Spay and neuter your plot bunnies today.
Author: Aiisling
Title: The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love: A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy (Entry 3)
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: pg-13
Warnings/Spoilers: none
Summary: By the time the 1400's rolled about, Italy existed primarily as five major city states, one of them being Florence. This is a story about a Prince of that esteemed and powerful city, Pietro Petrelli, and Claude Raines. Other Heroes characters will play prominent roles.
Installment 3: Plots and plotters are further revealed, new characters come out to play, and Pietro discovers the meaning of the word 'miracle.' Power is a dangerous thing.
LINKS: Installment I, and 'cause I love you all VERY MUCH, Installment II.
~~~~~
The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love:
A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy
Installment III
Florence’s wool guild was housed in an large, beautiful building at the center of the city. It was filled with gorgeous tapestries, fine rugs, and the very best of everything. The room in which Natanaele sat, however, was so far removed from any sort of finery that it was laughable. Men were grouped around ancient wood tables, laughing raucously at crude jokes and foul jests. The scent of unwashed bodies pervaded the thick and smoky air, mixing with fumes from badly brewed ale and the charred stench of burnt meat. One waitress wandered about, refilling sloshing cups of wine in a too-tight gown and rolled up sleeves. Overall the disgusting taverna was dark and private, perfect for hiding the faces of its patrons.
The Prince of Florence wore a poor man’s cioppa, its long sleeves and cascading skirt untreated, or grigio. There were ragged patches upon its sleeves and the belt which synched it tight was old and worn. An ancient wool cap, once a vibrant red now faded to shades of pink-gray, sat upon his head, its long tale trailing down to rest upon his shoulder. In the gloom Natanaele’s strong, aristocratic features -that sensual mouth, the hard jaw, his penetrating eyes- were as hidden in obscurity as his body was cloaked by clothing. Before him was a glass of wine.
He was slumped over, pretending to have drunk himself into a stupor. Reality, however, differed greatly than the average drunkard’s perceptions.
“You look lonely, signore,” purred a husky voice in Natanaele’s ear. “Perhaps you’re looking for a little company? Eh?” Natanaele looked up, careful to keep his face in shadow. Leering down at him was a beautiful, busty brunette, her tantalizing hair peeking out from beneath a taut linen cap. Tight sleeves and a loose, flowing skirt called seductively to lonely souls, beckoning them from their secluded corners and frothing drinks.
Natanaele reached up a hand, saying nothing. Slim, chafed fingers, covered in the callouses and creases that come naturally to the poor, reached out and took the worn leather bag that dangled before her face. There was a slight smile on the prostitute’s careworn yet still beguiling lips as she slipped the pouch into the space between her breasts and stood.
“Si, signore, follow me,” she breathed. Natanaele stood, his cioppa falling limply from his shoulders. Any of the patrons at this particular taverna would not have thought the pair remarkable as they wound through the tables and up the shadowed, secret stairs. There was nothing unusual about a poor man buying a nights comfort in such a loud and cagey establishment, even if the woman was just a little too pretty for the taverna and the man held himself just a tad too stiffly to be as drunk as he pretended.
The bawdy noises receded with the stairs. By the time Natanaele and his companion reached the end of the long hall above the bar and unlocked the whore’s door the volume was down to a dull thud, swelling every once in a while when some particularly clever degenerate cracked a joke. Neither of the two in the poorly lit hall said a word as the woman unlocked her door and entered, followed soon by Natanaele. Once he had passed her she quickly re-locked the door and turned to face him. No longer was she smiling coquettishly and holding her breasts out in just the right way. Instead her face was stern, almost business like, matching the firm stance that seemed out of place in her floozy gown.
Natanaele was sitting on the bed which, along with a truly ancient wooden table and rickety chair, were the only furnishings in the room. He, too, had lost his earlier guise, and now a Prince gazed out of his careworn clothes.
“Well? What news from the Vatican?” His voice was grave as he stared intently at the woman before him. She nodded and pulled the chair over to sit before him.
“It is bad, Signore,” she said. Hiking up her skirt, she revealed long, slender legs that any other man would have been dazzled by. Natanaele was instead drawn to the pocket which had been sown into the inside of her gown. She was reaching deep inside it, pulling out a sheaf of crumpled parchment which she then handed to him. “Paul II authorized the formation of a new Inquisitor’s Board two weeks ago.” Florence’s Prince was scanning the neat shorthand, so popular with spies, that covered the abused correspondence. As he flipped through the sheets his face grew increasingly stony. It was bad news indeed. However, it was not entirely surprising. These sheets merely confirmed the facts he’d already discovered. Natanaele looked at his spy, his eyes questioning, searching for more.
