Have you ever been bitch-slapped by a plot bunny? Hurts like a mother.
Author: Aiisling
Title: The Inherrent Dangers of Pity and Love: A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy
Pairings: 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, a desperate man banished from his country. They will discover many things, and not all of them pleasant: heretical powers, conspiracies, betrayals. Other Heroes characters will have prominent roles too (Natanaele and Clara Petrelli so far, with more to join in...).
Note: There's historical stuff here, and I'll try to be pretty acurate, but I'm just doing this for fun. Don't expect perfection on the details! XD Also, I dunno how far this will go. Pretty far, I'm guessing, as I'm in the mood for something...epic. Enjoy!
~~~~~
The Inherrent Dangers of Pity and Love:
A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy
The Princes which govern the five city states of Italy are surrounded with many things: grandeur, intrigue, deception. Oh, not all of them are royalty. Some, like the Medici’s, who control the Republic of Florence up in the North, just have so much money and influence that they might as well be. Others find power through other means. The Catholic church, for example, with its stranglehold on the Papal States in the very center of Italy. Then there are some Princes who gain their power entirely through family connections, silken tongues, and hoarded secrets. The Petrelli’s, of Florence, are one of the later.
Power first came to this once obscure family through Giovanni di Bicci Averardo de' Medici, founder of the Medici dynasty. The Petrelli’s had always been connected with the Medici’s as cousins of varying degrees. Giovanni, however, gave them their ticket to power in the bank he created. This institution brought control of the Republic and access to the Church’s money to the Medici’s, and through them, the Petrelli’s.
Unlike most of their brethren, these particular Princes elected to remain behind the scenes. They displayed great power and strength, of course. To do otherwise would be to appear weak and invite treachery. But they also allowed Italy to maintain her delusion that it was the Medici’s who controlled one of Italy’s greatest centers of trade. It was useful to have such a perfect cover in a time when kidnapings and riots were as common as brunettes.
Entering the sunny villa in which the Petrelli’s lived, deep inside the walls of Florence, one would hardly guess that the most powerful man in Northern Italy lived there. The first glance painted only a picture of an idyllic life, suggesting that the head of the household was a rich merchant, perhaps with some royal blood (in Italy, there was little differentiation). Sand colored bricks made up the outer wall, catching the sun and reflecting it merrily upon a vast inner courtyard and gardens filled with Cyprus trees and flowering shrubs. It was unmistakably large, as attested to by the several buildings clustered around its center. It was true as well that there were many servants scurrying about, performing their various chores: baking the afternoon bread, beating the dust out of ancient tapestries, tending to the garden. This was no different, however, than the estates of the many noblemen and rich merchant families which were scattered throughout the city states of Italy.
The illusion of mediocrity was further enriched by the young man who sat at the edge of a simple stone bench, reading beside one of the many splashing fountains which ornamented the court. His seat was slouched and comfortable, contrasting with his obvious station. His clothes added to the puzzlement, for instead of the ornate and elaborate cioppa which most of the fashionable men in his social sphere donned he wore a simple, linen doublet with dark brown hose. The quality was immense, however, and the gold thread which lined the neck and center of the doublet betrayed the expensive nature of his garb.
What was truly perplexing was the openness of his face. Most Princes were reserved, with fake masks for the public behind which they carefully calculated their every move. This one, however, was clearly different. From the way his long, dark hair flopped over his right eye to the slight crook of his smile, everything about him spoke of honesty and kindness. These ideas were further cemented as the arrival of a young girl broke his concentration. He put his book down and looked up expectantly at the sound of his name.
“Pietro! Pietro!” She called, laughing, as the slight breeze caught her golden hair and sent it flying behind her like a banner. The young Princess laughed once more as she hurled herself into her Uncle’s arms. Never mind, of course, that she was thirteen and far too old to be behaving like such a child. Pietro smiled as he returned her embrace.
“Clara, one of these days you are going to break something. What would your father say?” She stood up and faced him, arms akimbo, refusing to allow his teasing to get the best of her. Pietro smiled and made room for her on the bench. His gentle remark, spoken with a sparkle in his eye, left another glowing smile upon her face.
“Mio padre doesn’t need to know, Uncle,” she retorted, nose in the air. She fluffed out the cool linen dress she wore as she sat next to him, ignoring with great dignity the silent laugh he was containing. “Now. You promised me that we could go out today.” Her soft features turned to him in hope. Faced with such a look, Pietro could no more say ‘no’ than he could stifle his love of learning.
