Cape Cod is lovely.
Author: Aiisling
Title: The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love: A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy (Entry 9)
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: R
Warnings/Spoilers: Still dealing with the rape, incest, blood
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 VIII: How Pietro deals with his brother's betrayal.
Author's notes: I'm back from vacation! Cape Cod was pretty damned nice. And what did I do? I wrote fanfiction XP So here's the next chapter of the Plaude Italian extravaganza, and tomorrow I'll post the next installment of my Mylar growing-too-large story. *sigh* I just want them off that damned boat. Also, updates for my various fics will probably start to get more sporadic as the summer ends and I start college. So don't be sad! There's just this little thing called 'real life' that may interfere.
Links to past entries: http://aiisling.livejournal.com/tag/the+inherent+dangers+of+pity+and+love
The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love:
A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy
Installment IX
Up.
He had to get up.
He had to get up.
He had to...
"Urgh..." the groan left tightly clenched lips as Claude turned over. Blood was dripping from freshly opened wounds, destroying what little purchase he had on the rough floor. He paused, catching heavy breath on the bloody dirt as he tried to find the strength to stand. There was no choice, not after what he'd seen, what he'd let happen. Vomit rose in his throat, threatening to retch forth once again as he remembered the vision, the whispers, his guilt.
After long minutes he managed to get one hand under himself. A half-contained scream surprised the silent night as he pushed himself to leaden knees and found a grip on the nearby window sill. Another blinding wrench saw him swaying on his feet, barely able to stand but there nonetheless. Outside it was still dark and silent, the last echoes of his cries mingling with memories of robbery and betrayal.
Slowly he made his way to the door, fresh blood staining the ragged bandages upon his chest a dark crimson that looked black in the darkness. Vision blurred and suddenly he was slipping back to the ground, losing what little he had gained. He had to focus, find a goal lest the guilt and despair render him useless.
First reach the door. Simple enough in theory but difficult in manifestation. There was no moonlight to guide him, and so the process, already slowed by the torturous evidence carved into his skin, was hardly expedient. By the time he reached his destination there was a hole in his tongue where he'd bitten it to remain silent. Despite this he knew he had to keep going, that nothing could be allowed to stop him from rushing to aid the last spark of innocence that existed in his world.
There was no grace in the way Claude blundered through the underbrush, moving slower than the stars. He leaned heavily upon a broken branch he’d found abandoned beside the little house. Behind him the sky was beginning to lighten, the predawn gloom picking up the trail of blood which leaked from his form like a never ending rain. Wounds had a tendency to reopen when their host was forced to great lengths.
One foot forward, then the other, brush aside the branches, lift the trailing leaves...these were the thoughts that ran through his head as, teeth gritted against the pain, he went on. He couldn’t let his mind see Pietro, couldn’t remember what had happened, how
He lay on the floor, mouth wide in disgusted horror. Eyes were spread wide open, pupils widened until only a thin ring of blue gave them any color at all. Seeing, knowing, his tongue echoing Pietro’s cries, his heart aching with the young Italian as the older Petrelli...his brother...
And the accursed visions trapped his body in place as the scene progressed; betrayal realized, the holy defiled. Cold being finished, left the broken body upon the bed with no hesitation and walked out secure in power.
But Claude wasn’t remembering that. He was deep in the woods now, though he knew not where he should go save that it was away from the ravaged shelter Pietro had brought him to. As he stumbled on he became aware of a curious feeling deep inside his chest. It pulled him deeper and deeper into the prickly foliage, giving him strength when he needed it and determination when his will faltered. And every time he fell, or felt the ravages of a branch against fresh wounds; every time he felt some muscle contract, grew dizzy from the exertion, brought a blood-soaked hand away from his bare chest, he saw Pietro's face. The boy was smiling, laughing as he imparted some clever tale of wicked adventures or amusing characters. Always these memories would be followed by the scars of the lad's destruction no matter how hard he forced his mind into the steps he took: empty eyes, lingering despair, auditory pains as sharp as knives and thrice as devastating. They echoed not only with physical torment but the loss of an innocence so pure that God himself spoke to it. Now Claude wondered numbly where God had been when Pietro's brother had come to his door.
