Editing DbS (section)

== TWENTY-THREE ==
⚇乂⚇

'''LOL, NOOB'''

PARIS, UPON SEEING THE CURLY-haired boy who stood with a rapier in hand, dressed in blue, came forward triumphantly.

“Stop thee, O vile Montague—” ''Tis not as if I could go anywhere, ‘O vile Paris’,'' my brain scoffed, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “—can vengeance be pursued after death? Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee. Obey and go with me, for thou must die.”

I scoffed at this. ''I doth not know what Romeo would’th say, but I shall sayeth my best.'' “Noob.”

Paris frowned at this choice of words. ''So’th I'' can ''changeth mine words! Thoughts are, mayhaps… harder.'' “Villain, you dare insult me? I am- ''was-'' to wed the fair Juliet! And you seek argument? Come! I hath apprehendeth thee, thou shall perish!”

“In thine dreams,” I said, letting the words come out, not even trying to change the accent. Paris did not notice. ''Ha! Tis good Shakespeare’s play-men were’th under-characterized!''

Paris frowned and his dwarfish page started towards me, but he waved him off. “Very well, villainous sir. We shall duel.”

''Tis not indeed good, O Nathan! I feel’th we mayst not see the dawn.''

''Shush.'' And so, I clutched my sword tightly, stepping back to an un-graven part of the graveyard. '' Tis not a good idea! We shall, I fear, meet our untimely demise!'' I ignored the Shakespearean ghost in my head.

Paris drew his sword and I saw once more the glinting of metal in the light. ''It’s not my time.'' I was sure my knuckles were white by this time.

We circled eachother, but neither of us was in the mood for talking.

Back and forth, back and forth. Paris’ eyes glinted with excitement, alight with the thought of the danger involved. I was just trying not to die.

He was a good fighter. Nimble and quick, he went back and forth as if he were a trained dancer, skilled in ballet.

We got particularly close, swords clashing quickly, jumping back and forth like monkeys, when Paris grabbed my arm. Struggling to get away and keep fighting at the same time, I stamped down on his foot as hard as I could.

He let go of my arm and stepped back. I held out my sword to stop the fight.

The page gasped. “They’re fighting! I must go call the watch—.”

I groaned at the thought of the men who had stepped in after the fight between Romeo and Tybalt. That was when he got me.

He knicked at my clothing, creating a hole in my tunic. I looked down, eyes wide, immediately dropping the sword and sinking to my knees.

“I’ve been got!” I cried, clutching my side, trying to stop the blood that I knew would be gushing out within a few seconds. I could imagine it: the red substance flooding out from my side as I writhed in agony, before dying as Mercutio had.

“Sweet death! Where art thou, O sweet death?” I called involuntarily. I looked over at Paris. He started to jog off towards the entrance of the graveyard before stopping.

He seemed to be looking for something. ''His torch! Quick, strike the man before he strikes thee again!''

“Strike the man again..?” I wondered aloud before a face loomed over me.

“Hamlet! Art thou alive?”

I recognized the voice. The scent of mint came over me and I couldn’t help but smile at the familiar face.

“Abigail,” I said, probably smiling like a doofus up at her.

“Hamlet,” she breathed, crouching down beside me. “Are you bleeding?”

“Um. No?”

She frowned. “How aren’t thou slain…” she paused, peering at where Paris had tried to slash me. Then she smiled widely.

“Truly, thine art an experienced traveler!”

I blinked. She brushed her wavy hair out of her face.

“Because thine hath worn two lay’rs of cloth, the blade hath met its target nought!”

It was an odd, lyrical, rhyme. I wasn’t sure what I thought about a Shakespearean girl making a poem about my almost battle injury. ''Tell her thine name art not Hamlet!''

''Absolutely not.''

''Tis nobler to!''

''Wrong play.''

Abigail gave me a puzzled look. “Your name… tis not Hamlet?”

''Ah! The art of soliloquy!''

A questioning look crossed her face. “Soliloquy?”

“Concerning that….” I trailed off, unsure how to word what I wanted to say next.

''A marriage proposal is in way, I say!'' I glared at my thoughts. Abigail made no comment. It was like she hadn’t heard my thought. ''And maybe she didn’t.''

I looked to her again for some hint as to whether or not she had heard. She was staring off into the distance at the slowly setting moon.

“T’will be dawn within hours…” she said thoughtfully, looking back down to me. I hauled myself up onto my elbows, curious as to what her reaction was to my name not being… Hamlet.

“Hamlet,” she said, matter-of-factly, before stopping herself. “What ''is'' thine true name?”

“Nate,” I said. She tried the word out on her tongue.

“Nate. Late. Great…” she trailed off, trying out the rhymes. “Tis a name that suits you.”

She gave me a suspicious look, amber eyes narrowing. “And where art thou from?”

I hesitated. “Not… from here.”

She frowned a little but questioned this no more. I was glad she hadn’t, because I wasn’t a hundred percent sure how to explain America to an Italian from the 1500s.

“Romeo? How is’t my brother?”

“Romeo is… well. He hath not taken the perishment of Juliet well.” I wasn’t sure perishment was a word, but Shakespeare had made up so many words that I was sure it would be fine.

She nodded. “I doubted he would,” she said sympathetically. “Come, let us meet my brother. I am sure he hath been waiting for our return.”

She looked towards where Romeo was hiding in the bushes and let out a little gasp.

“Oh, no.” Two figures fought in the graveyard. One, in green, the other in a bright blue. The duel had begun.