Oh my gosh I am tired.
Author: Aiisling
Title: The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love: A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy (Entry 5)
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: R
Warnings/Spoilers: Torture
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, Claude Raines, a beggar on the run from powerful enemies, and the ever-impressive Catholic Inquisition.
Installment V: Claude's imprisoned, Pietro's lonely in his villa, and visions abound. Did someone say the Inquisition was coming?
Notes: I'm so tired, but this fic has gripped me quite literally and wouldn't let me go to bed or work on my other fics or read Harry Potter...*grumble grumble*
Seriously, though? We're getting into the good stuff now. THe stuff I've really been looking forward to writing. So yays.
LINKS: Installment I, Installment II, Installment III, Installment IV
~~~~~
The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love:
A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy
Installment V
Claude’s body twitched in the pitch black of his cell. Cold water dripped down the man’s frowning face, mingling with his rough beard before falling to the stone floor. All around the dark pressed into his shaking form like some desperate creature trying to devour particularly tasty prey. He moaned in his sleep, fingers scratching as though trying to find some escape from whatever nightmare he was trapped in.
With no warning his face relaxed. Agitated limbs fell still with the rest of his body, giving the sleeping man some semblance of peace. A soft golden glow, filled with the promise of love and joy and all things good in this life, slowly began to emanate from his fingertips. It spread quietly, almost languorously, until the tiny, dank cell was illuminated with the pulsing heart of the universe.
In that moment true Hope entered the prison for the first time in years, weak yet but growing stronger. Even in his sleep Claude felt it, for as the light had begun so had a dream. It was nonsensical, as dreams often are. There was a woman, strong in her holiness but kind, too; forgiving, loving, and everything Claude had been denied for so long. Words whispered into his ears, speaking of futures and a mission and something he couldn’t quite understand, couldn’t yet see.
Vicious banging upon the tightly bound door banished the light, leaving nothing but infinite darkness behind. The noise woke Claude from where he’d been stretched so peacefully upon the floor. As he scrambled up, turning invisible instinctively and rushing to try and remember what happened, Claude felt a foreign sense of serenity streaming out of his body. It left behind only cruel memory and dark confusion.
A key clicked in the lock outside, and Claude tensed against the wall, ready to spring at whoever walked through the door. As the reinforced wood swung open, however, letting poor torchlight spill into the tiny room, Claude found himself shocked. Before him was not a guard or some dark torturer as he expected but instead a weak, dumpy little man who was hunched over in apparent fear. He was pale from lack of sunlight and shivering in the cold, stale air. What little clothing he had was tattered and nearly falling off his quivering body.
“I’m sorry,” whispered the man as he raised manacled hands and pointed in the general direction of the cell.
“Who-” Claude began, his surprise shocking him back to visibility. He was cut off by the sudden wave of force which knocked him off his feet and slammed him into a slick, cold wall. Claude tried to open his mouth, to move his hands, head, anything, but it was no use. Whatever the other prisoner was doing had pinned him thoroughly.
“Excellent work, Bruno,” came the slick voice of a man. Somewhere in the back of his mind Claude knew that he had heard this voice before. He tried desperately to put a face to the tone. Before he could, however, a withered hand came from the side of the hall and placed itself upon his attackers head. The pathetic creature flinched, closing his eyes like he wished to be anywhere else but where he was. “Truly. Bene.”
Slowly the body behind that strangely familiar voice entered into Claude’s vision. Surprise laced with remembrance ran through his body as he saw that it was the same servant who had captured him outside of Pietro’s estates. A snarl twisted Claude’s lips as the man inspected him with cold gray eyes.
“So you finally awake.” The man removed his hand from the frightened boy’s head and stepped through into Claude’s cell. Though he knew it was useless Claude continued to struggle against the force which held him powerless against the wall. He’d worked for so long to stay free, to avoid being captured, only to be taken by a servant? The hook-nosed man smiled.
“Good to see that you suffered no lasting harm from your injury. Good indeed.”
“Where am I?” Claude managed to force out of his motionless throat, voice filled with venom. His captor frowned harshly.
“It is for me to ask the questions, not you, verme.” He turned to the boy, nodded. Instantly the pressure upon Claude increased, forcing out a grunt of pain. The servant simply smiled. “Does that hurt, pazzo? Can you feel your fellow demone’s power, crushing your body like a fallen leaf?” He laughed outright as Claude desperately flickered to invisibility, trying anything to stop the pain.
“You think that will work now when it failed so miserably outside? I know you’re there, idiota. Did you think you were the only demone in the world?” Claude flicked back to visibility, suffering etched deeply into every line on his face.