The thought of that older Petrelli gave Claude a burst of furious rage. It fueled him for several long stretches of woods which otherwise might have defeated his determined, beaten form. The bastard had hurt Pietro. Pietro, who had rescued Claude, who had forgiven him for the mistreatment he'd visited upon the undeserving lad. Pietro who helped him, kept him sane, brought him from that hell and the hands of a smiling demon.
Pietro, who he'd let fall into the devil's claws.
A scream of helpless rage echoed throughout the silent woods. Claude had broken his vow, failed to protect the young Italian. And now that sacred, shining being was molested, betrayed by the man he'd believed in most. Powerful fists fell bloody upon the tree which temporarily supported his weight. What had he done? Nothing. He'd lain helpless on the dirt as the wicked deed was carried out. He had listened; he had watched.
The tug inside his chest reminded him of the need for strength, for the singular goal of finding Pietro and taking him away. Onward he went, pushing guilt and hope and fear to the back of his mind. Disregarding weakness to follow the ever-present pull.
~
Augustino's face was split in two by a wide, oily grin as he lingered in the hall outside of Pietro's room. A soft sigh slipped from his lips when Pietro's agonized wails grew louder. One wrinkled hand started to slip lower, rubbing robes and catching his breath. It would be good, so good. The brat was finally getting what he deserved. He was being taught a lesson, learning respect. The master was taking control of the spoiled little prince. Excellent.
There was a loud crack, and Augustino knew the older Petrelli had slapped Pietro across the face (or back, or some lower body part). The screams stopped after that, a great disappointment to the old servant. With a shudder he got control of himself, eased back into the shadows of the hall. It wouldn't do for Natanaele to discover him there. The Prince of Florence had always been very protective of his brother.
From the room came shuffling noises, heavy footsteps. Augustino flattened himself further into the darkness, glad that the torches had been put out for the night. His breath came in shallow bursts as the door to the boy's room opened, revealing for a split second the crumpled form of a person lying spread-eagled on the bed. Something hot caught in his chest as the flickering firelight revealed a darkness on the sheets- blood, perhaps. Then Natanaele's imposing form was in the door, blocking the room's contents from view. He strode out with authoritative steps, turning as he did so to close and lock the door behind him. It was too dark for Augustino to make out the expression on his face, but as his master passed he felt the trailing edge of a cold wind brush across his face.
The hall had fallen still once again long before the servant moved. Even then it was only to slump against the wall across from the heavy door, to reposition his head so that he might best contemplate the flickering glow that seeped from beneath the jamb. Cold sweat trickled unnoticed down his face as desires raced through his mind. He shouldn't. Natanaele would kill him, there was no doubt about that. But the boy was so close, in such pain...utterly, enticingly weak. All he wanted to do was take a little look. He wouldn't touch, he'd be quiet as the dead. Wrinkled, greedy fingers grasped crimson-covered knees as debated long into the end of the night.
~
Soft tears fall down his face. Before him, the graves of his parents, taller than he and capped by curving metal. An angel stares sadly from the carved stone, a poor replacement for his mother in this dreary land of the dead. The rough grass beneath his tiny feet bends and sighs in the gentle Italian breeze. It is as though the very land is waving goodbye to its Prince, its Angel. Tears are falling faster now, tiny prisms replaced with weeping orbs as he watches dignitaries, servants, and the powerful pass before and around him. They are blurred into a never-ending stream to the little boy who has lost everything.
Through his loss he feels a gentle hand upon his shoulder. A sob chokes through; he turns to his brother. Strong arms embrace, offer comfort and safety and home. Cries into his older brother's dark funeral clothes, presses his body into the warm circle of the only family he has left.
"Shh," the other murmurs to the small figure who clings so tightly to his waist. "It will be well, fratellino. I will keep you safe." Sobs slow; tear stained brown eyes peer up from behind a curtain of dark hair.
"Tu promettere?" The query a whisper, demanding. He nods, meeting damp eyes with his own.
"Si. I promise."
