‘Ay, nurse; what of that? both with an R.’
With a flick of his quill, he underlined that line of Romeo’s and the nurse’s line preceding it, for he knew that his fellow tenant of the room would appreciate the dramatic irony that Shakespeare’s famous romantic work tendered them in such a tenuous time.
The cramped study that was tucked through an ostensibly peripheral door at the corner of Rosemary’s chambers seemed, although inducing claustrophobia in whatever ill-fated soul had the misfortune to be its current lodger, to be homely, at least to the intellectual that currently occupied its confines. The diminutive desk he sat at was antiquated and felt as if it would break at any time from even a pressure as feeble as that of the hybrid’s pen to the age-stained pages of the First Folio.
All of the classic literature of the Elizabethans was set aside for one measly moment while the hybrid considered the outlandish emotion that had bathed him in what he could only describe as pure, unconditional bliss. To put it in perspective, he was naught but the cherry-haired woman’s captive; yet, he felt a new-fangled glee overwhelming him that he had—as of some minutes ago—been vacant of for most of his holiday.
Closing the colossal manuscript with a boisterous THUNK, Juno arose from the antediluvian writing desk and deposited the quill in the equally out-of-date ink bottle; subsequently he turned on his heel, and sauntered in quite the traditionally-Juno fashion en route for the room’s point of entry and—alternatively—it’s point of exit. The rusted knob turned at his fingers’ command, and once more the crossbreed shared the room with the scarfed game-master, of sorts. She eyed him mockingly as he reentered; she had recovered what poise she had shed beforehand.
“Good morrow, dear,” the boy flirtatiously greeted his companion. Rosemary giggled as she settled into her regal throne, eyeballing him through the thick panel of glass that still managed to set them apart. She lifted a hand and gestured towards a comfy-looking recliner that had appeared where the coat rack had once stood; Juno obliged her unspoken command, taking a seat. “Now,” he muttered, “I’ve been wondering, milady: what exactly is not that easy?”
Rosemary flinched—seeming almost panicky—in her mountain of scarves. She didn’t respond at first, but rather cleared her throat, as if stalling for time so she could gather her thoughts. On the other hand, the thought did cross the supernatural’s mind that she was afraid to speak of whatever it was that would obstruct his path. “My dear boy,” she consoled affectionately, “Life is not that easy.” Juno scowled—she was quite palpably evading the subject under discussion. Snarling in the beginnings of sheer frustration, the soothsayer speedily decided that this was no time for her mind games. Patience was a virtue, but not in a conundrum that may well pilot him to demise if gone unanswered.
“Rosemary—” he stammered heatedly, “—I don’t have the time, the patience, or the want to play another one of your games.” The mistress of trivia on the opposite side of the looking-glass smiled oddly, amused with his resilience, even though she’d known he had it in him. He wasn’t afraid to challenge her wit with his own, and she was well aware—but this time, she feared, he was at wit’s end. “I have fought your fake soldiers. I have faced my inner demons. I have answered your petty questions. Now, I have one question for you, and I’m going to need you to be completely truthful with me: friend or foe, Rose?”
It was the first time he’d referred to her by anything other than Rosemary. Though such trivial matters as the name one person called another may seem insignificant to anyone else, to such a clever and insightful mind as Rosemary’s, it meant the world. Why had he gone to such lengths to call her by her shortened name? Few people did, so why him? He could be trying to establish a sense of familiarity, a sense of trust that was a frail and deplorable attempt at getting her to give in, but overall, the hybrid’s motive seemed hazy.
“This is not the time or the place, Rosemary!” Juno pleaded, slamming his fist against the glass in vain. His knuckles turned red with the scrapes, and tiny traces of half-human blood trickled out. The glass, however, had little more than a dent upon it. The barrier was too strong even for Juno’s frustration to plow through; even his Saiyan fury would not help him now. It was so unfair, how the fates chose to cut the strings that would most inconvenience the players. What was Juno without a steady head on his shoulders? He was a flighty young Romeo, similar in character to that pathetic boy in that worthless tragedy.
Rosemary sighed. “Perhaps I can give you one answer.”