“Enough, Bruno.” The command spit itself out of yellow teeth, filled with smug superiority. Instantly Claude dropped to floor like a stone, curling into himself as crushed organs tried to re-expand. The servant moved to stand over his body. Vindictive cruelty seeped out of every pore in his greying skin as he kicked the fallen prisoner hard in the side. Claude cringed, a cry shoving at the back of his throat, desperate to be aired. Claude was stronger than that, though, and refused to give it voice, to allow the bastard who now rested his boot on Claude’s throat the satisfaction.
“You are so lucky, my friend,” cooed his torturer. Through Claude’s pain-ravaged eyes it seemed that his robe had turned the shade of dried blood, congealed upon his body like a gruesome mantle. “It will be days before my master arrives and takes over your...teaching. We have so much time to play.” Deep inside where he was still conscious, Claude felt the first blossoms of an unfamiliar emotion- fear. He had faced many things since fleeing his homeland those ten long years ago, man’s torture not the least. But never before had he known someone who controlled another demone with such ease.
Something else was there, however, as his torturer left chuckling, shutting the door and all light behind him. The first seeds of hope, planted by a dream in the darkness of sleep. Claude did not see it yet, for it was too crowded by old memories and cruel betrayals, but it was there, giving him silent strength. Waiting for something, someone; a catalyst to change his destiny from darkness to light.
~
Cicadas’ sang to the night air, creating a lullaby that was carried along by hot breezes and the scent of olive trees. Branches swayed gently to the beat of the cicada’s chorus. The Petrelli villa, newly occupied and still awaiting much unpacking, was going to sleep for the night; candles turned off, men falling into bed, children murmuring forgotten fragments of reality to the empty air. Shining over it all was the moon, high and surrounded by her court of stars.
Pietro was no different than the rest of his household. He, too, drifted gently towards the land of slumber, comfortable in light linens and a soft, feather stuffed mattress. Breathing slowed, eyelids dropped heavy as stone, troubles forgotten in favor of the body’s demand for rest. And he dreamed.
Stone corridors filled with ravaged flesh passed him by as he flew down, down, into the dank darkness. Human
cages flashed by. Somewhere in his dream mind he knew they were filled with men, women, lonely children, but he could not stop though his heart bled with compassion. Deeper and deeper he went into the coldest circle of hell, a need pushing him until finally he stopped. Before him was a cell door, tightly fitted in the stone wall around it. A ghost touch and it swung open, revealing a squalid space and solitary occupant lying shivering on the floor. Dream-Pietro drifted closer, focused sharply until he saw the man’s face and recognized it as the invisible beggar who’d stolen him days ago.
Pietro, a woman’s voice murmured into the quiet. He turned with joy to see the Virgin, tall and strong and ever so loving, standing cowled before him. Holy light spilled from her feet, racing along the ground to surround the man on the floor. She smiled, reached a hand up to touch Pietro’s face. Whispered love and hope into his ear, brought soft lips to his forehead to place a gentle kiss, gave him her mark. Pietro watched as she then stepped back and pointed at the beggar-man. More whispers, commanding that he find him, needed him. His protector, she said, his helper, his savior.
It is true that even in his sleep Pietro was unsatiably curious, and so he asked why, when the last time he’d seen the man he’d been kidnaped, frightened, and beaten.
A great sadness fell upon the Holy Mother’s face, and the cell and the man dissolved. Tears rolled from her sacred eyes as they traveled through stone hallways once more, this time slowing at each and every set of bars. Children cried hollowly through the night. Men stared empty at walls, souls gone to despair or madness. Women wept as they hung from icy irons in lonely solitude. Then the fires came- great, blasting infernos, devouring the innocent one by one until only ash and sorrow remained.
The Virgin lifted Pietro’s head, wiping away his tears and placing a kiss gently upon his cheek. A soft voice found his ear, whispered. Find him, find him. Stop this. Strong yet gentle hands took his face in their loving grasp as she looked deep within his eyes. Courage, she said. Do not fear, for you have God’s gift, and Mine. Then she was gone, leaving Pietro with only her fading whispers to ferry him from the dream world to the dawn.
~
Normally Pietro held the greatest faith in books. Back in the city the Petrelli estate held one of the largest private libraries in Florence, with hundreds, even thousands of scrolls and, more recently, printed books. He was a true child of the Renaissance, and found a joy in learning that led to many long hours cooped up in their dusty horde, his curiosity pushing him further and further. Any question could be answered with the proper applications of research.
After five days of searching amongst the villa’s much smaller collection, however, Pietro was fast losing the optimism with which he had started. The dream had commanded that he find the beggar, save him. That he needed him. So Pietro, confined in their summer villa and under strict orders from Natanaele to stay there, had done what seemed natural and went to the small library that occupied one of the airy upper chambers. So far he had tried to find references to others like himself; men with incredible powers or visionaries who saw the Virgin Mary. When he failed to find anything except texts detailing the methods of discouraging and burning a witch (all of which he had avoided, something in his heart telling him that for once he didn’t want to know) he had tried to learn about dreams, how to encourage them, how others had listened to theirs in the past. On this subject he found absolutely nothing, which, considering the religious nature of his own nocturnal visions, was surprising in a library filled with monk-copied manuscripts and church texts.