One last, shuddering push brought blood welling bright to the surface. Natanaele, exhausted but triumphant, tightened the hand that forced his brother's face into the mattress, his body knowing victory. A single sigh brought his essence to mingle with the blood now staining once pure white sheets.
With a sickening wrench he came out of Pietro, who by now lay limp against the bed, all will gone from his body. Slowly Natanaele lowered his head to his brother, murmuring against his back, knowing that the younger man would hear everything.
"I hope you understand, fratello. It had to be done." There was no inflection in his voice, no hint of emotion or even weariness. Nor did Pietro, trapped somewhere deep inside, react. "You need to remember that you are mine. I cannot protect you if you don't." The cold words and even more loathsome touch brought no movement from Pietro. Natanaele grunted softly at the lack of response and lifted himself off of his brother. He began gathering his clothes with apparent ease, taking his time as he dressed. Outside it was still the solid dark of night.
Wordless, Natanaele made his way to the door. The click of a lock was loud in the silence he left behind. Its echoes resounded throughout the room, growing more faint with each return until there was only the fire, and the bed, and the boy.
Breath.
Pietro drew breath because he had to, because his body would not tolerate the long pauses in which he lay as stone, his mind frozen, senses numb.
Breath.
The thought flashed like the rays of the sun across his nothingness, and he opened his lungs and inhaled. Then oblivion returned, and silence prevailed.
Breath.
Some barrier was broken by that third, magical breath. He could think again. Not true thoughts, but knowings, vague ideas that nonetheless kept memory out.
He wanted to leave.
He needed to leave.
But the door was locked...
The window. But it was dark outside, and wouldn't he need to see? Static, however, retook his brain, and it didn't matter. The window was his best bet.
First he had to move. His limbs were weighed down with the force of suppression. Idly he thought that he should be able to find motion in some limb, knew that they were there, felt them. His arms were stone, though, his legs dead wood. Not even the ghost of movement found him. The passage of time meant nothing to him, and he lay still for what could have been an instant or a lifetime.
A jangle of keys outside his door zapped life back into the apathetic remains of what had once been a Prince. Panic overtook him; panic and pain. He sat bolt up, breath coming in gasps as he stared at the door, shaking as much from his sudden explosion back to life as the fear which gripped him fast. Memory crowded in, leaking through as he cried 'no' in
pushing, thrusting, heavy pants damp upon his back
his head over and over as though that would stop whoever was coming. A key found the lock, and he knew that someone was going to come in, someone who might
shoving him down into the mattress and mio Dio make him stop make him stop make him
hurt him. He would die if that happened, he knew it with a certainty that was not to be denied. Such betrayal could not be borne twice by one being. The door handle was turning now, and the feelings of escape were threatening to burst from Pietro. He scrambled from the bed, tears springing to his eyes as his naked, bleeding body was forced into action. He had to get away, had to escape from
suffocating on fine linens, soul tearing with sensitive skin, the thick fingers bruising his back, his neck and all the while knowing who it was hurting him so
his brother, the villa, everything and anything. It burned in his gut, his limbs, his brain. Roared, grew stronger, thicker, more real. Suddenly there were bricks flying outward, spraying the courtyard and the coming dawn with the dark red shards of his grief. Into the dust and floating explosion he ran, flinging himself wildly into the slowly brightening night, not caring if he died or fell so long as he got away and stopped feeling. Eyes closed, Pietro sent a small prayer to the heavens, an apology, recrimination, plea rolled into one. Any moment he expected to feel the sharp pain that would signify the end, his final freedom. Any moment. Any...
Tentatively he opened his eyes, expecting to see dark bushes and rushing air. What was before them brought his eyes as wide as they could go, dampened the panic that had seized his body and soul for a few terrible moments.
He was flying.
~
Dawn had just begun to evaporate the night when he heard the crash. For a moment the single-minded man who limped through the woods was forcibly reminded of the sound of the ocean smashing into the sand, or a cathedral collapsing upon itself. All urge for movement left him and he froze amidst the trees. Though it was still too dark to see, he nonetheless whipped his head toward the loudest point, wishing that he had the power to make the thrice-cursed trees invisible rather than himself.
