When they arrived at the ballroom, twilight had already usurped. The bleak radiance of the dying sun chasing after their tardy figures as they fast-talked their way through security and sashayed arm-and-arm through the colossal doors. The smothered revelry he had distinguished down the corridor gradually crescendoed into a reverberative percussion of laughter and chatter. A vast concourse of bloated, purfled skirts; crisp waistcoats and the silkiest fineries foregathered under an empyreal plafond of ethereal muses, plump cherubim and gilded chariots, encompassed by walls of gold stucco and foregrounded by marbled columns inscribed with delicate acanthi.  

Enormous candelabras permeated the vast dancefloor in a warm glow. He roughly estimated that there were at least a hundred or daringly more attendees that hailed from this esteemed household and that. With the unrest and uncertainties of the ongoing war afoot, Jevon questioned if the merriment was in poor taste. Although the rich in their ivory towers were perhaps too desensitized and, you know— they will take care to flaunt their infinite wealth whenever the opportunity arises. 

Not to mention, the Montagues themselves were practically obsessed with organizing these grand, over-extravagant galas of theirs— hells, in quieter times of peace, there were balls hosted just about every other week for no particular reason other than the nobility to mingle and waste taxpayer dollars. He has been associated with the likes of the higher class since he quite literally descended into the arms of one of their unfortunate scions, but he doubted he would ever be able to understand their hedonistic proclivities.  

“So, Xolani. Where should I set up?”  

“Jevon,” his friend abruptly interrupted as they dislodged their steadfastly linked arms to wind around their own chest in lieu. A sole vermillion eye scampered around the commodious ballroom as their lace-gloved fingers rapped a nervous cadence against the jut of their elbow. “... So, ahem... here’s the thing, my sweet summer baby... I may or... may not have told a teensy-tiny little fib...” 

“What do you mean?”  

“I truly wasn’t expecting it. I mean, it was one hell of a plot twist. Perhaps a bit of divine intervention? Anyways, it would seem that our dear harpist has made a miraculous recovery. Hooray. So, there’s no need for you to, ahem, stand in on their behalf. Or that is to say that there was never anything to worry about in the first place?”  

A snow-white eyebrow furrowed with suspicion. “Xolani,” Jevon delicately rephrased his wording with sterner emphasis. “What is going on—” 

“Ah, let us not sweat all the fussy little details, all right? Too much stress is horrendous for one’s skin,” Xolani magicked the uneasy tension with a forced laugh as their forefinger swooped to poke him squarely on the edge of his nose. Although when it became obvious that their evasive jollities had little to no effect on their target, Xolani deflated like a popped balloon and they retreated to their proverbial shell and curled in on themself. 

“All right, look— this certainly wasn’t my first choice, trust me. I entertained my lion’s share of potential options, but they weren’t getting me anywhere anytime soon. Do forgive this loathly one for taking advantage of your gullible nature— I simply had no choice. But for the love of the Fates themselves, you have got to help me out here, Jevon. My blasted future is on the line,” they were scrabbling for his sleeves now and Jevon would have amounted this spiel of dramatism to their usual theatrics, but their words and ministrations came accompanied with an undercoat of uncharacteristic urgency— their round-eyed expression reminiscent of a pleading, starving beggar on the side of the road. Obviously, there was something dire amiss. Gently, he prodded them for answers. 

“Xolani, I implore you to properly elaborate.” 

Before Xolani had the chance to explain, a sudden exclamation shattered through the festivities— mirroring the spontaneous ferocity of a thunderstrike on a calm day. A silencing roar that seemed to shudder the earth off its axis. And its aftershocks rattled his spine in an electrifying chill; the hairs on the back of his neck rocketing upward. He did not recognize that booming timbre instantaneously. However, he did notice that his companion’s features had gone a ghostly shade. They shrunk like a small animal catching sight of a predator’s silhouette prowling through the underbrush and quickly ducked behind the taller of the two as though he were a shield.  