“That is not all, signore,” she continued, her level voice confirming his silent assumption. “My courtesan in the Vatican did not trust all of this message to paper.”
“Hana? Tell me!” Natanaele’s voice was sharp, demanding. The spy nodded.
“This Inquisition is only a cover up. They’re not looking for old, doddering men anymore, Natanale.” Hana’s voice grew quiet, the only hint of a growing fear. “They now search for the miracolo’s. Pope Paul II’s demones.”
Silence filled the room as Natanaele’s carefully controlled world crashed around his feet.
~
Pietro awoke to the angry tap-tap-tapping of fingers on his door. Thoughts of Clara passed through his strangely muffled mind as the noise persisted. She probably wanted to go out for a ride, bring a little sunshine into his still sleeping room. But, no, it couldn’t be Clara. For one thing the bed he slept upon was too hard to be his, too cold to be in the Petrelli villa. And the tapping was far to close to be upon his door. In fact...
“Haia!” He exclaimed, jolted out of his near-unconscious state by the heavy stick that had just been prodded into his cheek. “Che...?” He muttered, the question trailing off as he opened his eyes. Instantly they were flooded with the pink blaze of the setting sun. Pietro closed them tightly in the unnaturally bright light, trying desperately to banish the pain that was coursing through his head in waves.
“Took long enough,” growled a strangely accented voice in broken Italian. “Thought stick make you wake.” Pietro found that if he squinted his head hurt less. He did so now, vaguely processing that he was in some abandoned, filthy building (the slums), sometime around sunset, before focusing on the figure before him.
“You!” Pietro exclaimed, starting in surprise. This was a mistake, thanks to both the thick rope which tied his arms together and the white-hot lightening which screamed through his skull at the sudden movement. All of this culminated on him somehow falling away from the wall he’d been leaning against and onto his face. Pietro, however, was less focused on this than the fact that he was staring at the same homeless man who’d shunned his aid just days ago. He was struggling against the floor, trying to push himself up, when filthy, unshod feet appeared in his slim line of vision.
“No good, pup,” the man was saying, calling Pietro some unrecognizable term. Strong arms lifted him none too gently and shoved him back against the wall, taking no care for the already injured head which banged hard upon the rough stone. Pietro clenched his teeth, forcing the scream which had caught in his throat to stay there. Finally he fought off the pain and opened his eyes once more. His kidnapper had moved to crouch a few feet from him, nonchalantly turning a splintered, slender pole between his hands. Stories of the crazed poor, whispered to him by frightened servants and ignored until this moment, brought a sheen of sweat to the young Prince’s brow. His earlier despair had temporarily been forgotten in wake of this new, terrifying prospect.
“Now, you tell me, or more this.” The stranger gestured threateningly with the pole. The motion might have been funny if not for the utterly serious expression worn on the bearded man’s face. Pietro found his eyes almost hypnotized by the other’s gaze. He was shocked to find that the man’s eyes were blue, confirming his foreign origin. With little other choice, the young Italian nodded at his captor. He’d dealt with the mad before, and it always served best to treat them with respect.
“Good.” The stranger’s eyes never left Pietro’s as he spoke. “How you have my power?” For a moment Pietro thought the man, in his obvious discomfort with the Italian language, had simply used the wrong word. The question was repeated, this time accompanied with a sharp jab to the gut. Pietro hissed in pain.
“Please, signore,” he said as he caught his wind again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Do you use the right word?” His voice was calm and soothing, exactly as you’d use on a madman. The only response Pietro got was another painful stab with the pole.
“No, use right word. My power! You not understand?” Frustration was growing evident on the other’s face, his tone slowly warming with anger. When Pietro shook his head the man stood up and walked swiftly over to him. “This!” he exclaimed, raising a hand up in front of the boy’s face. “How you do this?!”
Pietro gasped as he blinked out of existence.