Time seemed to pause. He was in limbo, a nowhere land, waiting for something to happen yet straining with the need to find, protect, make amends. Eventually the cacophony of noise in the distance died down, leaving behind only the impression of disaster and none of the evidence.
He sighed, coming out of his frozen state. By now the trees were becoming visible, their rough bark and waving branches vaguely outlined in the dark blue of a growing dawn. His eyesight stretched but a few feet in front of him, a vast improvement over the blind stumbling to which his geas had urged him but minutes (hours? Seconds?) ago. With a shake of his head Claude was ready to continue
where his instinct told him. Any minute and he would feel it pulling him somewhere. Any minute.
Confusion filled his body. The compulsion was gone. Without it he was abandoned in the wild, lost with no sense of where to go, what to do. Worse, he no longer was able to fight the pain that raged forgotten through his body. Darkness started to fog the back of his mind, boiling at the edges of his vision as he strained to fight off the agony that was possessing him. The memory of Pietro's screams fortified him, got him standing straight, but what good was it if he did not know where the lad was?
He was useless. Stupid. An oath breaker, a voyeur, private viewer to a misery better left unseen. It was his fault, his fault, and now he was standing in the damned forest like a goddamned fool, weak and unable to help anyone let alone-
Stop it, stop it!
Cease;
Stay.
Wait, oathbreaker!
The whispers were back, crowding his mind with their insistence. Yet he did not fight them as he had in the past. Claude knew he deserved whatever punishment had been thrust upon him, knew now with a conviction that scared him that these whispers were real. He had felt Pietro's pain-that vision had not been false. Now he stood dripping life's blood onto the dirt, arms outstretched as if to embrace the bodiless voices which caressed his soul with truth and pain.
He listened when they told him to stop. Listened when they murmured secrets of the future, warned to hear the boy, keep him safe. Trust him.
Their voices where already fading when a sudden crash in the treetops above snapped open Claude's eyes. He looked upwards, fighting to see through the slowly growing light to what had made such a sound. Blue eyes picked up nothing, not a fallen branch, a misplaced bow, a-
But there was something. A shadow amongst shadows, clinging to the bottom of the crown. As he watched it detached itself and slowly floated downwards, changing shape as it fell to become a man. Pietro. His heart caught in his throat as the boy's face came into view. It was empty, soulless, as though the body was running on autopilot. Moreover, he was flying.
That, however, was a matter for another moment. Right now Claude could only concentrate on the fact that Pietro was alive, approaching him, bringing the harsh howls of memory in his wake.
"Pietro." The name was a whisper on the wind, a prayer in the dark. The prince landed gently before him, brown eyes not meeting his, body recoiling slightly into itself as though to avoid any possibility of touch. "Pietro." This time his voice was stronger, stating fact, unbelieving.
At the second cry of his name Pietro blinked heavily. He swayed on his feet and would have fallen had not Claude, with a movement swifter than his battered body should have been able to make, caught him. Instantly Pietro thrust himself away, falling down in his haste even as Claude fell in pain. Their eyes finally met as they lay there in the dirt. Pietro's breath came in heavy pants, half panic, half sorrow, while Claude was as still as can be. It was Pietro who broke the stillness.
"He hurt me." It was whispered out of a hoarse throat, barely audible, like a child learning of pain for the very first time.
“I know, lad,” his protector answered softly. Slowly Claude sat up, the task of ignoring his own pain easy in the face of such hurt. He breached the gap between them with small, slow shuffles, his blue eyes never leaving Pietro's, stopping with every inch to gauge the other's reaction. Finally he was beside him, placing a tentative hand on Pietro's shoulder. At this human, tender touch Pietro collapsed. Tears poured down his face as he curled his naked, sobbing body into Claude's bloodstained embrace. The two of them shook with the force of his despair, turning the raw emotion into a kinetic energy that forced the air to heat.
“I’ll keep you safe, I promise. He’ll never touch you again.” The words were English, strange comfort from a man who’d never had to comfort anyone else. Pietro responded by gripping him further, doubling the force of his sorrow until most would die to go near him and the trees wept amber tears.