“Ahh, Clara, I don’t know,” he teased, not truly intending to deny her anything. “Perhaps we ought to stay in the yard today. Besides, don’t you have a meeting with the Dancing Master this afternoon?”
“Pshh.” A very un-ladylike noise left Clara’s lips as she rolled her eyes. “Could anything possibly be duller? That old piscione hasn’t got enough brains left in his head to find the church.”
Pietro pretended shock at her language, hiding his crooked smile. “Such language, little Clara.” He grinned as she squirmed once more, acting for all the world like a five year old instead of the young woman she had become. Finally Pietro relented and stood, picking up the leather bound collection of Cicero’s writings on the art of rhetoric and helping his young niece to stand. “Come, Clara. We have to gather our supplies first.” Clara’s grin was blinding as she and Pietro entered one of the shaded archways which led deeper into the private rooms in which the family lived.
~
“Per favore, signore, signora, per favore...” The sad cries followed Clara and Pietro, acting as a siren’s call to the two young nobles. They were almost at the edge of the city, dressed in old clothes and carrying baskets upon each arm. To an untrained eye they might have appeared to be just two more citizens, noticeable only in their acts of charity. Before them the streets started to crumble and grow dark with dirt as the outskirts of Florence drew nearer. Beggars could be seen occasionally, and the sick and dying lay propped up against ancient walls and tumbled piles of rubbish. Whenever Clara and Pietro came across an unfortunate they stopped, doling out food, medicines, and some measure of relief to the afflicted. Pietro kept his eyes wide open, watching that they not wander too deep into the slums, where the poor were desperate enough that the slender sword which hung at his hip would be no deterrent against robbery and violence. Had he been by himself, as he often was on these little trips of mercy, he would have gone right to the gates of the city where the most needy had built wretched hovels out of sticks and garbage. He had Clara to think of, however, and so limited himself to helping only those at the edges of the slums.
“There you go, signora,” he murmured with a gentle smile as he placed a loaf of bread in the hands of an old beggar woman. Her grin was missing several teeth, but Pietro found joy in it anyways. He had always been drawn to those with nothing, filled with a profound need to help. That Clara felt the same both made him proud and worried him. She was a few paces down, helping a young boy to clean and bandage the angry looking cut which sat above his dirty knee. The grubby child was smiling in his rags. Clearly Clara had a gift for such work.
At first Pietro had not allowed little Clara to come with him on these trips. He’d seen too many dangers-sickness, disease, violence. Nor would his brother, head of the Petrelli family and father to Clara, even toy with the notion. A fire one day late in the fall had changed that. Clara had been caught in one of the back wings, where the flames raged the hardest. She should have died, charred by flame and suffocated by thick black smoke. Instead she survived with not a single scratch upon her. Since then she’d not been sick, or injured, or harmed in any way. People, Pietro included, considered it a miracle, saw her as beloved by God. After that Pietro helped Clara to convince Natanaele to allow her out with him. In their youthful exuberance they took no one with them unless Natanaele was there to make them. Pietro had never seen the need, as the Petrelli family had always been spared the kidnapings and dangers most other Italian Princes lived in fear of.
“Alright, Clara,” he called to her as she stood and sent the boy away with a soft roll in his pocket. “That’s enough for today. Lets go home.” Clara sighed deeply, looking wistfully at the winding streets ahead of them, and sighed before turning her back to the rest and following her Uncle home.
~
Pietro returned by himself later that day, as he often did. Something about those that needed help called to him, forced him to take foolish chances by descending deeper and deeper into the slums to aid the sick and dying. Perhaps it was the philosophers he’d been reading as part of his Humanist education. That was Natanaele’s reasoning, though, and it didn’t ring true for the young Prince. Somehow Pietro just knew that he was meant to help people, as his trusted older brother was meant for power.
Soon the shadows were falling farther and farther across the twisted streets, throwing alleys into dangerous repositories of darkness. Dusk was fast approaching, and Pietro knew that, despite his need to help, it was time to go. His eyes caught one last drifter leaning against a particularly foreboding corner. The figure was taller than him, and scruffy. Something about him told Pietro that here was a man who’d be good in a fight, who was used to being on his own and would probably resent outside intrusion. It was a bad idea to approach him. Terrible, in fact. But Pietro could read the despair leaking off the older man in waves, could feel his pain as acutely as if it were his own. Compassion took the better of him and he walked up to the corner.
“Please, signore,” he began, taking in the man’s tattered rags, his unkempt beard. There was something foreign about this particular beggar, something decidedly not Italian, that made Pietro stare a moment longer than necessary.
