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Praising what is Lost makes Remembrance Dear

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Benvolio Montague had always been a mediator. The one person who would always stay calm and keep the peace, no matter the cost. Even in childhood, he would work to resolve any conflict that he saw among his peers. He almost always meant well. In this way, at least, he lived up to his name.
He wasn’t, however, always successful. In his eyes, the times that he was unsuccessful always seemed to be the most consequential failures of his life, costing the lives of both of his best kinsman and his best friend.
"Best friend," Benvolio thought as he strode along the forest path, snickering sardonically at the thought. "Mercutio was more than that."
The royal-blooded man had been Benvolio’s rock, even though to others it had always seemed the other way around. Despite the fact that Benvolio had held Mercutio back from a fatal brawl many a time, Mercutio was always the one to exclaimingly tell him that he was beautiful whenever he casually stated his hideousness. Mercutio was the one who would pull him out of his own head when his thoughts were either teettering on the edge of a dark hole or already almost too far gone. Mercutio had always been there. Now…
"He’s gone, because of me," the curly-haired brunette thought bitterly. The brave, honorable, loyal man had died in his arms after he had to drag him from the street, shushing his desperate and moved rebuke. In his last moments, he had dazedly looked up at Benvolio and, with a bloodstained hand, stroked Benvolio’s dark, freckled cheek dazedly. He never remembered washing the blood off.
Benvolio was alone now, since Romeo had… Since Romeo had killed himself. Benvolio… was alone.