Title: The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love: A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy (Entry 9)
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: R
Warnings/Spoilers: Still dealing with the rape, incest, blood
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 VIII: How Pietro deals with his brother's betrayal.
Author's notes: I'm back from vacation! Cape Cod was pretty damned nice. And what did I do? I wrote fanfiction XP So here's the next chapter of the Plaude Italian extravaganza, and tomorrow I'll post the next installment of my Mylar growing-too-large story. *sigh* I just want them off that damned boat. Also, updates for my various fics will probably start to get more sporadic as the summer ends and I start college. So don't be sad! There's just this little thing called 'real life' that may interfere.
Links to past entries: http://aiisling.livejournal.com/tag/the+inherent+dangers+of+pity+and+love
The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love:
A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy
Installment IX
Up.
He had to get up.
He had to get up.
He had to...
"Urgh..." the groan left tightly clenched lips as Claude turned over. Blood was dripping from freshly opened wounds, destroying what little purchase he had on the rough floor. He paused, catching heavy breath on the bloody dirt as he tried to find the strength to stand. There was no choice, not after what he'd seen, what he'd let happen. Vomit rose in his throat, threatening to retch forth once again as he remembered the vision, the whispers, his guilt.
After long minutes he managed to get one hand under himself. A half-contained scream surprised the silent night as he pushed himself to leaden knees and found a grip on the nearby window sill. Another blinding wrench saw him swaying on his feet, barely able to stand but there nonetheless. Outside it was still dark and silent, the last echoes of his cries mingling with memories of robbery and betrayal.
Slowly he made his way to the door, fresh blood staining the ragged bandages upon his chest a dark crimson that looked black in the darkness. Vision blurred and suddenly he was slipping back to the ground, losing what little he had gained. He had to focus, find a goal lest the guilt and despair render him useless.
First reach the door. Simple enough in theory but difficult in manifestation. There was no moonlight to guide him, and so the process, already slowed by the torturous evidence carved into his skin, was hardly expedient. By the time he reached his destination there was a hole in his tongue where he'd bitten it to remain silent. Despite this he knew he had to keep going, that nothing could be allowed to stop him from rushing to aid the last spark of innocence that existed in his world.
There was no grace in the way Claude blundered through the underbrush, moving slower than the stars. He leaned heavily upon a broken branch he’d found abandoned beside the little house. Behind him the sky was beginning to lighten, the predawn gloom picking up the trail of blood which leaked from his form like a never ending rain. Wounds had a tendency to reopen when their host was forced to great lengths.
One foot forward, then the other, brush aside the branches, lift the trailing leaves...these were the thoughts that ran through his head as, teeth gritted against the pain, he went on. He couldn’t let his mind see Pietro, couldn’t remember what had happened, how
He lay on the floor, mouth wide in disgusted horror. Eyes were spread wide open, pupils widened until only a thin ring of blue gave them any color at all. Seeing, knowing, his tongue echoing Pietro’s cries, his heart aching with the young Italian as the older Petrelli...his brother...
And the accursed visions trapped his body in place as the scene progressed; betrayal realized, the holy defiled. Cold being finished, left the broken body upon the bed with no hesitation and walked out secure in power.
But Claude wasn’t remembering that. He was deep in the woods now, though he knew not where he should go save that it was away from the ravaged shelter Pietro had brought him to. As he stumbled on he became aware of a curious feeling deep inside his chest. It pulled him deeper and deeper into the prickly foliage, giving him strength when he needed it and determination when his will faltered. And every time he fell, or felt the ravages of a branch against fresh wounds; every time he felt some muscle contract, grew dizzy from the exertion, brought a blood-soaked hand away from his bare chest, he saw Pietro's face. The boy was smiling, laughing as he imparted some clever tale of wicked adventures or amusing characters. Always these memories would be followed by the scars of the lad's destruction no matter how hard he forced his mind into the steps he took: empty eyes, lingering despair, auditory pains as sharp as knives and thrice as devastating. They echoed not only with physical torment but the loss of an innocence so pure that God himself spoke to it. Now Claude wondered numbly where God had been when Pietro's brother had come to his door.