~
Claude reappeared, a frown upon his face. Things were not going so well. Upon seeing the brat use his power (His power! ) he’d grabbed him and tied him up, settling down deep in his hideout to wait for the rich boy to wake. A thousand thoughts had raced through his head-what if the boy had been sent by the church? Had they found him, after he’d run for more than a year? Could he have slipped up somewhere? The reality left him annoyed and confused. Claude had seen the shock upon the boy’s face when he’d gone invisible. The little snot really hadn’t had a clue, at least not until Claude -stupidly- handed his identity to the sop on a silver platter.
Claude’s snarl was directed more at himself than the scared looking lad whose face seemed so pale against long, dark hair. He was filled with a cocktail of emotions- fear, anger, surprise. After all, he’d never met anyone else who could do what he could. There had been others, of course, but each had been unique, their abilities specially suited to them. Just as his power fitted him. If Claude had felt honest right then he’d have admitted that some of his annoyance stemmed from the fact that this brat, so unlike Claude, shared his gift.
However the older man was not in the mood for honesty or kindness. He turned back to the boy who was staring at him like he’d grown another head.
“What you look at?” snapped the currently visible man. The lad cringed.
“You...you...”
Exasperation emanated from Claude’s body. “Yes, I go invisible. Want cry to madre?” The lad winced again, provoking a sigh from his captor. What a sensitive little thing the sod was turning out to be.
Claude began to pace. If there was one skill the fugitive had retained, it was his ability to read people. Not that he needed those instincts to understand this particular specimen of humanity. Every emotion fluttered across his expressive face at a speed which was almost dizzying to watch. Clearly he had absolutely no idea what Claude was talking about, and there was no way he was working for the Church. Some of the tension flowed out of Claude as he accepted this fact. He began to pace quietly before the boy, letting his thoughts crash against each other at random.
“What your name?” he growled, surprising an answer out of the boy.
“Pietro.” Despite his obvious shock, the boy was, once again, honest in his answer. Claude decided that he probably couldn’t lie if he wanted to. Pietro was watching him closely, following his stubborn pacing with gentle brown eyes.
“You tell name to all who ask?” the question flew out of his mouth, cranky but not particularly aggressive. The lad frowned slightly as he
answered.
“Yes. Why not?” Claude’s face darkened.
“Fool. Never tell. Some...” his voice trailed off as he turned back to the Italian, finding only waiting space where a body had once been. It seemed occupied, however, and somehow he could tell his captive was still there. “Look at you,” he growled. Silence rang through the room for a moment before a whispered yet fervent prayer to the Virgin Mary sprang out of nowhere. Claude rolled his eyes again. Seemed to be doing that a lot around the boy -Pietro, he reminded himself. Always good to know a name. Names held power, could give you an advantage. And power, Claude had learned, was best taken for yourself before someone else could use it against you.
“She no help you, boyo,” Claude hissed, once again giving Pietro some foreign curse in place of a name. He did not like prayers. They were for the weak and the cursed. He blinked and Pietro was sitting before him once more, staring at him like a lost little lamb alone in the woods. Abruptly Claude decided he’d had enough of fools for one day. Let him figure out his power on his own, if he was too stupid to have done so already. Claude didn’t need the trouble. He had better, more important things to attend to. Ignoring Pietro’s mixed murmurs of protest and pain Claude lifted the young Italian up, breaking the ropes that bound him with one swipe of the rusty knife which hung at his belt. He let the lad fall to his feet and catch his balance before grabbing Pietro by the front of his now filthy doublet and shoving him against the wall.
“Please, what are you-”
“Quiet, pazzo!” snarled the beggar, cutting Pietro’s protests off sharply. The young Prince fell silent in the face of Claude’s overwhelming presence. Claude shook him once, twice, until Pietro was clearly dizzy. “You say nothing to no one, huh? Answer!” He shook the boy again until Pietro managed to nod.
Claude stared at him a moment longer, their eyes locked in a drawn out gaze. What he saw there -truth, faith, and, oh, God, but the lad’s heart bled out of those brown pools- shook him to his core, reminding him of all that he’d lost. It was not a pleasant feeling, and Claude felt the need to get away from Pietro pressing in upon him from all sides. Abruptly he dropped his hands and stood back.
“I never want see face again.” With those parting words Claude flickered out of visibility, leaving Pietro to fall back against the wall as his limbs turned to water.
NOTES: Did you know that a courtesan is a very high class woman who spends her time keeping celibate priests company? She is beautiful but also knowledgable and able to hold witty and entertaining conversation.
Why do I know this? Because I spent an hour researching the history of prosititues for this installment. THATS why.
