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diveronarpg · 4 years

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Congratulations, LISSA! You’ve been accepted for the role of BENVOLIO. Admin Minnie: Our Bellamy has come home at last, and I am so excited to welcome you as well, Lissa! Your application was, in a word, gorgeous. I could viscerally feel Bellamy’s heartache and his struggles with every line, and you mapped out a beautiful peacemaker who has yet to find peace within himself. While I read and reread your prose several times, it was your passion for Bellamy that really made this an easy decision. The level of thoughtfulness and care, Lissa, was next level, truly. It became very clear to us how deeply you loved Bellamy, and I’m so excited to see Bellamy blossom on our dash. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER .

ALIAS:

Lissa.

AGE:

21.

PREFERRED PRONOUNS:

She/her.

ACTIVITY LEVEL:

My time is limited because of university and my part-time internship. However, I’d say I’m able to pop up twice/thrice a week, more or less!

TIMEZONE:

GMT -3.

HOW DID YOU FIND THE RP?

I found this RP some time ago, so I can’t say for sure. Probably through the tags, though!

OTHER RP ACCOUNTS:

https://dantesinfcrno.tumblr.com/.

IN CHARACTER .

CHARACTER:

Benvolio as Bellamy Santo Domingo.

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?

“ WAR-BEGOTTEN. ” ╱ “ HIS KICKING A MEANS OF DEFENSE FROM CRUELTY. ”

NATURE VERSUS NURTURE, an undying question with no solutions, a concept with a spectrum that falters and crumbles in the hands of Bellamy: a boy, born amidst carnage, picking flowers in haunted fields and gifting beauty upon the world like a stolen flame only pertinent to deities. He wears no crown of laurels upon waves of untamed hair, but every spring spats thorns before his feet. Bellamy cradles them, plunges them against his veins, his chest, his neck, puncturing his flesh with words whispered by fated winds. Kindness is dangerous as a sharp blade, if wielded with enough precision. He refuses, time and time again, this visceral call from the woods, from the ivory castles that know of corpses and festering. He refuses, vices and sins unbecoming of him –– but they are already there, lurking in the shadows since air reached his lungs for the first time. Bellamy pretends not to see it, but those who stare deep into his eyes can recognize the Stygian darkness that swims underneath honeyed warmth. A flame is still scorching, no matter how domesticated.

IN AN INTERLUDE, he swears there will never be carmine stains in his fingers. He lays awake at night, however –– the blood his heart pumps might as well not be his own; might have been harvested off the bodies buried beneath Verona’s sacrilegious grounds. Bellamy wonders, a heavy conscience his first determining trait, if he is not punishment from the heavens to the Santo Domingo lineage, if he is not a life sentence determined by God to appease the remnant lambs saved from slaughter. As he moves through the Montagues, through his own people, Bellamy looks in a mirror, and sees nothing. He has always been a ghost, meant to carry what no one desires to hold close.

BELLAMY IS NOT A SLAUGHTERHOUSE of the likes of his father: he is a morgue, eerie place of eternal unrest. Battlecries do not linger in his tongue as prayers do; his knuckles suffer a lesser offense than his guts once a punch is thrown. Violence is a betrayal to the murdered saints that crawl through his spine, and once again–– Bellamy refuses to bow before his birthright. In a world of dog eats dog, he opts to remain alive until his last breath is stolen from his lungs, his canines and claws kept safely hidden underneath trained porcelain touch. To be made out of steel, and not crush all tender things that take root in his soul –– is it foolish, or is it admirable? The looks of pity are the only answer he has ever gotten.

“ POETIC AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOUL OF THE ANCIENT GREEKS. ” ╱ “ CURSED WITH GENTLENESS. ”

KINDNESS & WEAKNESS, he learns, are not the same. Mercy is a weapon like any other, and Bellamy learns how to use it. They do not see it ; and dismissal becomes a habit for this ruinous shrine Bellamy dares call his body. He supposes, amidst war, it’s a privilege to have surprise by one’s side: no one expects the quietest of children to strike with such ravenous fury, hellfire blazing against raw flesh. Bellamy doesn’t speak of grief, of this century-old wound that has found a nest inside of his lungs, of this monstrous butterfly learning how to morph itself into anger.

