The silver rain fell from the clouds, weeping over the putrid streets of Verona. In the filthy alley, where rats desperately scrabbled for sustenance, lay the fallen corpse of the brave Tybalt, eyes glassy and unknowing. Always fighting in life, his temper finally quelled by the icy touch of death.

Shadow falling over the prone body, a man stood, letting his impassive mask crumble as a bitter tear slipped down his face.

Benvolio wept silently, reflecting on the times they shared. Times of carefree laughter and stolen kisses, hidden in alcoves.

He remembered the trading of false insults and clashing of swords and hidden urges to protect masked by a love of peace.

And he remembered the hatred etched into his cousin's face as his glittering blade sliced through the air, carving bloody slices of vengeance into Tybalt's body.

He remembered the crimson pooling on the cold, granite floor, and the bitter look of malice on his cousin's face, quickly melting into horror at what he had done.

He remembered the shock and denial and the terror and desperation and Romeopleasenoohgodogodtheressomuchbloodhelpidontknowwhattodoohgodohgodhelpme

And the horrifying realisation that Tybalt wasn't coming back.

As he stared down at his lover's body, Benvolio wept.

And, although all he wanted was to forget, all he could do was remember.