The thought of that older Petrelli gave Claude a burst of furious rage. It fueled him for several long stretches of woods which otherwise might have defeated his determined, beaten form. The bastard had hurt Pietro. Pietro, who had rescued Claude, who had forgiven him for the mistreatment he'd visited upon the undeserving lad. Pietro who helped him, kept him sane, brought him from that hell and the hands of a smiling demon.
Pietro, who he'd let fall into the devil's claws.
A scream of helpless rage echoed throughout the silent woods. Claude had broken his vow, failed to protect the young Italian. And now that sacred, shining being was molested, betrayed by the man he'd believed in most. Powerful fists fell bloody upon the tree which temporarily supported his weight. What had he done? Nothing. He'd lain helpless on the dirt as the wicked deed was carried out. He had listened; he had watched.
The tug inside his chest reminded him of the need for strength, for the singular goal of finding Pietro and taking him away. Onward he went, pushing guilt and hope and fear to the back of his mind. Disregarding weakness to follow the ever-present pull.
~
Augustino's face was split in two by a wide, oily grin as he lingered in the hall outside of Pietro's room. A soft sigh slipped from his lips when Pietro's agonized wails grew louder. One wrinkled hand started to slip lower, rubbing robes and catching his breath. It would be good, so good. The brat was finally getting what he deserved. He was being taught a lesson, learning respect. The master was taking control of the spoiled little prince. Excellent.
There was a loud crack, and Augustino knew the older Petrelli had slapped Pietro across the face (or back, or some lower body part). The screams stopped after that, a great disappointment to the old servant. With a shudder he got control of himself, eased back into the shadows of the hall. It wouldn't do for Natanaele to discover him there. The Prince of Florence had always been very protective of his brother.
From the room came shuffling noises, heavy footsteps. Augustino flattened himself further into the darkness, glad that the torches had been put out for the night. His breath came in shallow bursts as the door to the boy's room opened, revealing for a split second the crumpled form of a person lying spread-eagled on the bed. Something hot caught in his chest as the flickering firelight revealed a darkness on the sheets- blood, perhaps. Then Natanaele's imposing form was in the door, blocking the room's contents from view. He strode out with authoritative steps, turning as he did so to close and lock the door behind him. It was too dark for Augustino to make out the expression on his face, but as his master passed he felt the trailing edge of a cold wind brush across his face.
The hall had fallen still once again long before the servant moved. Even then it was only to slump against the wall across from the heavy door, to reposition his head so that he might best contemplate the flickering glow that seeped from beneath the jamb. Cold sweat trickled unnoticed down his face as desires raced through his mind. He shouldn't. Natanaele would kill him, there was no doubt about that. But the boy was so close, in such pain...utterly, enticingly weak. All he wanted to do was take a little look. He wouldn't touch, he'd be quiet as the dead. Wrinkled, greedy fingers grasped crimson-covered knees as debated long into the end of the night.
~
Soft tears fall down his face. Before him, the graves of his parents, taller than he and capped by curving metal. An angel stares sadly from the carved stone, a poor replacement for his mother in this dreary land of the dead. The rough grass beneath his tiny feet bends and sighs in the gentle Italian breeze. It is as though the very land is waving goodbye to its Prince, its Angel. Tears are falling faster now, tiny prisms replaced with weeping orbs as he watches dignitaries, servants, and the powerful pass before and around him. They are blurred into a never-ending stream to the little boy who has lost everything.
Through his loss he feels a gentle hand upon his shoulder. A sob chokes through; he turns to his brother. Strong arms embrace, offer comfort and safety and home. Cries into his older brother's dark funeral clothes, presses his body into the warm circle of the only family he has left.
"Shh," the other murmurs to the small figure who clings so tightly to his waist. "It will be well, fratellino. I will keep you safe." Sobs slow; tear stained brown eyes peer up from behind a curtain of dark hair.
"Tu promettere?" The query a whisper, demanding. He nods, meeting damp eyes with his own.
"Si. I promise."