Finally Pietro sighed and gently returned the scroll he’d been combing through. Again, nothing. But somewhere there had to be the information he was looking for. The Virgin herself had given him a meaning, a purpose. Surely this meant that he was supposed to discover something? How was he to help the beggar, whom Pietro had forgiven almost instantly upon seeing his sad and pitiful confinement, if he knew nothing of his gifts, nothing of where to find him?
However, there was something he could do. Looking around to assure that he was alone, Pietro held out his hands before him, ignoring the now familiar fingers of guilt that gripped his belly. Natanaele had told him not to speak of it, yes, but he’d never ordered Pietro not to...practice. Besides, his curiosity was almost killing him. It had been all Pietro could do to stop himself from trying to turn invisible again these last days at the villa. There were always so many people about, rushing to prepare the house, overseeing the planting and all the other minutia that came with relocating the most powerful family in Florence. Though his brother had been absent, electing to remain in the city for reasons he would not share with Pietro, the servant Agostino had kept a close eye on the young Prince, further ensuring his compliance with Natanaele’s wishes. Now, though, he was alone, and wouldn’t be missed for hours.
Pietro took a deep breath, first willing himself to simply not be there. He opened his eyes, breath suspended, but quickly exhaled as he was presented with clearly visible body parts. One hand pushed back the dark hair that had fallen into his eyes before he tried again, then again, until frustration began to mount and he wondered if he’d been crazy in the first place.
Claude...A name floated in the air, whispering past his ears. Pietro started, staring about guiltily for the
source. He found nothing, and shrugged it off as a hallucination. Too much dust in the brain, perhaps. When it happened again, however, he could not ignore it. It was a woman’s voice, soft, almost familiar. Almost...
His ears practically perked up as he realized who was speaking the foreign name in the otherwise silent room. His mind raced, trying to find the strange nome’s owner. Hearing it brought to mind whirling images; cold cells, running feet, blue eyes. Then he knew- it was the beggar, his kidnapper. Claude. Pietro closed his eyes, let his impressions of the man run through his mind. Not just the sandy brown hair, rough beard, harsh expression, but what he’d felt when the man had so unceremoniously kidnaped him: fear, yes, and confusion, but also a great sense of sadness. He let his mind explore these thoughts, remembering everything that he’d been too blinded by pain and shock to understand at their first meeting.
With a sigh he opened his eyes and looked down, only to see nothing. Not his clothes, or skin, just empty air where his body ought to be. Pietro felt much of the strength leave him and he put out an invisible hand, leaning hard against the bookshelf. Deep breaths calmed him down, brought movement back to his limbs, and he straightened, staring through himself in wonder. So he wasn’t crazy. He was...he really could...All that he could think of was that it was a gift from God, and he murmured a prayer of thanks.
The noise from an opening door knocked him out of concentration, and suddenly he was visible once more. Pietro took a bracing breath before walking out from behind his ornate wooden hiding place to see who had entered.
“Ahh, Agostino,” Pietro said, his voice still a bit shaky.
“Scusami, Pietro,” the gray haired servant said, bowing in his maroon robes. “I was just looking for you, to tell you that your lunch has been prepared and is waiting for you.” The man straightened, looking past a large, hooked nose in the Prince’s general direction. Pietro nodded, too nervous to risk saying any more. He felt vast relief when the servant turned to go.
Relief, however, soon turned to puzzlement. As the older man reached the door Pietro could have sworn that he saw an oddly shaded red haze hovering around his outline. The sight churned Pietro’s stomach, for it looked almost the same color as blood. Then the moment passed and Agostino was out the door, leaving Pietro to collect himself. He followed his servant, relieved to see that the strange color was gone. He attested it to a trick of the light and hurried on.
~
Claude thought it had been five days since that first attack in his cell. Five days of torture that left him weak and chained to a wall, bleeding hot blood and cold sweat alike. The servant, his torturer, had been most inventive, Claude had to give him that. He was now missing most of his fingernails, for example, and each of his toes had been broken at least twice. Strips of flesh hung from his back and chest where a new device, what the man had called a tickler, had raked in long, crisscrossing lines. The raw muscle which these ragged windows revealed rubbed against the cold stone, causing fresh misery with every breath.
Strangely, it was possible to deal with the pain. In his more lucid moments, when the fever that gripped him gave him a few moments of respite, Claude knew that he was hallucinating, dreaming fever dreams that made less sense than anything he’d known. Delirium was the only answer for the whispers which entered his ears when black sleep finally took him each day. Protect him, protect him, the voices cried. Stop this, too, was a frequent command, as accompanied by images of disgusting cells and despairing people. Not that he understood. He just knew that after the Servant (as he’d taken to calling his torturer in his fever-burned brain) left him howling silently each day his ears would fill with a whispering that brought a white blanket of comfort.