I YEARN FOR PEACE. I yield. I must provide diplomacy for a world eager to end in flames. He repeats such verses as if they’re the poetry he is so fond of –– because the truth is, gentle elegance is a decision he has taken much before he could stand on his own legs. He is an absurdity, an oxymoron, an anomaly. Is that such a terrible thing to be? Is he in the wrong, to still mourn over those who wished to see him dead? He prays, quietly into the dead of night. He prays, and the world listens, but only for a moment. This is all the hope he has, and is it not an exit wound worse than any other? Relentless wishing upon a star, begging for a deity to descend from paradise and provide salvation–– in the end of this path, Bellamy forces himself to become Pariah & Messiah (if not him, who else would find reason amongst blasphemous madness? who else would shamefully bow their head before the cross, and beg for their sins to be forgiven?).

THE CURSE THEY SPEAK OF IS A BLESSING IN DISGUISE, for Montagues & Capulets alike are far too consumed by the fiery flames of murderous passion to understand the gravity of each battle they initiate. Bellamy has run out of ways to explain the weight of the blood that paints cobbled streets red ; decides to act as a fortress for his people (this entire city, plagued by a tale of two selfish families). PEACEMAKER, they say, as if it’s an insult –– as if his loyalty doesn’t lie deeper than any other soldier’s ; as if he has not sworn down his life for the chance Verona might see the sun rise in shades of joyous amber ; as if he hasn’t halted his existence to serve & protect.

BELLAMY DOES NOT offer words enlaced with poison to those who subdue him –– his throat aches with screams locked in for too long, but he dares not speak unless he delivers alluring arguments that might lead all out of danger. This is what he has never chosen for himself, and yet–– he bears it. For his father, for his brothers, for Roman and Marcelo, for the warriors that spit on the paths he follows with religious diligence, for the mothers in this nightmarish town that provides no comfort to their sons but death.

THE MIND HE HAS CULTIVATED, albeit mocked by many, is a powerful companion to the tender heart he has crafted with mangled hands. Innocence is vulgar in a world like this –– but Bellamy’s good will is not one borne out of naiveté. This is what both armies do not understand: Bellamy is not moved by his kindness, nor is he propelled by volatile emotions –– what blooms underneath the tender facade is a deliberate choice he will take, time and time again, funded on principles that have raised Athens from the ground up. This is what he will not abdicate. This is what no one sees, for he is more ghost than man, more mind than matter: amidst wicked and tempestuous men, Bellamy raises himself above raging waves, an unmovable marble tower.

HE, OF COURSE, STILL PICKS UP A DAGGER ╱ a gun, infiltrating loveless troops in order to conquer peace. There is no other way, he has realized. Perhaps crumbling is necessary for rebirth ; perhaps some sins can only be washed out with blood. As Francis Butler once said, “the nation that will insist on drawing a broad line of demarcation between the fighting man and the thinking man is liable to find its fighting done by fools and its thinking done by cowards,” so Bellamy goes to the front lines ; not with the blind desire to create chaos ╱ but to make change. If the weight of the pen is not enough, he will find a way to be heard.

“ SINS OF OMISSION. ” ╱ “ PUT OUT THE FIRES. ” ╱

“ SELF-LOATHING. ”

BELLAMY DOES NOT REST, his mind unable to encounter a moment of quiet. When will this end? He could only ever sleep once he turned his back to Verona, bloodshed no longer marring his door –– but still, he woke up in a cold sweat at least once a week, and it felt like betrayal, deep down in his bones. ATLAS could never hide his true nature, for the Earth would still weigh heavily down his shoulders. He wasn’t missed, of course, too much of an oddity, with idealist visions that somehow disturbed the choleric landscape they lived in. And yet, as he traveled around the globe, as he became renowned for his grasp of law & justice, insatisfaction was in the back of his mind. What if–– they died? What if–– Marcelo disappeared one night? What if–– Roman could not handle life on his own? What if––. No amount of change was capable of drowning this out, when the city that has birthed him was still ablaze. You have become selfish. He would stare at open windows, and the desire to book a flight would bellow inside of his every vein. Embrace your fate, for cowardice is unbecoming of a Santo Domingo.

