(This is a re-write I did of the end of the play. Even though it's not my best piece, I think you'll all enjoy it. It's a tad long, but worth your time!)
ACT V, Scene III
Paris knelt in front of the crypt face and stared solemnly at the freshly inscribed name, dancing in and out of the flickering torchlight, icily staring back at him. Carefully, gingerly, he lifted his hand and caressed the grooves – each letter of her name in turn – imagining his fingers were instead stroking the contours of her lips. Juliet Capulet, Lived in the years of our lord, 1324-1338. He re-read the statement for the millionth time and traced her name again. Unfortunately, behind the tomb, young Juliet's face was just as cold as the name immortalized in granite. Her face was just as pale. Her eyes were just as blank. It was no use to want her anymore. He was practically in love with a slab of rock. If only, he thought, standing slowly. What a pleasure she would have been.
“Put out your torch, boy,” he said quietly to the Page beside him, “and leave me for a moment.” The Page shrugged and obeyed quietly, grinding the torch into the cemetery cobblestones, and offered Paris the bouquet of flowers his master had brought along. For his Juliet. Paris accepted them reverently, fingering the rose petals. “Before you go... Watch for any others that come this way. Warn me by whistling, when and if they do.” The Page bowed – as silent as ever – and slunk into the surrounding foliage. Paris was alone now. And he savored it. The shadows were his only companions. The dead were his only onlookers. Feeling strangely empty, he ripped apart the rose petals like pieces bread and tossed them into the night. They scattered gently around the tomb. Like bloody snowflakes. I spread flowers on your bridal bed, over which hangs a canopy of dust and stone, Paris thought, emptying his hand of the last petals, I will water these flowers forever.
Bowing his head, Paris inwardly held his own funeral ceremony. Ghosts re-carried the plinth bearing Juliet's corpse. Like his solitude, Paris savored the memory of Juliet's face before being lowered into the crypt. He would cherish that memory forever.
****
His mind was made up.
Romeo plunged through the iron wrought gates of the cemetery – only wraiths in the shadows; guarding sentinels – and marched down the cobblestones to the tomb of the Capulets, a crowbar in one hand and the apothecary's vial in the other. Tonight he would die by the side of Juliet. He would fade away in the arms of the woman he had only known for a few days, but for what still seemed like eternity. Romeo just couldn't survive without her. It was no use to want her anymore. In this life anyway. Heaven or Hell – whichever place they ended up in – they would be together again. At least that was something.
The vial in his hand seemed to smolder as he walked fearlessly down the pathway. It contained the scythe of the reaper. In liquid form. A few ounces which held the power to give and to take. To smother. To tranquilize for good. It was his escape route out of Verona, out of Mantua. He was sick and tired already of being without Juliet. He could only last so long. Tomorrow his corpse would be found entangled with Juliet's.
His mind was made up.
****
The Page's whistle shattered his solitude like a hammer through glass. Startled, Paris looked up from Juliet's tomb, stood, and glanced frantically around for a hiding place. Who the hell was roaming around the cemetery at this unearthly time of night? At the witching hour? People just didn't go tramping among the dead on a whim. Ghosts were terrible things to run into in the moonlight.
Paris dodged behind a nearby capstone, chipped and crumbling with age, and knelt on the loamy soil. A torch bounced up and down in the near distance, glittering through the trees. Paris swore again. They were heading in his direction. Towards the Capulet crypt. In the darkness, he fingered his sword and bit his lip, face darkening. Gravediggers, he thought. Heading for Juliet's corpse to violate her body and steal the burial jewelry. Paris shook his head. Not on his watch. As soon as they stepped within fifty feet of the tomb, they would find a blade through their throats and skulls bashed in. When it came to honor, gentle Paris was a violent man.
The torch broke through the trees and into Paris's line of sight. He breathed in sharply. Romeo. What the devil was he doing out here? As if murdering Juliet's cousin hadn't been enough, he was now after her remains. Paris couldn't help smiling. Well, it would be a pleasure to take the law into his own hands and execute young Romeo. It would be a pleasure to feel the warmth of his blood. The Montague's head was wreathed in ghostly illumination as he made his way toward the tomb, expressions set, and eyes dark. Paris quietly drew his sword from his sheath and held it breathlessly in front of him. Romeo turned abruptly from the path and made a bee-line for Capulet's crypt. A servant walked behind him, holding a pick and the torch, his eyes darting nervously around in their sockets, searching the graveyard. Paris smirked. No doubt he was a superstitious fellow. Afraid of the dark.