Title: The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love: A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy (Entry 3)
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: pg-13
Warnings/Spoilers: none
Summary: By the time the 1400's rolled about, Italy existed primarily as five major city states, one of them being Florence. This is a story about a Prince of that esteemed and powerful city, Pietro Petrelli, and Claude Raines. Other Heroes characters will play prominent roles.
Installment 3: Plots and plotters are further revealed, new characters come out to play, and Pietro discovers the meaning of the word 'miracle.' Power is a dangerous thing.
LINKS: Installment I, and 'cause I love you all VERY MUCH, Installment II.
~~~~~
The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love:
A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy
Installment III
Florence’s wool guild was housed in an large, beautiful building at the center of the city. It was filled with gorgeous tapestries, fine rugs, and the very best of everything. The room in which Natanaele sat, however, was so far removed from any sort of finery that it was laughable. Men were grouped around ancient wood tables, laughing raucously at crude jokes and foul jests. The scent of unwashed bodies pervaded the thick and smoky air, mixing with fumes from badly brewed ale and the charred stench of burnt meat. One waitress wandered about, refilling sloshing cups of wine in a too-tight gown and rolled up sleeves. Overall the disgusting taverna was dark and private, perfect for hiding the faces of its patrons.
The Prince of Florence wore a poor man’s cioppa, its long sleeves and cascading skirt untreated, or grigio. There were ragged patches upon its sleeves and the belt which synched it tight was old and worn. An ancient wool cap, once a vibrant red now faded to shades of pink-gray, sat upon his head, its long tale trailing down to rest upon his shoulder. In the gloom Natanaele’s strong, aristocratic features -that sensual mouth, the hard jaw, his penetrating eyes- were as hidden in obscurity as his body was cloaked by clothing. Before him was a glass of wine.
He was slumped over, pretending to have drunk himself into a stupor. Reality, however, differed greatly than the average drunkard’s perceptions.
“You look lonely, signore,” purred a husky voice in Natanaele’s ear. “Perhaps you’re looking for a little company? Eh?” Natanaele looked up, careful to keep his face in shadow. Leering down at him was a beautiful, busty brunette, her tantalizing hair peeking out from beneath a taut linen cap. Tight sleeves and a loose, flowing skirt called seductively to lonely souls, beckoning them from their secluded corners and frothing drinks.
Natanaele reached up a hand, saying nothing. Slim, chafed fingers, covered in the callouses and creases that come naturally to the poor, reached out and took the worn leather bag that dangled before her face. There was a slight smile on the prostitute’s careworn yet still beguiling lips as she slipped the pouch into the space between her breasts and stood.
“Si, signore, follow me,” she breathed. Natanaele stood, his cioppa falling limply from his shoulders. Any of the patrons at this particular taverna would not have thought the pair remarkable as they wound through the tables and up the shadowed, secret stairs. There was nothing unusual about a poor man buying a nights comfort in such a loud and cagey establishment, even if the woman was just a little too pretty for the taverna and the man held himself just a tad too stiffly to be as drunk as he pretended.
The bawdy noises receded with the stairs. By the time Natanaele and his companion reached the end of the long hall above the bar and unlocked the whore’s door the volume was down to a dull thud, swelling every once in a while when some particularly clever degenerate cracked a joke. Neither of the two in the poorly lit hall said a word as the woman unlocked her door and entered, followed soon by Natanaele. Once he had passed her she quickly re-locked the door and turned to face him. No longer was she smiling coquettishly and holding her breasts out in just the right way. Instead her face was stern, almost business like, matching the firm stance that seemed out of place in her floozy gown.
Natanaele was sitting on the bed which, along with a truly ancient wooden table and rickety chair, were the only furnishings in the room. He, too, had lost his earlier guise, and now a Prince gazed out of his careworn clothes.
“Well? What news from the Vatican?” His voice was grave as he stared intently at the woman before him. She nodded and pulled the chair over to sit before him.
“It is bad, Signore,” she said. Hiking up her skirt, she revealed long, slender legs that any other man would have been dazzled by. Natanaele was instead drawn to the pocket which had been sown into the inside of her gown. She was reaching deep inside it, pulling out a sheaf of crumpled parchment which she then handed to him. “Paul II authorized the formation of a new Inquisitor’s Board two weeks ago.” Florence’s Prince was scanning the neat shorthand, so popular with spies, that covered the abused correspondence. As he flipped through the sheets his face grew increasingly stony. It was bad news indeed. However, it was not entirely surprising. These sheets merely confirmed the facts he’d already discovered. Natanaele looked at his spy, his eyes questioning, searching for more.