BITTER ONCE HE LEAVES, bitter once he returns. Is there anything he could do, to prevent this miserable tale of a prodigal child coming back to a nest they’d long forsaken? No matter how many books he has memorized, there are no words that can explain this feeling –– no one can comprehend him, for his scars are invisible to most. He stands, tall and proud, but darkness comes for him, and he howls to the moon, for it is the only being who understands his pain. You, too, fester in ruby shades against your will. You, too, become eclipsed by a purpose much larger you could ever hope to be. You, too, are still following the footsteps of the sun. Bellamy can no longer abstain from this war, so he wears adamantine armour (a brilliant mind, a beautiful smile, poignant words). Some days, it’s easier to pretend he is no longer holy. Some days, he drowns the taste of copper from his tongue with wine. Some days, he cries –– for those he killed ; for his own spirit, mutilated. Most days, he becomes a sacred image made out of steel: I am no angel, but I can try, I must try.

“ BELLAMY MAY BE BORN INTO WAR, MAY HAVE BEEN BRED INTO IT, BUT THAT DOES NOT MEAN HE WILL HAVE TO SUBMIT TO IT — NO, HE WILL FIGHT. ”

( ADDENDUM . ) In the novel, Benvolio is a static character, lacking much depth beyond his diplomatic role, as he is often the only voice of reason amidst a vicious crowd led by a herd mentality. I aim to translate his wish for peace as his primary motivation, but root it deeper –– the system in which Bellamy was raised in should have, in theory, destroyed all tenderness his nature would have provided him with. So where does it come from? How has he protected this piece of himself, even when surrounded by death? Bellamy is a strong character –– not only because of his physique, but because his mind is a fortress. I believe his philosophical spirit has always pushed Bellamy to see life beyond the walls of his own home. I believe the love he felt specifically for Roman and Marcelo urged him to value humanity much more than any other soldier of his kind. His gentleness has always been a choice: not always a conscious one, but a choice nonetheless. But no one has only one principle to follow, and morality is a grey and temptatious thing. Bellamy might not be easily led to a fight, but he has always been a protector –– his self-loathing and the ingrained idea that his life is worth less combine to form this selfless persona, sometimes to the point of toxicity, to the detriment of his own being, willing to do it all for whomever is in need.

What is most intriguing to me, concerning Bellamy, is that he is a paradox in more ways than one, which creates a multitude of paths he could take. He strives for peace, but is still fighting a war. In his core, he believes this conflict is useless and only acts as a catalyst for more pain, but since he desires to protect his loved ones (which includes the mob he was raised in, his family and friends, but might as well include a stranger in trouble) & honor his name, he came back to Verona as soon as he was summoned. He has been altruistic for so long it has worn him out, and now selfishness claws at his bones (he has left once, and perhaps he still thinks too often about doing so again –– Bellamy dreams of forgetting this city, wakes up and tries to repent for wishing to find an identity that goes beyond his occupation inside the Montague ranks). The kindness he chooses to exude is in high contrast to the anger that boils on his blood like a second skin –– he is tired of this game, he is exhausted of worrying and burying everyone that has once made him smile (and what does it take, for a guardian angel to turn his back on his people? What does it take, for a god to abandon his creations to bloodshed, and finally allow forgetfulness to consume his brain? I feel like Bellamy is constantly on the edge of an abyss, staring into the void, the point of no return daring him to step further). It almost feels like his body and his mind are disjointed, and his own wishes have been suppressed in order for him to fill in the shoes his family needs him to.