“What you want, pazzo?” snarled the man in harsh, broken Italian. His accent was strange, lacking the elongated syllables that usually made Pietro’s native tongue sing. The anger in his voice and face, however, was unmistakable. The young Italian took an involuntary step back before gathering his resolve and responding.
“I’m here to help you. I’ve got food, if you’d like some, and-”
“I don’t want pity, sop,” the older man barked, cursing at Pietro in a curt language he didn’t understand. “Go away, take charity with you.” He turned his back on the young Prince and walked away, hands stuffed into his pockets. Pietro stood stunned for a moment before shaking his head and turning for home. Some people just weren’t receptive to kindness.
It was not until he reached the gate outside of his home that he realized a roll was missing from his basket. Pietro chuckled at the gruff bastardo’s pickpocketing, then entered his home to wait for his brother’s scolding.
~
Illusions could destroy a man’s life. They’d trick him with bright promises, noble purposes, until he was so far deep into a mess that there was no hope for escape. Claude Raines knew this quite well. Illusions were webbed into the fabric of his soul, wrapped around the bones which gave his body strength. They had hobbled him in the past, and saved him. Gave him hope, and destroyed his capacity to love. Oh, Claude certainly knew about those shimmering shadows and silver lights. More than any man should ever have to know.
He snarled once more, kicking an old rock across the dusty Florentine road. He took pity from no one, especially not some puffed up little snot who thought himself high and mighty because he was giving out handouts to the needy. Claude had never wanted or needed such stupidity, not at the lowest moments of his life (remarkable, there had been worse times in his history). Dark thoughts rolled through his head as he savagely bit into the hardy roll he’d pocketed from the brat’s bread basket. Honestly. Not only was it insulting, but it was ridiculous as well. Anyone with half a brain in his head could tell that the kid was rich. It was written in his soft palms and open expression. Never known a day of want in his life, probably. His kind wasn’t needed down here in the slums. Didn’t belong, and risked life and limb just for carrying those foppish pretensions.
Settling down in an abandoned archway to wait for the night, Claude scowled and wondered how the hell he’d ever managed to wind up in Florence, for Christ’s sake. Of all the places he could have fled to, why choose Italy, where he could barely speak the god-damned language and silly fools in finery bothered him on every corner? Suddenly church bells rang through the air, marking the next hour. Oh, he remembered. That. He straightened, looked up and down the street, and blinked out of existence.
~
Title: The Inherrent Dangers of Pity and Love: A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy
Pairings: 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, a desperate man banished from his country. They will discover many things, and not all of them pleasant: heretical powers, conspiracies, betrayals. Other Heroes characters will have prominent roles too (Natanaele and Clara Petrelli so far, with more to join in...).
Note: There's historical stuff here, and I'll try to be pretty acurate, but I'm just doing this for fun. Don't expect perfection on the details! XD Also, I dunno how far this will go. Pretty far, I'm guessing, as I'm in the mood for something...epic. Enjoy!
~~~~~
The Inherrent Dangers of Pity and Love:
A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy
The Princes which govern the five city states of Italy are surrounded with many things: grandeur, intrigue, deception. Oh, not all of them are royalty. Some, like the Medici’s, who control the Republic of Florence up in the North, just have so much money and influence that they might as well be. Others find power through other means. The Catholic church, for example, with its stranglehold on the Papal States in the very center of Italy. Then there are some Princes who gain their power entirely through family connections, silken tongues, and hoarded secrets. The Petrelli’s, of Florence, are one of the later.
Power first came to this once obscure family through Giovanni di Bicci Averardo de' Medici, founder of the Medici dynasty. The Petrelli’s had always been connected with the Medici’s as cousins of varying degrees. Giovanni, however, gave them their ticket to power in the bank he created. This institution brought control of the Republic and access to the Church’s money to the Medici’s, and through them, the Petrelli’s.
Unlike most of their brethren, these particular Princes elected to remain behind the scenes. They displayed great power and strength, of course. To do otherwise would be to appear weak and invite treachery. But they also allowed Italy to maintain her delusion that it was the Medici’s who controlled one of Italy’s greatest centers of trade. It was useful to have such a perfect cover in a time when kidnapings and riots were as common as brunettes.
Entering the sunny villa in which the Petrelli’s lived, deep inside the walls of Florence, one would hardly guess that the most powerful man in Northern Italy lived there. The first glance painted only a picture of an idyllic life, suggesting that the head of the household was a rich merchant, perhaps with some royal blood (in Italy, there was little differentiation). Sand colored bricks made up the outer wall, catching the sun and reflecting it merrily upon a vast inner courtyard and gardens filled with Cyprus trees and flowering shrubs. It was unmistakably large, as attested to by the several buildings clustered around its center. It was true as well that there were many servants scurrying about, performing their various chores: baking the afternoon bread, beating the dust out of ancient tapestries, tending to the garden. This was no different, however, than the estates of the many noblemen and rich merchant families which were scattered throughout the city states of Italy.