“That is not all, signore,” she continued, her level voice confirming his silent assumption. “My courtesan in the Vatican did not trust all of this message to paper.”
“Hana? Tell me!” Natanaele’s voice was sharp, demanding. The spy nodded.
“This Inquisition is only a cover up. They’re not looking for old, doddering men anymore, Natanale.” Hana’s voice grew quiet, the only hint of a growing fear. “They now search for the miracolo’s. Pope Paul II’s demones.”
Silence filled the room as Natanaele’s carefully controlled world crashed around his feet.
~
Pietro awoke to the angry tap-tap-tapping of fingers on his door. Thoughts of Clara passed through his strangely muffled mind as the noise persisted. She probably wanted to go out for a ride, bring a little sunshine into his still sleeping room. But, no, it couldn’t be Clara. For one thing the bed he slept upon was too hard to be his, too cold to be in the Petrelli villa. And the tapping was far to close to be upon his door. In fact...
“Haia!” He exclaimed, jolted out of his near-unconscious state by the heavy stick that had just been prodded into his cheek. “Che...?” He muttered, the question trailing off as he opened his eyes. Instantly they were flooded with the pink blaze of the setting sun. Pietro closed them tightly in the unnaturally bright light, trying desperately to banish the pain that was coursing through his head in waves.
“Took long enough,” growled a strangely accented voice in broken Italian. “Thought stick make you wake.” Pietro found that if he squinted his head hurt less. He did so now, vaguely processing that he was in some abandoned, filthy building (the slums), sometime around sunset, before focusing on the figure before him.
“You!” Pietro exclaimed, starting in surprise. This was a mistake, thanks to both the thick rope which tied his arms together and the white-hot lightening which screamed through his skull at the sudden movement. All of this culminated on him somehow falling away from the wall he’d been leaning against and onto his face. Pietro, however, was less focused on this than the fact that he was staring at the same homeless man who’d shunned his aid just days ago. He was struggling against the floor, trying to push himself up, when filthy, unshod feet appeared in his slim line of vision.
“No good, pup,” the man was saying, calling Pietro some unrecognizable term. Strong arms lifted him none too gently and shoved him back against the wall, taking no care for the already injured head which banged hard upon the rough stone. Pietro clenched his teeth, forcing the scream which had caught in his throat to stay there. Finally he fought off the pain and opened his eyes once more. His kidnapper had moved to crouch a few feet from him, nonchalantly turning a splintered, slender pole between his hands. Stories of the crazed poor, whispered to him by frightened servants and ignored until this moment, brought a sheen of sweat to the young Prince’s brow. His earlier despair had temporarily been forgotten in wake of this new, terrifying prospect.
“Now, you tell me, or more this.” The stranger gestured threateningly with the pole. The motion might have been funny if not for the utterly serious expression worn on the bearded man’s face. Pietro found his eyes almost hypnotized by the other’s gaze. He was shocked to find that the man’s eyes were blue, confirming his foreign origin. With little other choice, the young Italian nodded at his captor. He’d dealt with the mad before, and it always served best to treat them with respect.
“Good.” The stranger’s eyes never left Pietro’s as he spoke. “How you have my power?” For a moment Pietro thought the man, in his obvious discomfort with the Italian language, had simply used the wrong word. The question was repeated, this time accompanied with a sharp jab to the gut. Pietro hissed in pain.
“Please, signore,” he said as he caught his wind again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Do you use the right word?” His voice was calm and soothing, exactly as you’d use on a madman. The only response Pietro got was another painful stab with the pole.
“No, use right word. My power! You not understand?” Frustration was growing evident on the other’s face, his tone slowly warming with anger. When Pietro shook his head the man stood up and walked swiftly over to him. “This!” he exclaimed, raising a hand up in front of the boy’s face. “How you do this?!”
Pietro gasped as he blinked out of existence.