The crowd partitioned; the trees sundered by a brutish gale, and the roiling tempest stalked forth. He was a colossus of a man with a tired, ashen-brown complexion with profound circles accenting the edges of his obsidian-black eyes. Flagrant exhaustion notwithstanding, his gait was full, broad-shouldered, and overwhelming— a skyscraper emboldened by hefty, powerful assets. His regalia harbored the national palettes of dark purples with ornamentations and furbelows of irradiant golds. 

Albeit it contrasted the standard-issued military uniforms— bulkier and seemingly tailor-made for his fathomless physique, and notably more stylized. A threadbare cape was draped around his armored shoulders, emblemed with an extravagant shield-like crest with crisscrossing blades in its backdrop, and it trailed behind him like an oppressive shadow of might. It and his features alike bore telltale signs of age— whittled down by decades of persistent service. His beard and hair were outgrown— a deep hue of black that was frosted gray at the roots, and it was let down in waves upon waves of unkempt curls and knots. 

“... Lord Mercutio,” Jevon kept his voice level and his back straight as he shuffled in front of his cowering friend protectively when the man drew precariously close. “A pleasure to see you again,” he diligently masked the derision that threatened to poison his collected tenor while his eyes narrowed by reflex, carefully monitoring the mountain of a man like an enemy on the advance. “It’s been some time, I’d say. I heard you were on a reconnaissance mission in the south. Some trouble over in the Isles of March, correct? For the sake of my own workload, I certainly hope that His Grace was able to make some leeway with our negotiations with the de Regans.” 

As anticipated, his comment was completely overlooked, as was his presence altogether. Mercutio may as well not have even spotted the other man even if he was one of the few in their particular quarter that could compete with his mammoth stature. “Benvolio,” dead eyes were fixed on the hideaway at his rearguard, crouched and clinging firmly to the back of his suit like a stubborn barnacle. 

“Stop mousing away and come and face me properly, Benvolio. Do not make me repeat myself,” his sharp command left little room for argument, to say the least. Jevon noticed how his friend had given his garb a brief squeeze, hesitating to peek out— but ultimately, Xolani tentatively reemerged, enfolding themself with their arms like a stand-in barrier. 

“Aw, shucks. Now, what could the exalted Sir Mercutio want with a— a mere plebeian with little to no social standing like mine humble self?” Although Xolani was attempting, at least, to weave in their usual japes and cajoleries— it was as glaring as a blob of black ink on a piece of parchment that they were— scared. And Xolani was not the sort to take easily to fear, needless to say. 

They were unabashedly bold and a benchmark of confidence— and a more reclusive, withdrawn person like Jevon often caught himself envying, pondering about the identity of the secret to their unchallengeable charisma— but even gods were not purely invulnerable, and lauded Achilles still had the fault of his pesky heel to trip him up. Furthermore, he has known Xolani since he was still a wee thing— while he was not privy to the full extent of the details, he was there to witness it firsthand when they chose to cut ties with House Alexis— even if it had yet to hit the official records, they have not set foot in their erstwhile estate for years now. 

 Evidently, Sir Mercutio himself was hesitant to accept their personal exile as hard fact as well. He continued to antagonize them to this day, reportedly. Of course, as the chief of the Ministry of Defense and head of House Alexis, who was debatably second-in-power to that of the Montagues themselves and the Church of Antares, although he was supposed to have retired, without an expendable heir, he regrettably still commandeered a sizable chunk of national power.  

Devout to the throne unquestionably, but one could suggest that Sir Mercutio was a product, or perhaps a repercussion, of the old faith: although conditions in Igerene have steadily been improving (or were, but then all their progress went up into proverbial and literal flames with the incitement of the war—) there were still many of those within the highchairs who were enslaved by their roots. The root of evil and the pulpy mountain of carnage and hate that Igerene was founded upon, that is— and many yet fought for their “damaged” pride, incapable of accepting or facilitating change or Igerene’s purported descent from preeminence.  