The illusion of mediocrity was further enriched by the young man who sat at the edge of a simple stone bench, reading beside one of the many splashing fountains which ornamented the court. His seat was slouched and comfortable, contrasting with his obvious station. His clothes added to the puzzlement, for instead of the ornate and elaborate cioppa which most of the fashionable men in his social sphere donned he wore a simple, linen doublet with dark brown hose. The quality was immense, however, and the gold thread which lined the neck and center of the doublet betrayed the expensive nature of his garb.
What was truly perplexing was the openness of his face. Most Princes were reserved, with fake masks for the public behind which they carefully calculated their every move. This one, however, was clearly different. From the way his long, dark hair flopped over his right eye to the slight crook of his smile, everything about him spoke of honesty and kindness. These ideas were further cemented as the arrival of a young girl broke his concentration. He put his book down and looked up expectantly at the sound of his name.
“Pietro! Pietro!” She called, laughing, as the slight breeze caught her golden hair and sent it flying behind her like a banner. The young Princess laughed once more as she hurled herself into her Uncle’s arms. Never mind, of course, that she was thirteen and far too old to be behaving like such a child. Pietro smiled as he returned her embrace.
“Clara, one of these days you are going to break something. What would your father say?” She stood up and faced him, arms akimbo, refusing to allow his teasing to get the best of her. Pietro smiled and made room for her on the bench. His gentle remark, spoken with a sparkle in his eye, left another glowing smile upon her face.
“Mio padre doesn’t need to know, Uncle,” she retorted, nose in the air. She fluffed out the cool linen dress she wore as she sat next to him, ignoring with great dignity the silent laugh he was containing. “Now. You promised me that we could go out today.” Her soft features turned to him in hope. Faced with such a look, Pietro could no more say ‘no’ than he could stifle his love of learning.
“Ahh, Clara, I don’t know,” he teased, not truly intending to deny her anything. “Perhaps we ought to stay in the yard today. Besides, don’t you have a meeting with the Dancing Master this afternoon?”
“Pshh.” A very un-ladylike noise left Clara’s lips as she rolled her eyes. “Could anything possibly be duller? That old piscione hasn’t got enough brains left in his head to find the church.”
Pietro pretended shock at her language, hiding his crooked smile. “Such language, little Clara.” He grinned as she squirmed once more, acting for all the world like a five year old instead of the young woman she had become. Finally Pietro relented and stood, picking up the leather bound collection of Cicero’s writings on the art of rhetoric and helping his young niece to stand. “Come, Clara. We have to gather our supplies first.” Clara’s grin was blinding as she and Pietro entered one of the shaded archways which led deeper into the private rooms in which the family lived.
~
“Per favore, signore, signora, per favore...” The sad cries followed Clara and Pietro, acting as a siren’s call to the two young nobles. They were almost at the edge of the city, dressed in old clothes and carrying baskets upon each arm. To an untrained eye they might have appeared to be just two more citizens, noticeable only in their acts of charity. Before them the streets started to crumble and grow dark with dirt as the outskirts of Florence drew nearer. Beggars could be seen occasionally, and the sick and dying lay propped up against ancient walls and tumbled piles of rubbish. Whenever Clara and Pietro came across an unfortunate they stopped, doling out food, medicines, and some measure of relief to the afflicted. Pietro kept his eyes wide open, watching that they not wander too deep into the slums, where the poor were desperate enough that the slender sword which hung at his hip would be no deterrent against robbery and violence. Had he been by himself, as he often was on these little trips of mercy, he would have gone right to the gates of the city where the most needy had built wretched hovels out of sticks and garbage. He had Clara to think of, however, and so limited himself to helping only those at the edges of the slums.
“There you go, signora,” he murmured with a gentle smile as he placed a loaf of bread in the hands of an old beggar woman. Her grin was missing several teeth, but Pietro found joy in it anyways. He had always been drawn to those with nothing, filled with a profound need to help. That Clara felt the same both made him proud and worried him. She was a few paces down, helping a young boy to clean and bandage the angry looking cut which sat above his dirty knee. The grubby child was smiling in his rags. Clearly Clara had a gift for such work.
