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The weather in Ravenna was lovely as the city itself: its view of the sea, its basilicas and their mosaics, all beautiful beyond description. It only seemed right that the weather reflected such beauty. It took them nearly a week to arrive, for they had to do their best to keep away from the main roads, occasionally doubling back in order to throw off what Mercutio perceived to be a pursuer (although neither Tybalt nor Benvolio was ever positive they were being followed at all).
Tybalt wasn’t necessarily the most perceptive of men, but even he could tell that there was something very wrong with Mercutio. Even after they had settled, certain at last that they’d shaken off anyone who might be searching for them, there was a strange restlessness about him that was unlike his usual restlessness, the prime purpose of which had always been to stave off boredom. This was closer instead to paranoia, at the worst of times making him quiet and sullen. He was forever looking over his shoulder, careful though he was to try and hide it from them, and his eyes held a darkness that did not belong there.
“You’ve not been yourself of late.” It was an unsubtle observation, to be sure, but the words, for all their transparency, held meaning that was quite unmistakable. They sat together on a veranda overlooking the sea, Mercutio all but curled into Tybalt’s lap. Benvolio was in town, seeing to some business that would leave the two of them without him for some days. It was strange to be alone together, even stranger to be so subdued in his absence, but it gave Tybalt the opportunity to speak his mind. He never quite could around Benvolio, the old prejudices never having entirely died despite the ordeal they had been through together.
“Is that so? And who, my dear Prince of Cats, would you say that I’ve been instead?” Tybalt could tell that Mercutio was trying to be cheeky, but the attempt fell flat, as it so often did these days. He ran his fingers though Mercutio’s hair, tugging lightly at brown-black curls which sprang immediately back into place. It had gotten long in the months since they’d fled Verona, but Tybalt liked it this way. Before making his reply, he pressed his lips to the crown of Mercutio’s head.
“Someone I fear I don’t know as well as I ought. A stranger who stole your laughter away, who jumps at shadows where once you’d have laughed at them. I look at you sometimes, and I find that I no longer know your eyes. And I’m not the only one, I warrant.”
Silence stretched long after Tybalt’s words, and Mercutio eventually sat up slowly. Tybalt let him go, but Mercutio merely sat there, watching him.
“Do you know why my uncle dislikes magic?” Mercutio asked. Tybalt could hear in his tone that this apparent non sequitur had some meaning apart from the question on its face. His silence was answer enough.
“My mother - my uncle’s older sister - was like me. She was gifted, though some might instead call it ‘cursed’, and used freely what she possessed, often for the sake of others. It was she who taught me what I know, for had she not sown the seeds, I would not have known how to learn once she was gone. My brother Valentine was a sickly child. It was thought he would not live past infancy, he was so tiny and weak, and I’m certain you’ve heard how he thrived despite the odds.”
He paused a moment, as though to collect his thoughts, and though Tybalt suspected he knew where this story was headed, he held his peace and let Mercutio finish.
“That isn’t entirely true. He died only a few days after he was born. Mother was mad with grief, and though she never would have considered it otherwise, she was determined to bring him back. It was my first experience with blood magic, for she required me to help her. She was gifted, yes, but not powerful. The power she needed, she saw in me.
“Even with my help, it took all she had to bring my brother back from death. She fell ill and died mere weeks later, but for the short time in between, she was…different. Changed. She did not smile, nor did she seem to take joy in anything, not even the life which she had so dearly purchased back for Valentine. My father took his own life in grief when she died, and my uncle swore himself forever against magic. Blood magic especially, which he forbade.”
Mercutio was not looking at Tybalt as he spoke, but staring out at the crystal-blue water from which they lived only a short distance. There was something in his expression which Tybalt could not puzzle out: something almost wistful, but bitter in equal measure.
“I understand now what she felt. I feel as though happiness is forever just out of my reach, but I cannot regret its loss. I knew the price I would pay for you, and I paid it gladly.” The smile that spread across his lips was tight and bleak, but for the briefest of moments, Tybalt saw the light return to his eyes. At last he turned, their gazes meeting, and Tybalt saw Mercutio looking back at him again. A chill, slender hand rested atop his own sword-callused fingers in preemptive comfort.
“Fear not, my darling. I have no intention of going the way of my mother. She had neither the power nor the fortitude to survive what the magic asked of her, but although I take after her in many ways, I have strength in plenty.”
The kiss they shared was soft and sweet, almost tentative, but it held a promise to which the sun-dappled sea bore its silent, perennial witness.