I don’t think Bellamy is moved by passion and intense emotions, even though his biggest motivators are linked to the people he cares about –– in fact, he cares so much about them, that he has always been willing to die by the sword if it meant his father and mother would be safe, if it meant Roman and Marcelo could enjoy a longer and happier life. He is not a cowardly man, never had the chance to be, even when the world became his home –– I envision that Bellamy has seen and lived many tragedies, probably had his hands on a few of them. It will weigh down on his back, on his shoulders. This type of character will always carry an omen on their bodies, no matter how hard they try to wash it out. I think this is a cycle that shackles Bellamy down and he still isn’t sure if he can break free from it (or even if he wants to do so, for being selfish has brought him unbearable guilt during his travels & Bellamy can’t forgive himself for straying away from the path delineated for him since birth): he was raised to be lethal, and he remains in this dark setting where flowers can not bloom, trying to force the petals to come out anyway, trying to grasp the sun and gift it to Verona, and the inevitable failing of this turns him disgusted by his own reflection, desperate to prove himself and justify his existence by doing his duty for the name Montague.

WHAT IS A FUTURE PLOT IDEA YOU HAVE IN MIND FOR THE CHARACTER?

GODHOOD. Verona is a city of sinners, and Bellamy’s hands are not devoid of their own –– however, in them, there is a gentleness carved out not from the absence of violence, but despite it ; a temple raised in the name of Agape, as Bellamy becomes a god, ready to purge & forgive, to kiss the feet of those who have walked upon a dirtied path & purify them. Odin Bello is not the first to use the Santo Domingo’s ears as a confessionary, and he certainly won’t be the last –– there is something in his eyes that prompts people to open up ; to make offerings and sacrifices in exchange of honeyed prayers, for it’s the holiest thing Verona has to offer (a boy still, whose halo is faded ╱ whose body’s a litany of mysteries and nocturnal waves). This is the closest to peace they can get, half-angel at their doorstep, wings bled dry, gunpowder on his hands –– it is sublime as it is terrifying, and some can not bear it (Rafaella, for one, seems to be terrorized by his very image, insistent on driving him away as he pleads for her to see the light: where in God’s name is the child I’ve met, don’t you wish to forge a kinder ending to us all?). In his search for peace, Bellamy has long forgotten his own humanity –– he’s always had to bury it in order to fulfill his role as a son, as a warrior, as a scholar, as a peacemaker (there is no space for him to simply be, and he often wanders around Verona, searching for an exit ╱ the world has not given him an answer, neither has the mob). What is he, but a weapon? What is he, but a forsaken deity? Bellamy has crossed oceans and continents, and still–– he isn’t seen. Is there one to embrace him fully, vices & virtues, blood moon & sunshine? Is there a way for Santo Domingo to dissolve himself of his own existence, but without guilt? The thoughts often haunt him –– but alas, he has to rise in the morning, for his own life is not the heaviest weight he has to carry.

( ADDENDUM . ) Unlike the two other plots I will lay out in the next sections, this one is directed inwards. Bellamy, in my perception, has always seen himself in relation to others –– how he can help, what can he do for them, how his existence can be a tool for others to improve their own lives. He has always filled in a role: his motivations are genuine, but how does one push forward, when dedicating all of their energies to everyone but themselves? I think Bellamy had his time away from home & from the traditional boxes he had to fit himself into, but still–– it was marred by so much guilt and the constant stress of receiving dire news, because Bellamy had always been aware Verona would not change its ways, especially not with him gone. So many of his frustrations are still boiling underneath his skin –– he is out of place, he hasn’t found himself, he doesn’t feel like he can fully pursue his dreams & wants because it would mean letting someone else down. He is still the soldier that put all of his desires on hold in the name of honouring his ancestors, and while he takes pride on this, on his family–– it is oh, so unfulfilling, to aim for peace and come back to war, to raise your voice and not be heard.

