Sword Crossed Lovers

A Request

Rising before the sunrise, Tybalt slips out from under his silk bedsheets and fumbles around with his breeches.  The previous night of pleasure seems to always do something to him the next morning.  Whatever it was, he would always wake up slightly clumsier and not in the right mood.  Something was always a little amiss.

Not surprised that his mistress whom he thoroughly enjoyed the night before is gone, he dresses happily alone.  Being by himself never bothered the Capulet Prince.  Being stuffed into enclosed spaces and even open landscapes, was the child forced to learn what it means to be alone but not fear it.  His uncle's harsh lessons and constant beatings forced the boy to overcome his own fear of his lonesome reflection and over time, loneliness began to fear the Capulet warrior.  When he wasn't practicing or training for something, being alone was a toxic enviornment for Tybalt's mind.  He would always seep into a darker part of himself, the part which was created at his uncle's fist.

Even now a part of the main branch of the Capulet House, the dark hallways and empty rooms always called his name.  The filled rooms and warm embrace of his old estate and life only remain as whispers in the wind.  Such the life he led died with his parents.

Hearing a light tapping, he moves to the door of his chambers, his fingers still struggling with that last button on his red collared shirt.  He opens it and Peter smiles up at him.  Slightly shorter, Peter's features appear older than his master's.  Brown hair contains traces of gray as does the scruff on his chin.  Kind eyes look up at Tybalt, softened by wrinkles and a profound crows peak reflects the years of worrying over the boy.
"Morning, sir," he says with a chipper in his intonation.  A knowing smile breaks out over his lips and Tybalt playfully rolls his eyes.  "Had a good time last night, I take it," continues Peter, helping him with that last button before moving to tuck his shirt into his black breeches.  He secures it all with a studded belt and hooks his master's notorious dagger.  He hesitates before grasping the hilt, his mind recalling the blood staining the blade.  Days and nights has Peter washed the boy when he comes home covered in another's blood.

Ever since he was little, Peter has been the one to see him to his chambers after his uncle was finished with him.  The boy's tired eyes and hurt soul was only part of what the faithful manservant had to deal with.  At first he also had to sit beside the young Capulet, waking him from his night terrors before he lashed out at himself or hurt another.  Then it became walking terrors, forcing the child out of bed to seek an unquenchable blood lust Lord Capulet seemed to have awakened.  One can only manipulate one's talents so far before the owner's reality is damaged beyond repair.  Peter had known the young Tybalt in his parent's house, happy and full of purity.  He showed great promise in the fine arts.  He was a gifted musician and aspiring artist.  The dexterity in his hands and body allowed him to pick up physical activity up easily.  He enjoyed riding horses with his father even at a very young age.  His mother taught him archery and knife throwing.  However, the one thing the young child feared was what Lord Capulet beat into his skull and bones: the art of the sword.

The young Tybalt showed such great promise with the sword.  However, as he began to beat even his fencing instructors, his father stopped allowing him to wield any blade.  He had become too powerful and too dangerous.  Such an art was not to be at the easy hand of a child.  Peter had always admired the sense Tybalt's father possessed but when he was not there to defend his son, Lord Capulet took complete advantage of the boy's talents.  He drilled him over and over in all forms of warfare and combat.  From strategy to physical training, he was coming the Capulet House's guard dog, only answering to the Master of the House.

"Indeed I did, Peter.  I thought I bid thee bring none hence," remarks Tybalt, snapping his faithful manservant back from he horrors of his reality.  Peter secures the blade at Tybalt's hip, his fingers shivering at the touch of the cursed blade as if it was made of ice.  "No, sir.  She came of her own free will to thy bed," he earnestly replies, accustomed to having this conversation before.  Tybalt can feel a selfish smile possessing his chiseled features.  Peter gingerly pats him on the back as he slips his master's luxurious vest over his shoulders.  "She looked quite the beauty."
"And she was -is!" Tybalt beams.  "Rose...  Rose is her name.  What a fair name for such a tender maiden.  What say you, Peter?"
"Sounds like thy fiddlestick has got thy head swimming, sir, truth be spoke," the servant chuckles, stepping back to survey his master's looks.  Tybalt nods.  "O what a rarity, Peter."

Scarfing down his breakfast in almost a heightened state, Tybalt hurries to get on with his day.  Last night's pleasures still remain in his head almost like a dream too exciting to be reality.  Peter attends his lord and waits on him as only a servant can.  He cleans up after him and protects him from afar, the only tie Tybalt has to his previous life, the life he was born to live.  Peter sees a whole new being before him since they were moved to the main branch of the Capulet's House.  No more was Tybalt tender and a carefree child.  He had seen too much in his short life.  His uncle transformed him into a killing machine, striking out around all except one: Juliet Capulet, his cousin.  She had been the only one to see him as he could have been.  With her he was gentler, kinder, smiled with more of his genuine self.  Together, Peter saw Tybalt Capulet truly happy and at peace.