One last, shuddering push brought blood welling bright to the surface. Natanaele, exhausted but triumphant, tightened the hand that forced his brother's face into the mattress, his body knowing victory. A single sigh brought his essence to mingle with the blood now staining once pure white sheets.
With a sickening wrench he came out of Pietro, who by now lay limp against the bed, all will gone from his body. Slowly Natanaele lowered his head to his brother, murmuring against his back, knowing that the younger man would hear everything.
"I hope you understand, fratello. It had to be done." There was no inflection in his voice, no hint of emotion or even weariness. Nor did Pietro, trapped somewhere deep inside, react. "You need to remember that you are mine. I cannot protect you if you don't." The cold words and even more loathsome touch brought no movement from Pietro. Natanaele grunted softly at the lack of response and lifted himself off of his brother. He began gathering his clothes with apparent ease, taking his time as he dressed. Outside it was still the solid dark of night.
Wordless, Natanaele made his way to the door. The click of a lock was loud in the silence he left behind. Its echoes resounded throughout the room, growing more faint with each return until there was only the fire, and the bed, and the boy.
Breath.
Pietro drew breath because he had to, because his body would not tolerate the long pauses in which he lay as stone, his mind frozen, senses numb.
Breath.
The thought flashed like the rays of the sun across his nothingness, and he opened his lungs and inhaled. Then oblivion returned, and silence prevailed.
Breath.
Some barrier was broken by that third, magical breath. He could think again. Not true thoughts, but knowings, vague ideas that nonetheless kept memory out.
He wanted to leave.
He needed to leave.
But the door was locked...
The window. But it was dark outside, and wouldn't he need to see? Static, however, retook his brain, and it didn't matter. The window was his best bet.
First he had to move. His limbs were weighed down with the force of suppression. Idly he thought that he should be able to find motion in some limb, knew that they were there, felt them. His arms were stone, though, his legs dead wood. Not even the ghost of movement found him. The passage of time meant nothing to him, and he lay still for what could have been an instant or a lifetime.
A jangle of keys outside his door zapped life back into the apathetic remains of what had once been a Prince. Panic overtook him; panic and pain. He sat bolt up, breath coming in gasps as he stared at the door, shaking as much from his sudden explosion back to life as the fear which gripped him fast. Memory crowded in, leaking through as he cried 'no' in
pushing, thrusting, heavy pants damp upon his back
his head over and over as though that would stop whoever was coming. A key found the lock, and he knew that someone was going to come in, someone who might
shoving him down into the mattress and mio Dio make him stop make him stop make him
hurt him. He would die if that happened, he knew it with a certainty that was not to be denied. Such betrayal could not be borne twice by one being. The door handle was turning now, and the feelings of escape were threatening to burst from Pietro. He scrambled from the bed, tears springing to his eyes as his naked, bleeding body was forced into action. He had to get away, had to escape from
suffocating on fine linens, soul tearing with sensitive skin, the thick fingers bruising his back, his neck and all the while knowing who it was hurting him so
his brother, the villa, everything and anything. It burned in his gut, his limbs, his brain. Roared, grew stronger, thicker, more real. Suddenly there were bricks flying outward, spraying the courtyard and the coming dawn with the dark red shards of his grief. Into the dust and floating explosion he ran, flinging himself wildly into the slowly brightening night, not caring if he died or fell so long as he got away and stopped feeling. Eyes closed, Pietro sent a small prayer to the heavens, an apology, recrimination, plea rolled into one. Any moment he expected to feel the sharp pain that would signify the end, his final freedom. Any moment. Any...
Tentatively he opened his eyes, expecting to see dark bushes and rushing air. What was before them brought his eyes as wide as they could go, dampened the panic that had seized his body and soul for a few terrible moments.
He was flying.
~
Dawn had just begun to evaporate the night when he heard the crash. For a moment the single-minded man who limped through the woods was forcibly reminded of the sound of the ocean smashing into the sand, or a cathedral collapsing upon itself. All urge for movement left him and he froze amidst the trees. Though it was still too dark to see, he nonetheless whipped his head toward the loudest point, wishing that he had the power to make the thrice-cursed trees invisible rather than himself.
