had to ask after her in any way I could.”

Lord Capulet studies him coolly.

“Leave. Immediately.”

“Is there anything that can be done for her?” Benvolio presses. “What has the doctor said?”

“Did you not hear me, boy?”

“Please, milord! I beg you. All I want is for Romana to be healthy and whole.”

Lord Capulet turns away, his body trembling. Benvolio hangs his head in defeat, his fists clenched, when Lord Capulet speaks.

“No doctor has been able to cure her,” he says softly.

“Do they know what is causing it?”

“No.”

“I’ll find something,” Benvolio says, determined. “I’ll find a way to make her well again.”

“You do that. . .and my daughter’s hand is yours.”

“I’m not doing this for that, milord. I meant what I said.” He chooses his words carefully as the Friar leaves the room. “I only wish for Romana’s health to improve.”

“As we all do,” the Friar says with a sigh. “She is in god’s hands now.”

“Your prayers and well wishes are appreciated, Friar,” Lord Capulet says, “but I must insist you leave now.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome.” He turns to Benvolio. “Come along now.”

As Benvolio and the Friar make to leave the hall, a rush of guards hurries towards them, Paris at their head.

“Lord Capulet!” Paris says, a man carrying a medic’s bag behind him. “I have brought him as fast as I could.”

“I cannot thank you enough for this,” Lord Capulet says.

“Thank me when Romana is well again.”

Benvolio stares after them as they disappear into Romana’s room. How he longs to rush to her side as Paris does, leaning over her and wiping her brow lovingly. His heart constricts and he forces himself to leave.

“Thank you for your help today, Friar Laurence,” he says once they are outside the manor.

“Think nothing of it. Which reminds me,” he says as Benvolio starts to walk away, “would you mind passing this on to Lord Julius? The poor soul has been having trouble sleeping lately, and I meant to give him this.” He holds out an envelope. “It's a recipe for a tea I make my disciples when they have trouble finding rest. I only pray it can help him too.”

“Of course,”

“Thank you,” the Friar says with a smile. “Get home safe, Benvolio. One can catch a nasty cold in this weather.” 

 ⬥⬥⬥

Julius is on his way to his chambers when he spots Benvolio. He greets him with an innocent smile.

“Hello, dear cousin. We missed you at lunch.”

“Sorry. I had errands to attend to.” Benvolio reaches into his pocket and pulls out the envelope. “I ran into Friar Laurence on the way. He told me to give this to you.”

“Thank you,” Julius says, holding it tight. 

He studies Benvolio’s face. He looks as though he was crying though there is no evidence of his tears. In fact, Julius picks up on a sense of determination about him. He frowns.

“Is something wrong?” he asks. “You don’t look well.”

“Just tired.” Benvolio flashes a weak smile. “Let me know if that recipe works. I may need you to brew me some.”

“I’ll be sure to.”

Julius waits for Benvolio to walk away before he opens the envelope. Inside is a single note. He reads it twice before crumpling it in his fist. He trembles, his heart racing. His eyes land on a maid carrying a pitcher of water. Without a moment of hesitation, he grabs her roughly by the arm, ignoring her shrieks, and drags her to his room where he closes the door with a slam. He throws her to the ground and heads for his desk, grabbing the dagger he keeps in the top drawer.

“I apologize!” the maid cries, bowing on her hands and knees. “I’m so sorry for wronging you, my lord! For whatever it is that I’ve done!”

“How dare he!” Julius growls, slicing the maid’s back.

She shouts, and tries to run, but Julius holds her in place.

“He thinks he can just see her as he pleases?” He continues to slice into the maid’s skin, ignoring her pleas for mercy. “That he has the right?”

With every slice, he pictures Benvolio. He cuts deeper and deeper. Blood flows over his hands, sprays into his face. He doesn’t notice when the maid stops moving. All he can see and feel is his hatred for Benvolio. An hour later, he wipes the blood from his hands, his mood only somewhat calmed. A gentle knock sounds at his door. 

“Enter,” he says coldly.

“I’ve brought your tea, mi—” Mercutio covers his mouth at the sight of the carnage, the cup in his hands falling to the ground. Shards of porcelain and tea mix with the pool of blood on the floor. The maid’s flesh and clothes hang in ribbons. Mercutio holds back a retch as Julius addresses him.

“I want the letters Romana sent Benvolio. Knowing him, I’m sure he’s kept more than a few. Find every last one. I don’t care what you have to do to get them, just do it.” He spares him a disdainful glance. “Is that clear?”

“Y-yes, milord.”

Julius pauses at the door, wiping a streak of blood from a cut left on his cheek.

“And clean this up. I want it spotless before I return.”

 ⬥⬥⬥

After warming himself by the fire, determined to keep his word, Benvolio immerses himself in medical books in the Montague library. Hours tick by as he pours over page after page, but still finds nothing promising.

Sensing someone approaching, Benvolio looks up from the book in his hands.

“I-is there something I can help you with, Master Benvolio?” Mercutio asks softly.

“No,” he says with a sigh, placing the book back. “I’m afraid not.”

Mercutio glances at the shelf.

“Medical books?”

“I’m looking for diseases,” Benvolio says, taking down another. He takes a quick glance through the pages before placing it back on the shelf with a self deprecating chuckle. “Not that I know exactly what I’m supposed to be looking for.”

“Why? I-if you don’t mind me asking.”

Benvolio stares at the books before him. Regardless of his reasons, he got Mercutio involved. Even worse, all his efforts were wasted after Benvolio abruptly left the Prince’s palace. He owed it to Mercutio to tell him why.

“There is a woman whom I love very much, but she is out of my reach.” He pauses, running his hands through his hair. “She is sick and the thought of leaving her to her fate is not something I can do.”

“You’re talking about Romana Capulet,” Mercutio says. “Aren’t you?”

Benvolio nods.

Mercutio stares at the ground. He knew this, of course, but seeing how broken Benvolio looks tears at his heart. Was he really going to cause him even more pain? He bites his lip. Julius would punish him if he didn’t do as he said, but who's to say he couldn’t be sincere in his efforts? Gathering his courage, Mercutio meets Benvolio’s eyes.

“I-I would like to help you,” he says hesitantly. “In any way I can.”

Benvolio frowns.

“You do not judge me for loving a Capulet?”

“How could I judge love when I myself have never experienced it?” Mercutio smiles sadly. “Rather than condemn you, Master Benvolio, I’d much rather help you find peace.”

Benvolio smiles, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Mercutio. Truly, but I’m afraid without a clear direction, I’m not sure where to start.”

“Then, when you have better direction, call on me and I’ll be there to help.”

 “I’ll take you up on that. For now, I suppose its best I get some rest, hm?”

“It is said that you can’t help others if you can’t help yourself, Master Benvolio.”

Benvolio chuckles.

“Yes. I suppose you’re right.”

As he follows Benvolio out of the library, he hesitates before forcing himself to speak.

“I-I’ll have the maids draw you a bath,” he says, “and I’ll bring some refreshments to your room in the meantime.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Benvolio says.

“But you came out of the rain and didn’t bother to change. You also missed lunch.”

Benvolio eyes him, shaking his head with a smile.

“You’re just like Julius.”

Mercutio’s heart sinks, his hands tightening on his sleeves. He isn’t wrong. What Mercutio is doing—what he is preparing himself to do—is no less cruel than all the things Julius has ever done.

“I-I’ll consider that a compliment,” he says, forcing a smile. “Shall I get everything prepared?”

“Please. If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, Master Benvolio. It would be my pleasure.”

Mercutio hurries away, trying and failing to ignore his growing guilt.