All of this was accompanied by visions that stood before his waking and sleeping minds alike. It was Pietro, the lad who could copy his power. The demone who didn’t even know what he was. Claude saw him all the time- reading, giving food to the poor, walking, eating- and always the whispers accompanied the visions. Trust, they said. Trust, and keep him safe. By the third day he had almost come to welcome these strange apparitions. They gave strength to a man whose every nerve ending burned, who faced hours in the mornings (or at least he supposed they were mornings, for he had no sunlight with which to tell) of tortures unimaginable and cruel, daily deaths.
On the fifth day, as the Servant finished inserting a long metal skewer through the delicate muscles of his wrist, Claude found himself casting about for something, anything to focus on but his anguish and those smiling, yellowed teeth. He found his body flickering in and out of visibility, and he knew that in any moment he would begin to scream and not stop until his mind had broken completely. In desperation he latched on to the lad’s face, the latest of a series of visions. It was just in time, too. While white hot agony throbbed up his arms from the terrible pain, a second stake was inserted, this time glowing red and hot enough to cook his skin from the inside out.
Pietro, Pietro, Pietro, Claude screamed with his mind, ignoring the senselessness of calling out the name of what amounted to a stranger in his time of need. The whispers grew stronger, bolder as the scream Claude had kept locked inside for days of unimaginable wretchedness finally ripped itself raw from his throat. He could hear his skin sizzling, felt the blood boiling as it hit the metal and then circulating to sear the veins in his hand. Claude thrashed uncontrollably, kept in place only by iron locks.
The voices broke through his screaming mantra, brushing his mind until Claude could actually feel them in his skull.
Coming, coming, coming, keep him safe, stop this, he’s coming, keep him safe, stop this, stop this, stop this....as they grew louder the tone changed, from soothing and filled with love to imperiously demanding. Claude screamed again as fresh torture invaded his mind while the physical torment increased dramatically. Bright hot whiteness flared against his chest, burning off the scattered hairs and charring flesh from without. The smell of his own skin burning wafted to Claude’s nose, and only the greatest amount of self control prevented his vomiting upon the floor.
The Servant was saying something, but Claude couldn’t hear. All he knew, as the pain from his chest faded, was the whispers, the demands, the screeching inside his head that wouldn’t be denied.
“YES!” He finally screamed out loud in his native tongue, giving his whispering tormenters what they wanted. The torturer stepped back, surprised at the vehemence of the blue-eyed man’s cry. The sound was ragged, ripping, like a runaway saw grating upon bone. Instantly the whispers fell silent, and Claude was sure that he felt relief in their wake as they gathered up the comfort they’d offered and abandoned him to the man who wore his blood upon grizzled cheeks and visceral robes.
The fever was raging strongly, now, aggravated by the day’s fresh pain. Best to just give in, he thought somewhere deep inside. At that point Claude might have done so if not for the ghost of lips upon his cheek. Love was in those lips, and forgiveness, and a silent forgive me. Misery suddenly lifted from shoulders, freeing him to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
~
A rare closed carriage rumbled through the dusty streets of Florence. Though the horses which bore it were strong and obviously well bred, it’s dark, wooden body and wide wheels were plain. The rider’s precise wealth and station perfectly were hidden by the average carriage and the lack of luster on the walls.. There was an ominous air about the moving room as it clip clopped it’s way through the night air. Those few who were still awake enough to peer out curtained windows might have sworn that it bore some grave ill. The more imaginative would claim that it housed a demon come to reap the souls of the city.
It trundled on without pause, making its way from the gates and deep into the city, navigating narrow avenues with ease by the light of the moon. Eventually it slowed, pausing every now and then as it reached the most affluent clusters of estates. It stopped outside the innermost circle, horses pawing nervously at the ground. Seemingly from nowhere appeared robed and cloaked riders, their horses approaching from far behind and ahead of the carriage. They stopped when they reached it. One by one they brought their eerily silent mounts to surround the area, watching up and down the silent roads for any troubles.
A coachman, disguised from the moon by shadows thrown from heavy walls, dismounted from his perch atop the carriage and opened the high set door on the vehicle’s side. Shadows seemed to curl from the opening, darkening the night to the consistency of ink. From this leaking miasma stepped a man, covered from head to toe in a heavy robes, their color and pattern undistinguishable in the dark. Close cut dark hair curled out from beneath a tight, somber cap as the man stepped around the carriage to the wall beside which it was parked. His valet hurried to his side before raising a certain fist and knocking once, twice, three times upon the wooden gates of the estate before them. Instantly the wood swung open and the ominous pair entered, their dark cavalry riding slowly behind them like a living mane.
