JUVEN
I Will Not Away
by Samantha Reynolds
There was blood in the streets, the day the prince made his announcement.
I was too young to be very involved in the feud, and of course us ladies never did any of the fighting anyway. Our role was merely to mourn and tell the servants to clean up all the blood. So when I heard that the Prince had declared the fighting over, I naively rejoiced. No more mourning, no more blood. It had not yet occurred to me that it was in anyone’s power to disobey an order—I had certainly never imagined that I would ever dare to go against my father’s express command.
But I am getting ahead of myself. Let us begin here: an announcement. An armistice. And a thirteen year old girl, preparing for a party.
#
“And there is someone at his party,” my mother said, “whom your father would particularly like you to meet.”
A gentleman, rich and well-connected. A good match for the family—that is, for me.
I had not thought much of marriage—I was still so young—but I had heard whispers. There was a girl in the village younger than I who had been married the previous year. Us other girls whispered that her sheets had been inspected for blood the morning after. Blood, usually, was a punishment, but on that occasion it was a mark of honor.
I had heard whispers, too, of when no blood was found the morning after.
I had heard whispers of a rather different sort nine months later. She had not survived the childbirth, this I was allowed to know. Details were considered obscene to mention. All I could gather was that the birth—the death—involved blood so thick and fast the sheets she’d died on had had to be thrown out.
“You will like Paris,” my mother promised. “Your father believes he will be a good husband for you.”
I had to wonder about the mattress. Had that been cleaned, salvaged, sold? Or had she bled all the way through?
I told my parents I would meet him, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to. The thought of marriage made me so nervous that blood jumped in my veins.
But I was a good daughter, obedient, and I met the man whom my father would make his son. I would tell you more, but I honestly don’t recall much of that conversation. Only that he touched my hand as though he’d already been promised it.
I went to my friends and cousins to try to forget, but they just wanted to talk about him and weddings and life after the blood on the sheets, so I wandered off on my own. That was when he found me.
He had pink lips and dark eyes and curly hair and sweet words. When he touched my hand (gently, so gently, it made blood rush to my cheeks), his hands were soft. I should say I was carried away, but in truth, I had never felt so in control.
Until, that is, I learned what blood ran through his veins: same as half the blood on the streets. My father would never, not in 400 years, consider mixing his blood with a Montague’s unless the sharp blade of a sword had spilled it first.
I should say that knowledge abated my passion. But if anything, my heart beat only stronger.
Yes, my father would hate this. But if I married, my father would no longer have a right to an opinion of me at all anymore. My name would change, and so would my allegiance, and my father could wail and rail all he wanted, but even he would be powerless to change a vow made before God.
My father? Powerless? That would make this worth it all on its own.
#
There is blood on my sheets—on my marriage bed, which is my regular bed, except that I am not alone in it. It is strange, to wake up with him. (He had blood on him yesterday, but it was not his own.) I feel different, though little in the world has changed. Or it all has changed.
I have begun to think in shades of red. Light pink, soft like his lips, like the dawn. Dark red, dark like the blood mixed with dirt on the streets until some lady orders some servant to clean it so her shoes won’t be ruined. Everything in between, the entire world in monochrome.
He shifts, and I feel the movement when the bed dips.
“You’re leaving already?” I ask, and I can feel my heartbeat, so hard against my chest that it pains me, so fast that it might leave me behind. Not yet. Please, not yet. Because once he is gone, then I am left with myself and this house and all the blood. “It’s still night.”
It’s not. But if I admit that, he’ll go. And he can’t go. (Me in this house with the blood.)
“I have to go, if I want to live,” he says, leaning down close again.
Not yet.
“If I stay, I die.”
And I can picture it, all too well. A gone more permanent than Mantua. A left here alone with no hope of change. I had thought it, yesterday, when I heard about the fighting. About the blood. And then, his hands…
It was his friend’s blood. Or his cousin’s, I can’t remember which. Not his. Not Tybalt’s either, because he hadn’t touched Tybalt with anything as soft as his hands.
“I will stay,” he says with a kiss. “I will not leave you.”
My heartbeat slows, and I shake my head. “You must. The night has fled… You must fly, too.”
(If he doesn’t, then the blood he’s covered with will be his, and it will stain him like it does sheets or the streets and a lady will order a servant to clean it up, but the servant will say, “Ma’am, this one cannot be saved. There is too much blood.” And the lady will sigh, put upon, her life full of woe only she can understand, because she must buy a replacement. And the lords, they will sigh too, because the blood is not enough to quench their thirst, no matter how much there is.)
We both mourn our separation but the knock comes and yes he really must go now, but all will not be lost, he will send word, I am not to remain here forever--
#
“You will marry Paris,” I am told. I am told many other things (my mother thinks me foolish, my father thinks me worthless, my parents both wish me dead), and it is such a change from the sweet words I had heard that morning. (My parents wish me dead, again and again, and some part of me thinks, I could make that wish come true.)
But all hope is not lost, I can still make it out. I have a husband now, and with him I can escape, away from the scent of metal and talk of carrion. I go to his friend the Friar, who I don’t know well but who married us. For that, I must trust him.
I have no one else to trust.
“You will sleep,” he says, “a sleep like death which will keep you safe until he can come.”
How often had I retreated to sleep, when I did not want to think anymore? This, surely, would be no different. Better, even, because my escape will be for more than a night, and I will return to breath and life much richer than dreams.
And so I drink, and lay down to die, and wait to wake up beside him again, in a world with no more blood.