I’m very invested in my character’s psyches, and I fully believe every character has many layers that deserve to be explored with utmost dedication –– no one is merely one thing, and it would be quite sad to portray any fictional being as such. I want to explore Bellamy’s vision of the family he so loves, and for which he has given up so much for, how adoration balances itself out with the bitterness he tries to drown so desperately, how he dedicates himself to his job & position even though he feels disgusted by posing as a bodyguard, when the loyalty of those he protects is bought with money and not with the respect he preaches all living creatures should be deserving of. I want to see beyond his quest for peace –– will he ever let his guard down? Will there ever be someone he trusts, beyond the feud that extends over Verona? Will Bellamy find understanding, someone he can speak to, someone that crawls underneath his skin and finds he is so much more than a peacekeeper? Most importantly, will Bellamy discover himself? Will he find his strength to power through this reality he never wished to come back to? Where will he find it? How will it transform him? Is love capable of holding him up, moving him forward? Will the hunger for more break his heart, will the ugliness of bloodshed turn him sour at last?

BROTHERS IN ARMS. Bellamy is a man of the past –– his core survives on sweet memories of a flourishing spring that will never come back. Laughter, juvenile & booming, was something he could only share with Roman and Marcelo, the two friends he feels actually belong to him, with him. Bellamy has never dared to utter his adoration aloud to either of them, has never admitted he’d rather die than see them perish. The love he has given them was perhaps lukewarm, when compared to these two feisty demons with hellfire for hearts: Bellamy’s affection was a tender kiss to the temples, soft massages to erase their aches, a moment of quiet as he wiped the sweat from their foreheads. He never promised to remain by their side, but in his chest–– he knows his place is right beside them, perhaps below them, but still close. And Bellamy has thrown that to the wind once he up and left, consumed with a selfish desire to live as a person, and not a warrior born out of a patronym. He loves them, will always love them most of all –– but maybe that is not enough. Maybe there is an abyss in between them, an ocean separating their souls. Lucky for them, Bellamy is willing to cross it with undeterred determination –– anything to safely tuck them away inside his rib cage ; his drive to protect grows stronger when near them (is there anything he wouldn’t do for these remembrances of boyhood? He is scared of discovering there isn’t, so he blinds himself once Marcelo comes by, once Roman’s cologne reaches his nose). The tally of his sins would grow & grow, and the only ones that would make such fate bearable would be his brothers.

( ADDENDUM . ) Bellamy’s friendship with Roman and Marcelo is one of the things I’m extra eager to explore! First and foremost, because I am sure, beyond Bellamy’s immediate family, these two are his most important people & there is very little he wouldn’t do for them. And, boy, would I like to discover what the limits of this friendship are! Is there a line Bellamy, the loyal Patroclus to these two Achilles, would not cross, even when concerning the people closest to his heart? Would he ever forsake them in the name of his morals? Alternatively, what absurdities would he commit on their names? What lengths would he cover, to see both of them living a long and happy life?

In the book, Benvolio is in a lower position than Mercutio and Romeo –– which is mirrored here, so it opens up a myriad of possibilities. Italian mafias are known for a strict code of conduct & sense of hierarchy, and they also work as famiglias, obviously. So I picture that, although they were raised together, there was always a thin line separating them: Bellamy always considered himself less than Roman and Marcelo, and was satisfied to occupy this lower rank & serve them in any way he could. It interests me in the sense that, even though they’re his closest friends & probably the few people that have always accepted him (because this is another one of his struggles –– both his “softer” personality and his gender identity are probably strange concepts to his traditional family in the same manner, and acceptance is not something Bellamy has ever had plentiful of), I still think Bellamy tries and holds himself back with them –– there are parts of him that are occulted, and purposefully so, from the ones he loves most. So I’m thinking, once he left, it was probably a huge shock for Roman and Marcelo –– no one saw it coming. Of course Bellamy did his best to remain in contact, but still, dissidence is dissidence. So how do they receive him back? Have Roman and Marcelo ever actually seen Bellamy with the same eyes he sees himself with? How much of an abyss has originated in between them, after these four years of distance?