Thus arrived the hidden Inquisition.
Title: The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love: A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy (Entry 5)
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: R
Warnings/Spoilers: Torture
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, Claude Raines, a beggar on the run from powerful enemies, and the ever-impressive Catholic Inquisition.
Installment V: Claude's imprisoned, Pietro's lonely in his villa, and visions abound. Did someone say the Inquisition was coming?
Notes: I'm so tired, but this fic has gripped me quite literally and wouldn't let me go to bed or work on my other fics or read Harry Potter...*grumble grumble*
Seriously, though? We're getting into the good stuff now. THe stuff I've really been looking forward to writing. So yays.
LINKS: Installment I, Installment II, Installment III, Installment IV
~~~~~
The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love:
A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy
Installment V
Claude’s body twitched in the pitch black of his cell. Cold water dripped down the man’s frowning face, mingling with his rough beard before falling to the stone floor. All around the dark pressed into his shaking form like some desperate creature trying to devour particularly tasty prey. He moaned in his sleep, fingers scratching as though trying to find some escape from whatever nightmare he was trapped in.
With no warning his face relaxed. Agitated limbs fell still with the rest of his body, giving the sleeping man some semblance of peace. A soft golden glow, filled with the promise of love and joy and all things good in this life, slowly began to emanate from his fingertips. It spread quietly, almost languorously, until the tiny, dank cell was illuminated with the pulsing heart of the universe.
In that moment true Hope entered the prison for the first time in years, weak yet but growing stronger. Even in his sleep Claude felt it, for as the light had begun so had a dream. It was nonsensical, as dreams often are. There was a woman, strong in her holiness but kind, too; forgiving, loving, and everything Claude had been denied for so long. Words whispered into his ears, speaking of futures and a mission and something he couldn’t quite understand, couldn’t yet see.
Vicious banging upon the tightly bound door banished the light, leaving nothing but infinite darkness behind. The noise woke Claude from where he’d been stretched so peacefully upon the floor. As he scrambled up, turning invisible instinctively and rushing to try and remember what happened, Claude felt a foreign sense of serenity streaming out of his body. It left behind only cruel memory and dark confusion.
A key clicked in the lock outside, and Claude tensed against the wall, ready to spring at whoever walked through the door. As the reinforced wood swung open, however, letting poor torchlight spill into the tiny room, Claude found himself shocked. Before him was not a guard or some dark torturer as he expected but instead a weak, dumpy little man who was hunched over in apparent fear. He was pale from lack of sunlight and shivering in the cold, stale air. What little clothing he had was tattered and nearly falling off his quivering body.
“I’m sorry,” whispered the man as he raised manacled hands and pointed in the general direction of the cell.
“Who-” Claude began, his surprise shocking him back to visibility. He was cut off by the sudden wave of force which knocked him off his feet and slammed him into a slick, cold wall. Claude tried to open his mouth, to move his hands, head, anything, but it was no use. Whatever the other prisoner was doing had pinned him thoroughly.
“Excellent work, Bruno,” came the slick voice of a man. Somewhere in the back of his mind Claude knew that he had heard this voice before. He tried desperately to put a face to the tone. Before he could, however, a withered hand came from the side of the hall and placed itself upon his attackers head. The pathetic creature flinched, closing his eyes like he wished to be anywhere else but where he was. “Truly. Bene.”
Slowly the body behind that strangely familiar voice entered into Claude’s vision. Surprise laced with remembrance ran through his body as he saw that it was the same servant who had captured him outside of Pietro’s estates. A snarl twisted Claude’s lips as the man inspected him with cold gray eyes.
“So you finally awake.” The man removed his hand from the frightened boy’s head and stepped through into Claude’s cell. Though he knew it was useless Claude continued to struggle against the force which held him powerless against the wall. He’d worked for so long to stay free, to avoid being captured, only to be taken by a servant? The hook-nosed man smiled.
“Good to see that you suffered no lasting harm from your injury. Good indeed.”
“Where am I?” Claude managed to force out of his motionless throat, voice filled with venom. His captor frowned harshly.
“It is for me to ask the questions, not you, verme.” He turned to the boy, nodded. Instantly the pressure upon Claude increased, forcing out a grunt of pain. The servant simply smiled. “Does that hurt, pazzo? Can you feel your fellow demone’s power, crushing your body like a fallen leaf?” He laughed outright as Claude desperately flickered to invisibility, trying anything to stop the pain.
“You think that will work now when it failed so miserably outside? I know you’re there, idiota. Did you think you were the only demone in the world?” Claude flicked back to visibility, suffering etched deeply into every line on his face.