At first Pietro had not allowed little Clara to come with him on these trips. He’d seen too many dangers-sickness, disease, violence. Nor would his brother, head of the Petrelli family and father to Clara, even toy with the notion. A fire one day late in the fall had changed that. Clara had been caught in one of the back wings, where the flames raged the hardest. She should have died, charred by flame and suffocated by thick black smoke. Instead she survived with not a single scratch upon her. Since then she’d not been sick, or injured, or harmed in any way. People, Pietro included, considered it a miracle, saw her as beloved by God. After that Pietro helped Clara to convince Natanaele to allow her out with him. In their youthful exuberance they took no one with them unless Natanaele was there to make them. Pietro had never seen the need, as the Petrelli family had always been spared the kidnapings and dangers most other Italian Princes lived in fear of.
“Alright, Clara,” he called to her as she stood and sent the boy away with a soft roll in his pocket. “That’s enough for today. Lets go home.” Clara sighed deeply, looking wistfully at the winding streets ahead of them, and sighed before turning her back to the rest and following her Uncle home.
~
Pietro returned by himself later that day, as he often did. Something about those that needed help called to him, forced him to take foolish chances by descending deeper and deeper into the slums to aid the sick and dying. Perhaps it was the philosophers he’d been reading as part of his Humanist education. That was Natanaele’s reasoning, though, and it didn’t ring true for the young Prince. Somehow Pietro just knew that he was meant to help people, as his trusted older brother was meant for power.
Soon the shadows were falling farther and farther across the twisted streets, throwing alleys into dangerous repositories of darkness. Dusk was fast approaching, and Pietro knew that, despite his need to help, it was time to go. His eyes caught one last drifter leaning against a particularly foreboding corner. The figure was taller than him, and scruffy. Something about him told Pietro that here was a man who’d be good in a fight, who was used to being on his own and would probably resent outside intrusion. It was a bad idea to approach him. Terrible, in fact. But Pietro could read the despair leaking off the older man in waves, could feel his pain as acutely as if it were his own. Compassion took the better of him and he walked up to the corner.
“Please, signore,” he began, taking in the man’s tattered rags, his unkempt beard. There was something foreign about this particular beggar, something decidedly not Italian, that made Pietro stare a moment longer than necessary.
“What you want, pazzo?” snarled the man in harsh, broken Italian. His accent was strange, lacking the elongated syllables that usually made Pietro’s native tongue sing. The anger in his voice and face, however, was unmistakable. The young Italian took an involuntary step back before gathering his resolve and responding.
“I’m here to help you. I’ve got food, if you’d like some, and-”
“I don’t want pity, sop,” the older man barked, cursing at Pietro in a curt language he didn’t understand. “Go away, take charity with you.” He turned his back on the young Prince and walked away, hands stuffed into his pockets. Pietro stood stunned for a moment before shaking his head and turning for home. Some people just weren’t receptive to kindness.
It was not until he reached the gate outside of his home that he realized a roll was missing from his basket. Pietro chuckled at the gruff bastardo’s pickpocketing, then entered his home to wait for his brother’s scolding.
~
Illusions could destroy a man’s life. They’d trick him with bright promises, noble purposes, until he was so far deep into a mess that there was no hope for escape. Claude Raines knew this quite well. Illusions were webbed into the fabric of his soul, wrapped around the bones which gave his body strength. They had hobbled him in the past, and saved him. Gave him hope, and destroyed his capacity to love. Oh, Claude certainly knew about those shimmering shadows and silver lights. More than any man should ever have to know.
He snarled once more, kicking an old rock across the dusty Florentine road. He took pity from no one, especially not some puffed up little snot who thought himself high and mighty because he was giving out handouts to the needy. Claude had never wanted or needed such stupidity, not at the lowest moments of his life (remarkable, there had been worse times in his history). Dark thoughts rolled through his head as he savagely bit into the hardy roll he’d pocketed from the brat’s bread basket. Honestly. Not only was it insulting, but it was ridiculous as well. Anyone with half a brain in his head could tell that the kid was rich. It was written in his soft palms and open expression. Never known a day of want in his life, probably. His kind wasn’t needed down here in the slums. Didn’t belong, and risked life and limb just for carrying those foppish pretensions.
Settling down in an abandoned archway to wait for the night, Claude scowled and wondered how the hell he’d ever managed to wind up in Florence, for Christ’s sake. Of all the places he could have fled to, why choose Italy, where he could barely speak the god-damned language and silly fools in finery bothered him on every corner? Suddenly church bells rang through the air, marking the next hour. Oh, he remembered. That. He straightened, looked up and down the street, and blinked out of existence.
~