Sir Mercutio was one of those nonbelievers, to say the least. As the commander of the Ministry of Defense, the growth and needless financing of military strength, and the ultimate violation of nonaggression pacts was practically his bread and butter. Jokes aside, the Ministry was partly responsible, if not wholly for the conflict within the senate. 

The divided council; the preachers who celebrated the usurped regime like pure gospel versus the tentative acceptance of the new: it was steeped and ultimately went back around to the Ministry’s poorly concealed corruption, silently but steadily mushrooming— a pandemic that would no doubt take thousands if left unchecked. There were even various rumors appertaining to foul play in regards to the fair and pallid lady whose assassination originally gave rise to this pathetic war— but it would take no private eye to deduce that this was an internal issue at its core.  

It was unsurprising that Mercutio was as hardened and borderline unfeeling as a roughened drill sergeant. His track record was nearly as concerning. Of course, the powerful could get away with murder if they so choose, so these splotches on his pristine profile were merely denoted as simple mistakes by the superiors to Mercutio’s superiors and effortlessly swept underneath the rug and out of the public gossip spheres, but Jevon has seen his cruelness in effect and has been on the receiving end of it himself. Of course, nothing compared to the horror stories he has overheard from Mercutio’s subordinates— knights who foolishly enlisted to be whipped into shape by the king’s veritable sword-arm— and naturally, those who were forced to share a living space with him.  

... Xolani hardly took pride in being a “survivor,” though. When a hand inched a shy too close to their face, they still could not keep themself from flinching. Jevon saw the welts that they kept stealthily hidden underneath long sleeve and perfectly crafted lie alike— and at the time he had been determined to stage a political assassination. 

A flick of the wrist, a curated public speech commissioned by a standby manager— and some hush money on the sly would shush outcry, and abuse will continue to thrive unpunished as maintaining the status quo, of course, took priority over personal justice. Even when casualties inevitably arose, and in Mercutio’s case, there have been— his legacy precedes him, a veritable hallmark for the country and if he so willed it for his campaign, he could come up with a valid reason to excommunicate his doubters outright. He was surprised that Xolani managed to escape unscathed— mostly at least. 

 But Mercutio was as possessive over his surviving heir as a moth to the flame— he had been humiliated and became hailed as a laughingstock when they packed their bags and flashed him and his conditions the middle finger. 

But above all else, he was a delusional man. Jevon might have pitied him in another life, but whatever his mental state, his actions should not be forgiven or readily condoned: Xolani’s scars suffered scars because of his vitriol— yet Xolani had chosen to grow and become kind instead of spiteful whereas Mercutio was more or less a fussy infant trapped in the body of a man grown— throwing a prolonged and vapid tantrum. Clinging to the headstone of a phantom name: and not in the matter that one may presume. Xolani was christened after their biological mother, after all— and they decided to preserve it in her honor. But Mercutio never saw them as the orphan from the church he tenderly took under his wing.  

To the old, blinded fool: they were merely a handy substitute for his own sins. 

“Disloyal. Disobedient. It baffles me,” Jevon reflexively maneuvered in front of his friend when Mercutio dared to infringe further. He searched past him as if he was nothing more than a meddling fly— a lost look of fuddled, distracted hatred and superiority tucked betwixt tired creases. The ghost of a proud general who hung up his sword long ago yet kept the armor as a delusion of forgotten, rusted grandeur. 

“I raised you with my own two hands. I formed you into a perfect warrior. You were to inherit me— our storied legacy— the fate of all House Alexis— and you would damn me, your father. My father before me— centuries worth of pride and lineage substituted for this clownery. Wearing that shameless ensemble— behaving promiscuously— acting like less of the man that you are. That I sculpted you thoroughly to be. Where is your sense of humility? Your honor?”