Disclaimer: Thank God, no.
A/N: I do actually know where this one came from-it's a companion to the first-but seeing as how I don't know why I wrote that one, the reason for this one is pretty much still a mystery as well.
In Cloisters Dark and Haunted
They tell stories in Verona, about a young man named Mercutio, and all the chaos and havoc he would create on a daily basis. The stories are told fondly however, because he was a charmer, for all the good that did him, and there were few who really disliked him. He's dead now, killed in a duel he was trying to end, the first tragedy in that tragic tale of Romeo Montague and Juliet Capulet. Everyone remembers them, a few remember Romeo's mother, many remember Tybalt, many more recall Paris, and those that knew him in life remain true in death and say a prayer for Mercutio at mass.
The nuns in the convent of St. Anyanka tell stories too.
The Sisters had stories of Mercutio long before he was dead.How he'd sneak into the cloister in the middle of the night, steal down the long hallways to Novice Rosalind's cell. How they'd be up all night, but only talking. How he'd snatch her away for walks in the garden and the Sisters on soil-duty would turn a blind eye. How he made her laugh and sing and smile, and how she made him gleam. How the girl who had been so anxious to be a Sister was now chomping at the bit to be a wife.
They tell the story of the first time Mercutio held her hand, the wonder in his face at being allowed to do so. The story of Romeo and how he pined after Rosalind. How Mercutio knew but was helpless to anything when Rosalind turned that smile on him. The story of a young girl, so new to life, so ready for love, and a young man, no stranger to either, just starting to understand both.
And now he's dead, and the nuns tell different stories.
They tell the story of the day Verona's streets ran red with blood. Of a young girl dressed in novice black she no longer wanted, going pale as death and fainting on the cold stone floor.
Of how she awoke and immediately began screaming, and then abruptly fell silent. Of a determined mouth set in a haggard face, taking vows the very next day.
Of one last final rebellion, holding true to the day: she only wears white now.
They tell them to the young novices who enter the cloister, about the sad-faced, white-habited Sister with the lovely face and the terrible eyes. About the awful silence and then, the far worse sobs. About a young lady grown old overnight: hopes, dreams, and plans shattered.
The Sisters miss him too. How was it possible that a young man slipping through shadow could bring such sunshine where he walked?
They tell the tales, on Tuesday nights, when the lights are out and the spirits about, and the sky is lit with stars. And it's grim and it's cold and the shadows are bold, for the halls have never seemed this dark.
A/N: It's weird to write for a fandom I don't like… Originally a present for a much beloved teacher.