~
With a flick of his quill, he underlined that line of Romeo’s and the nurse’s line preceding it, for he knew that his fellow tenant of the room would appreciate the dramatic irony that Shakespeare’s famous romantic work tendered them in such a tenuous time.
The cramped study that was tucked through an ostensibly peripheral door at the corner of Rosemary’s chambers seemed, although inducing claustrophobia in whatever ill-fated soul had the misfortune to be its current lodger, to be homely, at least to the intellectual that currently occupied its confines. The diminutive desk he sat at was antiquated and felt as if it would break at any time from even a pressure as feeble as that of the hybrid’s pen to the age-stained pages of the First Folio.
All of the classic literature of the Elizabethans was set aside for one measly moment while the hybrid considered the outlandish emotion that had bathed him in what he could only describe as pure, unconditional bliss. To put it in perspective, he was naught but the cherry-haired woman’s captive; yet, he felt a new-fangled glee overwhelming him that he had—as of some minutes ago—been vacant of for most of his holiday.
Closing the colossal manuscript with a boisterous THUNK, Juno arose from the antediluvian writing desk and deposited the quill in the equally out-of-date ink bottle; subsequently he turned on his heel, and sauntered in quite the traditionally-Juno fashion en route for the room’s point of entry and—alternatively—it’s point of exit. The rusted knob turned at his fingers’ command, and once more the crossbreed shared the room with the scarfed game-master, of sorts. She eyed him mockingly as he reentered; she had recovered what poise she had shed beforehand.
“Good morrow, dear,” the boy flirtatiously greeted his companion. Rosemary giggled as she settled into her regal throne, eyeballing him through the thick panel of glass that still managed to set them apart. She lifted a hand and gestured towards a comfy-looking recliner that had appeared where the coat rack had once stood; Juno obliged her unspoken command, taking a seat. “Now,” he muttered, “I’ve been wondering, milady: what exactly is not that easy?”
Rosemary flinched—seeming almost panicky—in her mountain of scarves. She didn’t respond at first, but rather cleared her throat, as if stalling for time so she could gather her thoughts. On the other hand, the thought did cross the supernatural’s mind that she was afraid to speak of whatever it was that would obstruct his path. “My dear boy,” she consoled affectionately, “Life is not that easy.” Juno scowled—she was quite palpably evading the subject under discussion. Snarling in the beginnings of sheer frustration, the soothsayer speedily decided that this was no time for her mind games. Patience was a virtue, but not in a conundrum that may well pilot him to demise if gone unanswered.
“Rosemary—” he stammered heatedly, “—I don’t have the time, the patience, or the want to play another one of your games.” The mistress of trivia on the opposite side of the looking-glass smiled oddly, amused with his resilience, even though she’d known he had it in him. He wasn’t afraid to challenge her wit with his own, and she was well aware—but this time, she feared, he was at wit’s end. “I have fought your fake soldiers. I have faced my inner demons. I have answered your petty questions. Now, I have one question for you, and I’m going to need you to be completely truthful with me: friend or foe, Rose?”
It was the first time he’d referred to her by anything other than Rosemary. Though such trivial matters as the name one person called another may seem insignificant to anyone else, to such a clever and insightful mind as Rosemary’s, it meant the world. Why had he gone to such lengths to call her by her shortened name? Few people did, so why him? He could be trying to establish a sense of familiarity, a sense of trust that was a frail and deplorable attempt at getting her to give in, but overall, the hybrid’s motive seemed hazy.
“This is not the time or the place, Rosemary!” Juno pleaded, slamming his fist against the glass in vain. His knuckles turned red with the scrapes, and tiny traces of half-human blood trickled out. The glass, however, had little more than a dent upon it. The barrier was too strong even for Juno’s frustration to plow through; even his Saiyan fury would not help him now. It was so unfair, how the fates chose to cut the strings that would most inconvenience the players. What was Juno without a steady head on his shoulders? He was a flighty young Romeo, similar in character to that pathetic boy in that worthless tragedy.
Rosemary sighed. “Perhaps I can give you one answer.”