BLOODHOUND. Loyalty and obedience, when combined, are quite a dangerous threat to one’s honesty and commitment to good deeds, especially when an involvement with the mob is concerned. His continuous absence has not gone unnoticed –– and many have frowned upon his return. Bellamy, a soldier? he has heard them laugh. Bellamy, a fighter? he has felt their scorn from the weight of the stares that follow him as he steps into a room. It brings him sick nostalgia ; one that leaves his stomach turned upside down. The children that used to sneer at him for taking care of stray dogs & cats are now his companions in this senseless war (and yet they all seem too eager to see Bellamy fail –– they doubt him, untrust creating a wall between them. More than isolating, it’s demeaning to a man who is willing to give out his life to honor his father’s ╱ a man who has slashed all of his hopes & dreams to fulfill a path that does not belong to him). The bellicose bickering within the ranks, however, does not disturb him –– Benvolio does not get the credit he is deserving of, for hiding so well underneath porcelain features. These soldiers have nothing on the silent storm that builds inside of Benvolio –– his heritage has always been written out in shallow graves, tainted by fate ; by the numerous gods of Death. Now, he is forced to reach for it, to hold it (it scorches his fingers, it gifts him endless agony, but he lets it have its rightful place next to his beating heart). How far into umbriferous rivers can he sink? ╱ What is the limit of this painful allegiance to his own name? Bellamy does not sleep, for all his nights are wasted away in wondering –– what will I become? And that is perhaps the only murder he is not ready to commit.

( ADDENDUM . ) Concerning this point, I’d like to explore a few paths. Firstly, how was Bellamy received back by the Montagues? He was never a figure on the receiving end of much respect, since his quest for peace turned him into a black sheep of sorts, but surely leaving amidst a war was not an act appreciated by many. Are there suspicions of him? Is he a victim of something similar to military abuse from his peers? Trust was certainly lost, and Bellamy is willing to take the steps to conquer it back –– not for himself, but in the name of his poor father, who deserves as much. The point is, how far is he willing to go for this acceptance? Better yet, in order to show the loyalty that he has always cherished for his parents & for the Montagues, is Bellamy willing to go against his principles? Of course, he is wearing their armour while vouching for peace, but this is not a plan that can be considered definitive.

He is merely a soldier, but would he go against the hierarchy he was raised to respect, if he felt the orders given were unjust? Spoiler alert: I think he certainly would, which would only make the trust he is desperate to regain even more of a distant perspective. I think Bellamy would struggle to try to maintain the scales even, to find a balance between obedience and his principles –– but that won’t work forever, and, at some point, he will have to decide what reigns (and that is one more inner turmoil for him to face). This is something that will always be at the core of his development, in my opinion, and it can fluctuate.

For example, Bellamy is a scholar. I see him as the observing type, listening before he speaks. He tries to understand people to the best of his ability. So, of course, he will interact with Capulets and, instead of seeing them as the enemy, he will more likely take a humanist approach. These are individuals, with their own families & struggles, not beasts to be slaughtered –– this is where Odin Bello comes in, for I think he’ll be a very important piece for Bellamy’s development in this sense, because the Santo Domingo willfully trusts people, no matter their background (everyone should have a second chance, should they not?). He is not ignorant or unaware of how this can end, but he is certainly a character with the most disposition to understand someone coming from a different place than he is.

If the time comes where he has to end one of them (and I’d like him to –– whether because it’s a request from Roman or Marcelo themselves, or a decision Bellamy comes to in order to defend them, because his protective nature is not just for show, and it definitely has darker roots), it would be a large blow to his constitution as a person. I don’t think Bellamy would ever forgive himself, and guilt would consume him –– it’s a great source to explore the underlying shadows he has, his self-hatred, and where would those things lead him (would he leave? Would he consider himself, at one point, far too gone & take a leap into war? Would he take his own life? Would he ever betray the Montagues to save another?).

I think this is intriguing as well, because Bellamy’s motivations are directed outwardly –– to achieve peace for the city, to save his loved ones from pain, so on and so forth. So his relationships to others will be determinants to the paths he’d take –– because it’s an instinct of his, to think of others before himself. But, then again, can he be convinced to embrace his selfishness? Can he turn his back to them all, if enough buttons are pushed? Everyone has a breaking point, and Bellamy seems to outright neglect his needs and limitations in order to step in for others –– which means a breakdown is in order, but also that it will take plenty of build-up!