I was too young to be very involved in the feud, and of course us ladies never did any of the fighting anyway. Our role was merely to mourn and tell the servants to clean up all the blood. So when I heard that the Prince had declared the fighting over, I naively rejoiced. No more mourning, no more blood. It had not yet occurred to me that it was in anyone’s power to disobey an order—I had certainly never imagined that I would ever dare to go against my father’s express command.
But I am getting ahead of myself. Let us begin here: an announcement. An armistice. And a thirteen year old girl, preparing for a party.
#
“And there is someone at his party,” my mother said, “whom your father would particularly like you to meet.”
A gentleman, rich and well-connected. A good match for the family—that is, for me.
I had not thought much of marriage—I was still so young—but I had heard whispers. There was a girl in the village younger than I who had been married the previous year. Us other girls whispered that her sheets had been inspected for blood the morning after. Blood, usually, was a punishment, but on that occasion it was a mark of honor.
I had heard whispers, too, of when no blood was found the morning after.
I had heard whispers of a rather different sort nine months later. She had not survived the childbirth, this I was allowed to know. Details were considered obscene to mention. All I could gather was that the birth—the death—involved blood so thick and fast the sheets she’d died on had had to be thrown out.
“You will like Paris,” my mother promised. “Your father believes he will be a good husband for you.”
I had to wonder about the mattress. Had that been cleaned, salvaged, sold? Or had she bled all the way through?
I told my parents I would meet him, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to. The thought of marriage made me so nervous that blood jumped in my veins.
But I was a good daughter, obedient, and I met the man whom my father would make his son. I would tell you more, but I honestly don’t recall much of that conversation. Only that he touched my hand as though he’d already been promised it.
I went to my friends and cousins to try to forget, but they just wanted to talk about him and weddings and life after the blood on the sheets, so I wandered off on my own. That was when he found me.
He had pink lips and dark eyes and curly hair and sweet words. When he touched my hand (gently, so gently, it made blood rush to my cheeks), his hands were soft. I should say I was carried away, but in truth, I had never felt so in control.
Until, that is, I learned what blood ran through his veins: same as half the blood on the streets. My father would never, not in 400 years, consider mixing his blood with a Montague’s unless the sharp blade of a sword had spilled it first.
I should say that knowledge abated my passion. But if anything, my heart beat only stronger.
Yes, my father would hate this. But if I married, my father would no longer have a right to an opinion of me at all anymore. My name would change, and so would my allegiance, and my father could wail and rail all he wanted, but even he would be powerless to change a vow made before God.
My father? Powerless? That would make this worth it all on its own.
#
There is blood on my sheets—on my marriage bed, which is my regular bed, except that I am not alone in it. It is strange, to wake up with him. (He had blood on him yesterday, but it was not his own.) I feel different, though little in the world has changed. Or it all has changed.
I have begun to think in shades of red. Light pink, soft like his lips, like the dawn. Dark red, dark like the blood mixed with dirt on the streets until some lady orders some servant to clean it so her shoes won’t be ruined. Everything in between, the entire world in monochrome.
He shifts, and I feel the movement when the bed dips.
“You’re leaving already?” I ask, and I can feel my heartbeat, so hard against my chest that it pains me, so fast that it might leave me behind. Not yet. Please, not yet. Because once he is gone, then I am left with myself and this house and all the blood. “It’s still night.”
It’s not. But if I admit that, he’ll go. And he can’t go. (Me in this house with the blood.)
“I have to go, if I want to live,” he says, leaning down close again.
Not yet.
“If I stay, I die.”
And I can picture it, all too well. A gone more permanent than Mantua. A left here alone with no hope of change. I had thought it, yesterday, when I heard about the fighting. About the blood. And then, his hands…
It was his friend’s blood. Or his cousin’s, I can’t remember which. Not his. Not Tybalt’s either, because he hadn’t touched Tybalt with anything as soft as his hands.
“I will stay,” he says with a kiss. “I will not leave you.”
My heartbeat slows, and I shake my head. “You must. The night has fled… You must fly, too.”
(If he doesn’t, then the blood he’s covered with will be his, and it will stain him like it does sheets or the streets and a lady will order a servant to clean it up, but the servant will say, “Ma’am, this one cannot be saved. There is too much blood.” And the lady will sigh, put upon, her life full of woe only she can understand, because she must buy a replacement. And the lords, they will sigh too, because the blood is not enough to quench their thirst, no matter how much there is.)
We both mourn our separation but the knock comes and yes he really must go now, but all will not be lost, he will send word, I am not to remain here forever--
#
“You will marry Paris,” I am told. I am told many other things (my mother thinks me foolish, my father thinks me worthless, my parents both wish me dead), and it is such a change from the sweet words I had heard that morning. (My parents wish me dead, again and again, and some part of me thinks, I could make that wish come true.)
But all hope is not lost, I can still make it out. I have a husband now, and with him I can escape, away from the scent of metal and talk of carrion. I go to his friend the Friar, who I don’t know well but who married us. For that, I must trust him.
I have no one else to trust.
“You will sleep,” he says, “a sleep like death which will keep you safe until he can come.”
How often had I retreated to sleep, when I did not want to think anymore? This, surely, would be no different. Better, even, because my escape will be for more than a night, and I will return to breath and life much richer than dreams.
And so I drink, and lay down to die, and wait to wake up beside him again, in a world with no more blood.
Samantha Laramie is a reader, a writer, and a daydreamer. When she isn’t reading or writing, she is usually knitting or drinking yet another cup of tea. You can find more of her work on Medium @samanthalaramie.