“Enough, Bruno.” The command spit itself out of yellow teeth, filled with smug superiority. Instantly Claude dropped to floor like a stone, curling into himself as crushed organs tried to re-expand. The servant moved to stand over his body. Vindictive cruelty seeped out of every pore in his greying skin as he kicked the fallen prisoner hard in the side. Claude cringed, a cry shoving at the back of his throat, desperate to be aired. Claude was stronger than that, though, and refused to give it voice, to allow the bastard who now rested his boot on Claude’s throat the satisfaction.
“You are so lucky, my friend,” cooed his torturer. Through Claude’s pain-ravaged eyes it seemed that his robe had turned the shade of dried blood, congealed upon his body like a gruesome mantle. “It will be days before my master arrives and takes over your...teaching. We have so much time to play.” Deep inside where he was still conscious, Claude felt the first blossoms of an unfamiliar emotion- fear. He had faced many things since fleeing his homeland those ten long years ago, man’s torture not the least. But never before had he known someone who controlled another demone with such ease.
Something else was there, however, as his torturer left chuckling, shutting the door and all light behind him. The first seeds of hope, planted by a dream in the darkness of sleep. Claude did not see it yet, for it was too crowded by old memories and cruel betrayals, but it was there, giving him silent strength. Waiting for something, someone; a catalyst to change his destiny from darkness to light.
~
Cicadas’ sang to the night air, creating a lullaby that was carried along by hot breezes and the scent of olive trees. Branches swayed gently to the beat of the cicada’s chorus. The Petrelli villa, newly occupied and still awaiting much unpacking, was going to sleep for the night; candles turned off, men falling into bed, children murmuring forgotten fragments of reality to the empty air. Shining over it all was the moon, high and surrounded by her court of stars.
Pietro was no different than the rest of his household. He, too, drifted gently towards the land of slumber, comfortable in light linens and a soft, feather stuffed mattress. Breathing slowed, eyelids dropped heavy as stone, troubles forgotten in favor of the body’s demand for rest. And he dreamed.
Stone corridors filled with ravaged flesh passed him by as he flew down, down, into the dank darkness. Human
cages flashed by. Somewhere in his dream mind he knew they were filled with men, women, lonely children, but he could not stop though his heart bled with compassion. Deeper and deeper he went into the coldest circle of hell, a need pushing him until finally he stopped. Before him was a cell door, tightly fitted in the stone wall around it. A ghost touch and it swung open, revealing a squalid space and solitary occupant lying shivering on the floor. Dream-Pietro drifted closer, focused sharply until he saw the man’s face and recognized it as the invisible beggar who’d stolen him days ago.
Pietro, a woman’s voice murmured into the quiet. He turned with joy to see the Virgin, tall and strong and ever so loving, standing cowled before him. Holy light spilled from her feet, racing along the ground to surround the man on the floor. She smiled, reached a hand up to touch Pietro’s face. Whispered love and hope into his ear, brought soft lips to his forehead to place a gentle kiss, gave him her mark. Pietro watched as she then stepped back and pointed at the beggar-man. More whispers, commanding that he find him, needed him. His protector, she said, his helper, his savior.
It is true that even in his sleep Pietro was unsatiably curious, and so he asked why, when the last time he’d seen the man he’d been kidnaped, frightened, and beaten.
A great sadness fell upon the Holy Mother’s face, and the cell and the man dissolved. Tears rolled from her sacred eyes as they traveled through stone hallways once more, this time slowing at each and every set of bars. Children cried hollowly through the night. Men stared empty at walls, souls gone to despair or madness. Women wept as they hung from icy irons in lonely solitude. Then the fires came- great, blasting infernos, devouring the innocent one by one until only ash and sorrow remained.
The Virgin lifted Pietro’s head, wiping away his tears and placing a kiss gently upon his cheek. A soft voice found his ear, whispered. Find him, find him. Stop this. Strong yet gentle hands took his face in their loving grasp as she looked deep within his eyes. Courage, she said. Do not fear, for you have God’s gift, and Mine. Then she was gone, leaving Pietro with only her fading whispers to ferry him from the dream world to the dawn.
~
Normally Pietro held the greatest faith in books. Back in the city the Petrelli estate held one of the largest private libraries in Florence, with hundreds, even thousands of scrolls and, more recently, printed books. He was a true child of the Renaissance, and found a joy in learning that led to many long hours cooped up in their dusty horde, his curiosity pushing him further and further. Any question could be answered with the proper applications of research.
After five days of searching amongst the villa’s much smaller collection, however, Pietro was fast losing the optimism with which he had started. The dream had commanded that he find the beggar, save him. That he needed him. So Pietro, confined in their summer villa and under strict orders from Natanaele to stay there, had done what seemed natural and went to the small library that occupied one of the airy upper chambers. So far he had tried to find references to others like himself; men with incredible powers or visionaries who saw the Virgin Mary. When he failed to find anything except texts detailing the methods of discouraging and burning a witch (all of which he had avoided, something in his heart telling him that for once he didn’t want to know) he had tried to learn about dreams, how to encourage them, how others had listened to theirs in the past. On this subject he found absolutely nothing, which, considering the religious nature of his own nocturnal visions, was surprising in a library filled with monk-copied manuscripts and church texts.