~
Claude reappeared, a frown upon his face. Things were not going so well. Upon seeing the brat use his power (His power! ) he’d grabbed him and tied him up, settling down deep in his hideout to wait for the rich boy to wake. A thousand thoughts had raced through his head-what if the boy had been sent by the church? Had they found him, after he’d run for more than a year? Could he have slipped up somewhere? The reality left him annoyed and confused. Claude had seen the shock upon the boy’s face when he’d gone invisible. The little snot really hadn’t had a clue, at least not until Claude -stupidly- handed his identity to the sop on a silver platter.
Claude’s snarl was directed more at himself than the scared looking lad whose face seemed so pale against long, dark hair. He was filled with a cocktail of emotions- fear, anger, surprise. After all, he’d never met anyone else who could do what he could. There had been others, of course, but each had been unique, their abilities specially suited to them. Just as his power fitted him. If Claude had felt honest right then he’d have admitted that some of his annoyance stemmed from the fact that this brat, so unlike Claude, shared his gift.
However the older man was not in the mood for honesty or kindness. He turned back to the boy who was staring at him like he’d grown another head.
“What you look at?” snapped the currently visible man. The lad cringed.
“You...you...”
Exasperation emanated from Claude’s body. “Yes, I go invisible. Want cry to madre?” The lad winced again, provoking a sigh from his captor. What a sensitive little thing the sod was turning out to be.
Claude began to pace. If there was one skill the fugitive had retained, it was his ability to read people. Not that he needed those instincts to understand this particular specimen of humanity. Every emotion fluttered across his expressive face at a speed which was almost dizzying to watch. Clearly he had absolutely no idea what Claude was talking about, and there was no way he was working for the Church. Some of the tension flowed out of Claude as he accepted this fact. He began to pace quietly before the boy, letting his thoughts crash against each other at random.
“What your name?” he growled, surprising an answer out of the boy.
“Pietro.” Despite his obvious shock, the boy was, once again, honest in his answer. Claude decided that he probably couldn’t lie if he wanted to. Pietro was watching him closely, following his stubborn pacing with gentle brown eyes.
“You tell name to all who ask?” the question flew out of his mouth, cranky but not particularly aggressive. The lad frowned slightly as he
answered.
“Yes. Why not?” Claude’s face darkened.
“Fool. Never tell. Some...” his voice trailed off as he turned back to the Italian, finding only waiting space where a body had once been. It seemed occupied, however, and somehow he could tell his captive was still there. “Look at you,” he growled. Silence rang through the room for a moment before a whispered yet fervent prayer to the Virgin Mary sprang out of nowhere. Claude rolled his eyes again. Seemed to be doing that a lot around the boy -Pietro, he reminded himself. Always good to know a name. Names held power, could give you an advantage. And power, Claude had learned, was best taken for yourself before someone else could use it against you.
“She no help you, boyo,” Claude hissed, once again giving Pietro some foreign curse in place of a name. He did not like prayers. They were for the weak and the cursed. He blinked and Pietro was sitting before him once more, staring at him like a lost little lamb alone in the woods. Abruptly Claude decided he’d had enough of fools for one day. Let him figure out his power on his own, if he was too stupid to have done so already. Claude didn’t need the trouble. He had better, more important things to attend to. Ignoring Pietro’s mixed murmurs of protest and pain Claude lifted the young Italian up, breaking the ropes that bound him with one swipe of the rusty knife which hung at his belt. He let the lad fall to his feet and catch his balance before grabbing Pietro by the front of his now filthy doublet and shoving him against the wall.
“Please, what are you-”
“Quiet, pazzo!” snarled the beggar, cutting Pietro’s protests off sharply. The young Prince fell silent in the face of Claude’s overwhelming presence. Claude shook him once, twice, until Pietro was clearly dizzy. “You say nothing to no one, huh? Answer!” He shook the boy again until Pietro managed to nod.
Claude stared at him a moment longer, their eyes locked in a drawn out gaze. What he saw there -truth, faith, and, oh, God, but the lad’s heart bled out of those brown pools- shook him to his core, reminding him of all that he’d lost. It was not a pleasant feeling, and Claude felt the need to get away from Pietro pressing in upon him from all sides. Abruptly he dropped his hands and stood back.
“I never want see face again.” With those parting words Claude flickered out of visibility, leaving Pietro to fall back against the wall as his limbs turned to water.
NOTES: Did you know that a courtesan is a very high class woman who spends her time keeping celibate priests company? She is beautiful but also knowledgable and able to hold witty and entertaining conversation.
Why do I know this? Because I spent an hour researching the history of prosititues for this installment. THATS why.