ARE YOU COMFORTABLE WITH KILLING OFF YOUR CHARACTER?

Yes, for sure, if it serves a purpose!

IN DEPTH .

IN-CHARACTER INTERVIEW:

› WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE PLACE IN VERONA? ‹

CARAMEL-HUED IRISES meet the ethereal roof of the Cathedral of Verona –– it used to be his favorite place, even when the Capulets reigned over it, for it raised Bellamy closer to a God he could hear ╱ could understand better than he could a war that tinged his family with nonsensical losses and burials, hollowed out spaces carved on their roots as the sunset started resembling more a battleground than a kingdom of beauty. Bellamy recalls the singing that used to echo inside luxurious walls, filling his heart with choirs of warm voices (the boy swore he could feel an angel’s grasp touching his hands, inviting him to reach higher ╱ he never did, terrified of the consequences of holiness, but perhaps he was gifted with a martyr’s heart, and was that not much heavier?). Now, however, the Montague mark has erased memories of saints & softness alike –– there is always a dulled tud to be heard ; a silent ache overflowing from his bones. Bellamy taps his pen against the question he posed against himself: it was a heavy blow too soon since his return, but the Santo Domingo only knows kindness to wounds that do not belong to him. There is a heavy sigh as mulls over his options –– even his home is a lie, one that bears a dismantled innocence he’d rather avoid. In the corner of his notebook, Bellamy writes down, cursive letters delineated with delicacy: “ the library. ” It is no different than the church, for the countless shelves boast about the Montague heritage –– in Verona, there is nowhere to turn, for every piece of the city tells a story not in ink, but with blood (he tries to tell himself he does not hate this, that a part of him does not fester once he walks outside, breathes in the air soaked with death). When Bellamy sinks into immeasurable knowledge, however, it’s easier to forget the reality that awaits him outside the Montague’s fortress –– even as a man, as a soldier, Bellamy lingers in empty rooms, a stack of books by his side as the hours come and go (he does not distract himself with the noises outside, with the possibilities with sharp claws, as poets and philosophers and theorists feed him sublime words). What else could he ask for, but this make-shift serenity?

› WHAT DOES YOUR TYPICAL DAY LOOK LIKE? ‹

IT IS PATHETIC OF HIM, to gather the unstopping questions he received upon his return & write them down to pin answers proper enough (underneath his skin, however, the truth lurks as a viper: you can only spit out honesty to yourself, face half-eclipsed, in secret ╱ no one desires to hear you once the pleasant river that flows down your tongue stanches ; once the corpses start floating up from the depths of your soul to the shore of your lips, disfigured & dismembered, like the crude words you never let out). His handwriting seems to stare into his soul, calloused fingers trembling as his mind splits –– the facade, his candor, the middle-ground that is as unsatisfying as what Bellamy has to offer. He is twenty-four, a degree in law under his belt with a specialization on international relations –– but he is a bodyguard ╱ a soldier (it all depends on who asks) ; and his most prized possession is no longer his mind, but the strength of his brawl. Bellamy finds it strange, even, that they trust his hands to protect –– most days are accompanied by the weighty stare of his peers, as if he is not a pacifist but instead a grenade. It is almost demeaning, for a man of the law to stand by people, but only for a price (as if any life can be monetized ; as if that is not a sin by itself). His mere stance inside the Montague ranks make him a corrupted figure, unclean –– it’s worth it, he mumbles under his breath, it’s what I was made for (his heart seems to rebel with the strength of a caged bird as he steps further into this organization).

His days are spent idly, almost –– his fists are always clenched ; bile is always clinging to his throat, acidic & nauseating. There is no beauty to uncover in Verona, no enthralling tales waiting to be discovered. –––– I spend all of my days trying to be heard, even though I am well aware soldiers are not supposed to have mouths. –––– he whispers to himself, a tender smile forming on his lips (it’s an instinct, more than a reflection of joy). One day, perhaps, his fight will be worth it –– at least, that’s what he tells himself, in order to have half an hour of rest every dawn.