Finally Pietro sighed and gently returned the scroll he’d been combing through. Again, nothing. But somewhere there had to be the information he was looking for. The Virgin herself had given him a meaning, a purpose. Surely this meant that he was supposed to discover something? How was he to help the beggar, whom Pietro had forgiven almost instantly upon seeing his sad and pitiful confinement, if he knew nothing of his gifts, nothing of where to find him?
However, there was something he could do. Looking around to assure that he was alone, Pietro held out his hands before him, ignoring the now familiar fingers of guilt that gripped his belly. Natanaele had told him not to speak of it, yes, but he’d never ordered Pietro not to...practice. Besides, his curiosity was almost killing him. It had been all Pietro could do to stop himself from trying to turn invisible again these last days at the villa. There were always so many people about, rushing to prepare the house, overseeing the planting and all the other minutia that came with relocating the most powerful family in Florence. Though his brother had been absent, electing to remain in the city for reasons he would not share with Pietro, the servant Agostino had kept a close eye on the young Prince, further ensuring his compliance with Natanaele’s wishes. Now, though, he was alone, and wouldn’t be missed for hours.
Pietro took a deep breath, first willing himself to simply not be there. He opened his eyes, breath suspended, but quickly exhaled as he was presented with clearly visible body parts. One hand pushed back the dark hair that had fallen into his eyes before he tried again, then again, until frustration began to mount and he wondered if he’d been crazy in the first place.
Claude...A name floated in the air, whispering past his ears. Pietro started, staring about guiltily for the
source. He found nothing, and shrugged it off as a hallucination. Too much dust in the brain, perhaps. When it happened again, however, he could not ignore it. It was a woman’s voice, soft, almost familiar. Almost...
His ears practically perked up as he realized who was speaking the foreign name in the otherwise silent room. His mind raced, trying to find the strange nome’s owner. Hearing it brought to mind whirling images; cold cells, running feet, blue eyes. Then he knew- it was the beggar, his kidnapper. Claude. Pietro closed his eyes, let his impressions of the man run through his mind. Not just the sandy brown hair, rough beard, harsh expression, but what he’d felt when the man had so unceremoniously kidnaped him: fear, yes, and confusion, but also a great sense of sadness. He let his mind explore these thoughts, remembering everything that he’d been too blinded by pain and shock to understand at their first meeting.
With a sigh he opened his eyes and looked down, only to see nothing. Not his clothes, or skin, just empty air where his body ought to be. Pietro felt much of the strength leave him and he put out an invisible hand, leaning hard against the bookshelf. Deep breaths calmed him down, brought movement back to his limbs, and he straightened, staring through himself in wonder. So he wasn’t crazy. He was...he really could...All that he could think of was that it was a gift from God, and he murmured a prayer of thanks.
The noise from an opening door knocked him out of concentration, and suddenly he was visible once more. Pietro took a bracing breath before walking out from behind his ornate wooden hiding place to see who had entered.
“Ahh, Agostino,” Pietro said, his voice still a bit shaky.
“Scusami, Pietro,” the gray haired servant said, bowing in his maroon robes. “I was just looking for you, to tell you that your lunch has been prepared and is waiting for you.” The man straightened, looking past a large, hooked nose in the Prince’s general direction. Pietro nodded, too nervous to risk saying any more. He felt vast relief when the servant turned to go.
Relief, however, soon turned to puzzlement. As the older man reached the door Pietro could have sworn that he saw an oddly shaded red haze hovering around his outline. The sight churned Pietro’s stomach, for it looked almost the same color as blood. Then the moment passed and Agostino was out the door, leaving Pietro to collect himself. He followed his servant, relieved to see that the strange color was gone. He attested it to a trick of the light and hurried on.
~
Claude thought it had been five days since that first attack in his cell. Five days of torture that left him weak and chained to a wall, bleeding hot blood and cold sweat alike. The servant, his torturer, had been most inventive, Claude had to give him that. He was now missing most of his fingernails, for example, and each of his toes had been broken at least twice. Strips of flesh hung from his back and chest where a new device, what the man had called a tickler, had raked in long, crisscrossing lines. The raw muscle which these ragged windows revealed rubbed against the cold stone, causing fresh misery with every breath.
Strangely, it was possible to deal with the pain. In his more lucid moments, when the fever that gripped him gave him a few moments of respite, Claude knew that he was hallucinating, dreaming fever dreams that made less sense than anything he’d known. Delirium was the only answer for the whispers which entered his ears when black sleep finally took him each day. Protect him, protect him, the voices cried. Stop this, too, was a frequent command, as accompanied by images of disgusting cells and despairing people. Not that he understood. He just knew that after the Servant (as he’d taken to calling his torturer in his fever-burned brain) left him howling silently each day his ears would fill with a whispering that brought a white blanket of comfort.