Time seemed to pause. He was in limbo, a nowhere land, waiting for something to happen yet straining with the need to find, protect, make amends. Eventually the cacophony of noise in the distance died down, leaving behind only the impression of disaster and none of the evidence.
He sighed, coming out of his frozen state. By now the trees were becoming visible, their rough bark and waving branches vaguely outlined in the dark blue of a growing dawn. His eyesight stretched but a few feet in front of him, a vast improvement over the blind stumbling to which his geas had urged him but minutes (hours? Seconds?) ago. With a shake of his head Claude was ready to continue
where his instinct told him. Any minute and he would feel it pulling him somewhere. Any minute.
Confusion filled his body. The compulsion was gone. Without it he was abandoned in the wild, lost with no sense of where to go, what to do. Worse, he no longer was able to fight the pain that raged forgotten through his body. Darkness started to fog the back of his mind, boiling at the edges of his vision as he strained to fight off the agony that was possessing him. The memory of Pietro's screams fortified him, got him standing straight, but what good was it if he did not know where the lad was?
He was useless. Stupid. An oath breaker, a voyeur, private viewer to a misery better left unseen. It was his fault, his fault, and now he was standing in the damned forest like a goddamned fool, weak and unable to help anyone let alone-
Stop it, stop it!
Cease;
Stay.
Wait, oathbreaker!
The whispers were back, crowding his mind with their insistence. Yet he did not fight them as he had in the past. Claude knew he deserved whatever punishment had been thrust upon him, knew now with a conviction that scared him that these whispers were real. He had felt Pietro's pain-that vision had not been false. Now he stood dripping life's blood onto the dirt, arms outstretched as if to embrace the bodiless voices which caressed his soul with truth and pain.
He listened when they told him to stop. Listened when they murmured secrets of the future, warned to hear the boy, keep him safe. Trust him.
Their voices where already fading when a sudden crash in the treetops above snapped open Claude's eyes. He looked upwards, fighting to see through the slowly growing light to what had made such a sound. Blue eyes picked up nothing, not a fallen branch, a misplaced bow, a-
But there was something. A shadow amongst shadows, clinging to the bottom of the crown. As he watched it detached itself and slowly floated downwards, changing shape as it fell to become a man. Pietro. His heart caught in his throat as the boy's face came into view. It was empty, soulless, as though the body was running on autopilot. Moreover, he was flying.
That, however, was a matter for another moment. Right now Claude could only concentrate on the fact that Pietro was alive, approaching him, bringing the harsh howls of memory in his wake.
"Pietro." The name was a whisper on the wind, a prayer in the dark. The prince landed gently before him, brown eyes not meeting his, body recoiling slightly into itself as though to avoid any possibility of touch. "Pietro." This time his voice was stronger, stating fact, unbelieving.
At the second cry of his name Pietro blinked heavily. He swayed on his feet and would have fallen had not Claude, with a movement swifter than his battered body should have been able to make, caught him. Instantly Pietro thrust himself away, falling down in his haste even as Claude fell in pain. Their eyes finally met as they lay there in the dirt. Pietro's breath came in heavy pants, half panic, half sorrow, while Claude was as still as can be. It was Pietro who broke the stillness.
"He hurt me." It was whispered out of a hoarse throat, barely audible, like a child learning of pain for the very first time.
“I know, lad,” his protector answered softly. Slowly Claude sat up, the task of ignoring his own pain easy in the face of such hurt. He breached the gap between them with small, slow shuffles, his blue eyes never leaving Pietro's, stopping with every inch to gauge the other's reaction. Finally he was beside him, placing a tentative hand on Pietro's shoulder. At this human, tender touch Pietro collapsed. Tears poured down his face as he curled his naked, sobbing body into Claude's bloodstained embrace. The two of them shook with the force of his despair, turning the raw emotion into a kinetic energy that forced the air to heat.
“I’ll keep you safe, I promise. He’ll never touch you again.” The words were English, strange comfort from a man who’d never had to comfort anyone else. Pietro responded by gripping him further, doubling the force of his sorrow until most would die to go near him and the trees wept amber tears.