Romeo came to a halt in front of the crypt face and glanced at the carved names dancing in the torchlight. Paris held his breath, pressed tightly against the capstone, his rapier gently touching his nose. He had to wait for the right time to avenge Juliet and Tybalt. He had to wait until Romeo was least expecting it. The Montague suddenly spoke, turning to his servant. Paris strained to catch the words.
“Here,” he was muttering, shoving a crumpled envelope into a pouch at the servant's side. “Tomorrow morning deliver this to my father and mother. And get away from this place, Balthasar. I don't care what you see or hear, stay away from the cemetery tonight. Stay away from me. No,” Romeo whispered as Balthasar stepped forward, silenced in mid-protest, “No. Get out. Now. If I catch you sneaking around here at all tonight, I swear, I will have you ripped limb from limb.” Balthasar hesitated. Paris held his breath.
“You have my word, sir,” The servant said. Romeo smiled and fished a sack from his belt and thrust it at Balthasar. It clinked obviously as the coins within cried to be spent.
“Now go.”
Silently, the servant handed Romeo his torch, let the pickaxe clatter to the ground and turned away without looking back. The Montague watched his servant go – waiting until he was well into the heart of the graveyard - and hefted his crowbar. He headed determinedly towards the crypt. Oh no, you don't, you bastard, Paris thought. Not today. As Romeo jammed the crowbar into the opening crack, Paris shot from behind the capstone, took four flying strides and tackled Romeo around his midriff. Shocked, he let out a small oof and tumbled to the ground. Paris recovered quickly and scrambled to his feet, shoving his rapier blade against the Montague's neck. Romeo's eyes focused on Paris's face and dilated with fear.
“You are a dead man,” Paris said quietly.
****
Romeo was reeling. He hadn't expected the attack from behind in the least. Shards of pain and light exploded behind his eyes, painting his world red. He felt the steel of Paris's sword pressing coldly against his neck. Metal-ice that took his breath away. He swore silently and felt his hand inching towards the sheath at his side.
“Don't bother,” Paris said coldly, stepping on his fingers. He heard them crack and snap and he cried out in pain. This wasn't supposed to be happening! He was supposed to be in the crypt, at Juliet's side. Romeo squirmed under Paris, tears welling up at the corners of his eyes. Why couldn't he be left alone? He had to achieve his mission.
Tonight he was going to die. One way or another.
“Please,” he rasped, “please. Let me go.”
“Not a chance. You killed Tybalt. You practically killed Juliet,” Paris said.
Romeo shook his head wildly. “No, no...” He knew an explanation was futile. He had to escape. His eyes darted around the moonlit clearing, searching for a solution. Desperately.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself, coward?”
Romeo's muscles tensed, - preparing to lash out at Paris - bulging as his senses suddenly sharpened. Fight or flight.
And then they heard the scream.
****
Balthasar spotted Paris's page almost immediately, crouching in the shadows of a grove of trees near the Capulet crypt, and stopped short. There was something very wrong with this picture. He hadn't seen Paris anywhere in sight when he had been with Romeo, so what was his page doing here? A single word came to mind.
Ambush.
Somehow Paris must've gotten word of Romeo's return to Verona and had hidden near the Capulet crypt for revenge on his fiancée’s cousin's death. And here was his page in case Romeo got out of hand and overcame Paris. Cunning, Balthasar thought drawing his dagger. But their plan – unfortunately – would have to be spoiled. His master Romeo had to survive.
Fox-like, Balthasar slipped towards the page, treading lightly on the ground. Silently. A predator scoping out his prey. He licked his lips and eased up behind the unsuspecting page. It would be an easy kill.
In a flash, without another thought, Balthasar lunged forward, plunging the knife into the page's back to the hilt. Shocked, the page whirled around, eyes wide and focused on Balthasar. Blood bubbled through his lips and dribbled down his chin as he stared incredulously at his murderer. And then he screamed. Long and loud. High and piercing.