All of this was accompanied by visions that stood before his waking and sleeping minds alike. It was Pietro, the lad who could copy his power. The demone who didn’t even know what he was. Claude saw him all the time- reading, giving food to the poor, walking, eating- and always the whispers accompanied the visions. Trust, they said. Trust, and keep him safe. By the third day he had almost come to welcome these strange apparitions. They gave strength to a man whose every nerve ending burned, who faced hours in the mornings (or at least he supposed they were mornings, for he had no sunlight with which to tell) of tortures unimaginable and cruel, daily deaths.
On the fifth day, as the Servant finished inserting a long metal skewer through the delicate muscles of his wrist, Claude found himself casting about for something, anything to focus on but his anguish and those smiling, yellowed teeth. He found his body flickering in and out of visibility, and he knew that in any moment he would begin to scream and not stop until his mind had broken completely. In desperation he latched on to the lad’s face, the latest of a series of visions. It was just in time, too. While white hot agony throbbed up his arms from the terrible pain, a second stake was inserted, this time glowing red and hot enough to cook his skin from the inside out.
Pietro, Pietro, Pietro, Claude screamed with his mind, ignoring the senselessness of calling out the name of what amounted to a stranger in his time of need. The whispers grew stronger, bolder as the scream Claude had kept locked inside for days of unimaginable wretchedness finally ripped itself raw from his throat. He could hear his skin sizzling, felt the blood boiling as it hit the metal and then circulating to sear the veins in his hand. Claude thrashed uncontrollably, kept in place only by iron locks.
The voices broke through his screaming mantra, brushing his mind until Claude could actually feel them in his skull.
Coming, coming, coming, keep him safe, stop this, he’s coming, keep him safe, stop this, stop this, stop this....as they grew louder the tone changed, from soothing and filled with love to imperiously demanding. Claude screamed again as fresh torture invaded his mind while the physical torment increased dramatically. Bright hot whiteness flared against his chest, burning off the scattered hairs and charring flesh from without. The smell of his own skin burning wafted to Claude’s nose, and only the greatest amount of self control prevented his vomiting upon the floor.
The Servant was saying something, but Claude couldn’t hear. All he knew, as the pain from his chest faded, was the whispers, the demands, the screeching inside his head that wouldn’t be denied.
“YES!” He finally screamed out loud in his native tongue, giving his whispering tormenters what they wanted. The torturer stepped back, surprised at the vehemence of the blue-eyed man’s cry. The sound was ragged, ripping, like a runaway saw grating upon bone. Instantly the whispers fell silent, and Claude was sure that he felt relief in their wake as they gathered up the comfort they’d offered and abandoned him to the man who wore his blood upon grizzled cheeks and visceral robes.
The fever was raging strongly, now, aggravated by the day’s fresh pain. Best to just give in, he thought somewhere deep inside. At that point Claude might have done so if not for the ghost of lips upon his cheek. Love was in those lips, and forgiveness, and a silent forgive me. Misery suddenly lifted from shoulders, freeing him to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
~
A rare closed carriage rumbled through the dusty streets of Florence. Though the horses which bore it were strong and obviously well bred, it’s dark, wooden body and wide wheels were plain. The rider’s precise wealth and station perfectly were hidden by the average carriage and the lack of luster on the walls.. There was an ominous air about the moving room as it clip clopped it’s way through the night air. Those few who were still awake enough to peer out curtained windows might have sworn that it bore some grave ill. The more imaginative would claim that it housed a demon come to reap the souls of the city.
It trundled on without pause, making its way from the gates and deep into the city, navigating narrow avenues with ease by the light of the moon. Eventually it slowed, pausing every now and then as it reached the most affluent clusters of estates. It stopped outside the innermost circle, horses pawing nervously at the ground. Seemingly from nowhere appeared robed and cloaked riders, their horses approaching from far behind and ahead of the carriage. They stopped when they reached it. One by one they brought their eerily silent mounts to surround the area, watching up and down the silent roads for any troubles.
A coachman, disguised from the moon by shadows thrown from heavy walls, dismounted from his perch atop the carriage and opened the high set door on the vehicle’s side. Shadows seemed to curl from the opening, darkening the night to the consistency of ink. From this leaking miasma stepped a man, covered from head to toe in a heavy robes, their color and pattern undistinguishable in the dark. Close cut dark hair curled out from beneath a tight, somber cap as the man stepped around the carriage to the wall beside which it was parked. His valet hurried to his side before raising a certain fist and knocking once, twice, three times upon the wooden gates of the estate before them. Instantly the wood swung open and the ominous pair entered, their dark cavalry riding slowly behind them like a living mane.
Thus arrived the hidden Inquisition.