Editing DbS (section)

== SEVENTEEN ==
⚇乂⚇

'''ROMEO TURNS INTO A RAGE MONSTER (AND RIGHTFULLY SO)'''

ROMEO’S EYES BLAZED WITH ANGER. He looked up after a few seconds, tears building up quickly but not spilling out quite yet. 

“That’s. It.”

And with that, he stood up, brushing his tunic off, and drew his sword. “TYBALT, I KNOW YOU’RE THERE, FIGHT ME LIKE A MAN.”

This brought forth no response for Romeo, unfortunately, leaving me and Benvolio a little bewildered and confused as to what to do- after all, what’s the custom when your friend was just stabbed?

“Uh- Romeo- breathe–” Benvolio tried for a reassuring voice, but his normally cool air had been broken by the abrupt change of events and the death of his friend. He seemed to be processing differently than Romeo- storing everything up for later. 

“I CANNOT BREATHE WHEN A FIEND IS IN MY PRESENCE!” declared Romeo, pointing his sword in Tybalt’s general direction, at least where he had been last. 

“Romeo. There’s a better way to settle this fight–”

“NO, HAMLET, I’VE GOT THIS. I’M GOING TO SMACK HIM.”

“Smacking something isn’t the way you handle arguments, Romeo,” Benvolio said, a note of urgency in his voice. “Romeo, smacking is a very bad idea–”

“Benvolio, I’m smacking him whether you like it or not.”

“But maybe smacking isn’t good,” I tried to reason, stepping forward to stop Romeo, who was starting off towards Tybalt. 

Benvolio grabbed Romeo’s cape. “Off,” snapped Romeo, yanking it away and marching off towards where Tybalt had disappeared in the crowd. 

“We have about thirty seconds before everything blows up,” Benvolio estimated, crossing his arms. “Until then we should lay low.”

“Lay low,” I said, unconvinced, “for thirty seconds.”

“Yep,” said Benvolio nodding, as Romeo called for Tybalt, screaming insults at him.

The dramatic whooshing of a cape sounded behind me, and I whirled around, in the process dramatically whooshing my own cape. 

“I was summoned?” Tybalt’s voice sounded in my ear, breath smelling of vinegar. Dangerous, but not overly so, a good sign a solution could be reached. 

“Ew,” said I, stepping away. “First off: no, second of all: still no.”

Tybalt strongly carried the scent of overly-sweet roses, the sickly sweet smell strong on him. “No? Oh, young Hamlet, what a good addition you’d make to my team.” He grinned, spreading his arm in gesture to the one lonely servant clad in bright red who stood beside him. 

Marching up to him, inches away from his nose, Romeo hissed, “He’s not. Up for. Auction.”

Tybalt gave an innocent smile, pushing Romeo away from himself. “Mhm. And Mercutio’s death was an accident.”

“Fiend,” Romeo shot at Tybalt, who, though older, and more flexible than Romeo, was the same height, the two seemingly an equal match. 

“I know you are,” Tybalt said, then paused dramatically “but what am I?”

This only agitated Romeo more, and I could feel the waves of anger rolling off of him like, well, waves. 

“Fight me like the man you claim to be, and we’ll see just what you are,” Romeo said, voice rising so the crowd could hear him. Murmurs arose from the assembled people while Benvolio desperately tried to calm them down. 

“Fighting and violence is hardly a way to win this… skirmish,” cried Benvolio, but his voice was nearly drowned out by the overwhelming sound of disapproval rising up from the crowd, who had by now completely encircled Romeo and Tybalt, who circled each other, swords out, gleaming menacingly in the sunlight. 

I stood to the side, nearly fully enveloped by the crowd on all sides, and, being of slightly below-average height, I could not see very well. 

“OKAY, OLD MAN!” came a call from someone in the crowd, smatterings of applause coming from various parts of the crowd at this. Benvolio looked offended. 

“Excuse me!?”

“YOU HEARD HIM!” came a call from the other side of the crowd. 

Benvolio still looked very offended, actually more so than he had a moment before. “For your information, though it’s none of your business, I’m ''twenty-one''.” 