› WHAT HAS BEEN YOUR BIGGEST MISTAKE THUS FAR? ‹

IT’S A QUESTION THAT HAUNTS HIM SINCE CHILDHOOD, for Bellamy often wonders what he could’ve done differently –– is there any choice he could’ve taken, that would spare him of these results? No matter the frequency with which he falls into these pits, the conclusion he comes to tends to be the same: fate would have been kinder only if he had been born under a different name, far away from the plagued streets of Italy –– but since he is a Santo Domingo, the list of his mistakes extends itself much further than the date of his genesis, going back to the first man to shed their skin in the honour of a Montague and not their own. Bellamy’s nails dig through the palms of his hands –– it throbs, but it’s the subdued ache that he is used to welcoming with open arms (he does not pity himself, for his low worth is a fact ingrained on the insides of his thighs and his teeth). –––– What mistake have I not made? –––– he wonders aloud, and his voice echoes and shatters inside this chamber of forgiveness (but even God has abandoned him, no glories to be bestowed upon Bellamy’s solitary altar). His eyes are closed once he starts scribbling, uninterrupted consciousness as he lists his regrets: tearing apart my mother’s womb ; surviving the trials humanity forced upon a frail child’s body ; laughing when I shouldn’t have ; refusing to smile when I should’ve ; abandoning the city that gifted me all I have ; returning to the place that crushed my hopes ; being too tender ╱ being too harsh ; simply being –– not a fleshed warrior, not a kinder deity (just Bellamy, a fine friend, and nothing more).

› WHAT HAS BEEN THE MOST DIFFICULT TASK ASKED OF YOU? ‹

TO STOP VALUING LIFE, is what he writes down, without much thought. As a combatant, one must first learn how to fall (how to perish) before picking up a sword or lifting their fists. As a protector, Bellamy grew up listening that his life was no more than a shield to his king –– and perhaps, he never truly learned how to give this up, this desire to become more than these red threads of fate ordered him to be (more than carnage, this was his reason for leaving, was it not? To find the parts of Bellamy Santo Domingo that extended beyond mob ranks & fancy nomenclatures for murderers). His dilemma was a sword with multiple edges, and it ended nested inside his chest, puncturing his heart –– no one seemed to mean a thing for the war that raged on, no matter how beloved ; entire families could be wiped clean and left without a proper ending ; kind strangers could become his next target (and, oh, perhaps the smile Bellamy had given them was more ominous than an act of docility ; perhaps he has more claws and canines than he wants to admit).

› WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS ON THE WAR BETWEEN THE CAPULETS AND THE MONTAGUES? ‹

I WANT IT TO END, and the words are furious, burning against paper –– his pulse seems to strike with force against his jugular (Bellamy feels every beat, and in his mind, there’s always the awareness it might be his last). –––– It has gone for far too long, it is not worth it –– it has never been. –––– he is a preacher to no one but himself in this moment, solitude providing him an outlet for the emotions he so adores to bottle up, muttering under his breath as the light inside his eyes flickers (it can’t go out, but God –– how to keep a candle ablaze when the winds blow harsher with each new day? How to maintain the warmth inside his muscles when winter consumes him whole? How, how, how?). Bellamy pushes against the current, but his legs are paralysed and frozen ╱ phantom limbs, as he tries not to succumb to the ghostly nature that has followed his every step. Bellamy writes, and writes, and writes –– he has also ran away, he has also tried to become someone else. But now, he is determined to fight –– he isn’t sure of the how or when, but the gun already weighs in the palm of his hand. Time is ticking ; eyes bore into his back. I WANT IT TO END, AND I WILL END IT (and, oh, Lord, what is the cost of this one more choice?).

IN-CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE:

EXTRAS:

Pinterest board.

#accepted #accepted: benvolio

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