****
Romeo seized the distraction and ran with it. With a grunt, he jerked his foot upward and kicked Paris in the groin. Hard. Paris let out his own little scream and fell gasping to the ground. Romeo scrambled to his feet, the rapier from his belt appearing in his fist and stabbed at his attacker's open neck. Miraculously, Paris rolled to one side and swung his feet around towards Romeo, catching him around the ankles. The Montague fell to the ground with a crash. Breath rushed out his lungs. Teeth clenched - still on the ground - Paris swung his sword at Romeo, cutting through his tunic and grazing his stomach. Viciously, Romeo leapt to his feet and kicked Paris in the face. Things broke. Enough, Romeo thought and slid his sword between the tenth and eleventh ribs of Paris's chest.
The expression on his attacker's face as he withered under Romeo's rapier was not hate or shock. It was fear. Romeo hesitated as he stared down at Paris twitching weakly and bowed his head as he closed his eyes. Dead.
“I'm sorry,” he mumbled, backing away from his sword, “This was not supposed to happen.” He bowed his head once more and turned towards the crypt. The crowbar was still lodged firmly in the crypt face. It was time to finish what he had started. He glanced back over his shoulder at Paris's body and sighed. There was no turning back now. Banishment was no longer a punishment option. Romeo shoved all of his weight against the crowbar and the crypt groaned open. A cold wind rushed out and blasted Romeo in the face, feathering his hair. Drawing the apothecary's vial from his pocket, Romeo descended into the tomb.
****
Paris's eyes cracked open.
And he immediately wished he was dead.
His chest literally felt like it was on fire, all flames branching out from the rapier protruding out of his gut. Gasping for air, clenching his teeth Paris rose into a sitting position and wrapped his hands around the other sword lying beside him.
He was still alive.
The battle wasn't over yet.
Grimacing, Paris crawled to his feet and staggered over to the crypt. It was open. Romeo was already in. With every step he took, pain shot through his chest and exploded behind his eyes. The rapier jiggled painfully as he walked. Romeo would pay for what he did.
Carefully, gently, Paris lowered himself down the first step and began making his way into the tomb. The staircase seemed never-ending. Finally, his feet touched ground and he peered around the broad, low-ceilinged room. Rows of Capulets spread out in all directions, veils of lace covering their deathly faces. Skulls and rotted-out eyes stared ceiling ward peacefully. The crypt smelled overpoweringly like a tanning vat, as if animal fat and skins and innards were strewn across the ground. Blurrily, Paris focused on Romeo hunched over Juliet a few rows down, moaning and sobbing. Paris started forward, his sword rising to eye level.
“Here, here will I remain,” he was whispering to Juliet's corpse, “with worms as your chambermaids. O, here will I set up my everlasting rest and shake the yoke of unlucky fate.” Paris drew closer, only ten feet away from the Montague. His hand tightened around his sword handle. “Come, bitter poison! Come, my escape. Romeo is ready. Here's to my love!” Paris drew up directly behind him and watched as Romeo uncapped a vial.
Paris smirked, “Here’s to your death,”
Startled, Romeo whirled around, mouth slack. He was seeing a ghost. He had to be. Paris? In a split second, Romeo’s eyes traveled from the ghosts smiling face to the rapier dangling from his chest. Blood welled freely around the wound. Paris’s lips curled into a snarl and his muscles tensed.
And he lunged forward with the sword.
The blade passed right through Romeo’s heart - popping it like a balloon – and poked through the other side. The Montague breathed in deeply, closed his eyes, and fell back onto the plinth behind him. “Juliet,” he whispered desperately and sighed as the last dregs of life fled from his open mouth.
The vial clattered to the ground and the apothecary’s poison spattered across the granite tiles.
****
Juliet felt her consciousness rising through the shadows of her mind, brushing aside the last cobwebs of sleep. It worked, she thought vaguely. The friar’s potion had done its job. She was coming home.
Blearily, she felt her eyes fluttering open. Juliet could already tell she was in the crypt; dank air pressing down on her weak and frail body. Her eyelids flicked open and she half focused on the broad, dark form of a man leaning over her. Her heart soared.
“Romeo?”
Breathing heavily, the man leaned forward. She still couldn’t see his face; the potion’s remnants obscuring her vision.
“No, my sweet. It’s me.”
Juliet’s eyes focused on Paris, smiling wildly. Beside him, she could see a body slumped against a pillar, a sword shoved into his chest.
Immediately she realized it was Romeo.
Romeo was dead.
I didn't mean to offend anyone. Lady Pirate I'm very grateful that you even read this piece, let alone comment on it. What you did write was fine.