Rough laughter came up from the crowd, which, upon examination, consisted of a few curious shop vendors, but more teenagers and young men than anything.

“Okay, baldy,” said a smug voice, the same one that had first spoken. Benvolio reached up a moment and touched his very-much-so-there hair, and then glared in the general direction of whoever had called him bald. 

After a second of useless searching of trying to find whoever had said that, he gave up, grumbling under his breath, “Fine, go ahead and spar him, Romeo, see if I care, I’ll just go mope under an apple tree and probably discover something very important but you won’t care because you’ll be wound up in politics.”

And with that, Benvolio straightened his hat and settled to watch the match, glaring at not just Tybalt, but Romeo as well, as if he hadn’t decided who to root for. 

Circling each other like cats, Romeo and Tybalt’s swords were at the ready. No move was made except for the slow circling. Then the first move was made.

Tybalt lunged for Romeo, going for his side, and Romeo jumped back, nearly stepping on a spectator’s foot. 

Tybalt smirked, and jumped back himself, toying with Romeo as he did a couple fancy sword moves, extracting a cheer from the crowd.

“Tybalt, you fiend, I ''will'' take you down if it’s the last thing I do,” I thought I heard Romeo spit out under his breath before lunging forward himself. 

Tybalt yawned as he parried three or four times, nearly stepping on Benvolio’s face but moving at the last moment. 

Back and forth the two fought then Tybalt looked behind him at his servant who was watching him with awe, and that’s when Romeo struck. 

Fast as lightning, Romeo jumped forward, but Tybalt’s reflexes were good. He whirled around, matching Romeo’s blow with his own.

“Not today, son of a Montague,” he sneered, swinging his sword toward Romeo’s arm. Romeo, having not expected this, blocked the blow, but only barely. 

“Oh yeah?” Romeo challenged, trying to jab at Tybalt, but getting his sword knocked aside once again. 

And that, dear reader, is where Romeo’s whole demeanor changed. One glance at where he had looked for a split second was enough to make anyone realize why. 

Mercutio’s body laid on the ground, a small pool of blood around his cut, his form lifeless, just a shell now. Romeo was fighting, but more fiercely than he had been before.

He hopped back and forth, Tybalt’s and his own swords flashing. Tybalt from then forward had no moments of rest, and was truly fighting for his life.

Romeo’s demeanor had changed. What had once been a conflicted rage of fury was now a carefully calculated pulsing anger that was evident with each jab, parry, and blow he tried to (and succeeded) in landing. Where tears had once flowed down his face, the waterfall had stopped, and there was only anger. 

Tybalt made the mistake of looking to the side for just a moment, and that’s where Romeo decided to strike, for the final time. 

His rapier slashed out, catching Tybalt’s sword-holding hand. To be more accurate, it sliced his wrist, right where someone would normally check one’s pulse. 

The crowd laughed as Tybalt’s sword dropped to the ground, expecting him to be fine; after all, he always was. But he wasn’t.

The sword clattered, and Tybalt stood clutching his wrist. 

“Gregory, a cloth!” he called to his servant, blood welling up from the cut Romeo had made. It came fast, the red substance a vibrant scarlet in the sunlight (send help, I’ve been stuck in Shakespeare for too long). 

Tybalt’s knees buckled, and he fell to the ground. The crowd around us gave worried murmurs, a couple coming forward but stepping back in disgust when they saw the blood. 

I was too stunned to move- believe me, if I could’ve moved, I would, but alas, I did not.

Romeo didn’t seem to be stunned. He stared coldly at Tybalt, the rage of his earlier fight with him still evident. 

Tybalt’s breathing quickened, and he glared at his wound as if it would stop the bleeding. Then to Romeo, he said, glimmering at him, “You, Montague, you, you’ve killed me!”

Romeo glared back at him, shaking with anger. “No. You have brought this upon yourself.” And with that, he walked over to Benvolio, dramatically swinging his cloak behind him.

When I looked back to Tybalt, his eyes were half-closed and he was looking at the sky, straight at the sun as if it didn’t bother him any more. 

“And so he plays his part,” he breathed before his body went limp and his head hit the cobblestones, not unlike Mercutio’s, now a shell.