Summary: A lover seeks blessing from the Friar, who cannot give it, torn between faith to Writ and faith in Love when it is seen. (Mercutio/?)
Archive: FFN, my yahoo!group, R&Jfic group
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. If I did, I'd not only be dead, but the play would be very different indeed. All credit, save the dialogue in here, belongs in the public domain by now.
Notes: This assumes that homosexuality, while disapproved of in Verona, is not a crime, as it was in Elizabethan England. And you would not BELIEVE how hard trying to get all the dialogue into iambic pentameter is. I didn't always succeed, either.
There's a sequel coalescing in my head, but it'll probably be a while before it's started, let alone finished.


"To sanctify such love be blasphemy," states Friar Lawrence, basket held in hand, filled as the heart of the one who before him stands.

"But thou art truly servant to our Lord," implores that other, "And does not state the Scripture that all love doth sacred be, so canst thou honor us?"

"Thy wit is better spent on puns than this," rebukes the priest, and turns away. "Ask not again forsaking holy writ."

"'Tis not forsaking," comes the protest, the more helpless, hopeless, "'Tis honor to it."

The Friar shakes his head. "Mercutio, in love, thou art a fool, foolish as Romeo's passing fancies."

"A fancy! 'Tis not fled upon the morn, shame of its face hid from the dawning light," counters he. "No midnight declaration could this be." Anger, here, a temper born of desperation and desertion.

"Peace," quoth the Friar, a hand raised to quell the other's words. "What thou dost ask is far from mine to give. I know thy love for him endures as stone, and like as strong, but –"

"Rejected." No light, little life; a shimmer of play in the line of shoulders and faded smile.

"Yes." A somber air within the chapel rests, of squandered hope and of understanding. The youth turns, exits, a seeming playfulness seeping into dispirited limbs and shadowed eyes.

The priest turns as well, but back again, and cannot look away, guilt and care worn a path through his features. He regrets no choice, for its need was far the more a pity; that Writ and Love should battle 'til one lost.