OMG Peter is the best character EVA'. Fo shizzle.
Author: Aiisling
Title: The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love: A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy (Entry 2)
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: pg 13 so far.
Warnings/Spoilers: none
Summary: By the time the 1400's rolled about, Italy existed primarily as five major city states, one of them being Florence. This is a story about a Prince of that esteemed and powerful city, Pietro Petrelli, and Claude Raines. Other Heroes characters will play prominent roles.
Installment 2, peeps. Pietro and Natanaele have a talk, a Danger is revealed, Claude gets cranky, powers begin to pop up. Also, the Catholic Church and hints of power plays...read away.
Note: Not meaning to offend any Catholics (or anyone else, for that matter).
PLUS here's a link to Installment I, if ya missed that sucker.
~~~~~
The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love:
A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy
Installment II
~
As Pietro had expected, Natanaele was furious. When he’d returned home, night already falling deeply upon the candle-lit estates of Florence, his brother had been waiting for him. Though he was twenty two he felt like a young milksop under Natanaele’s glare. The older man, garbed in a dark velvet cioppa which fell in thick folds down to his knees, met his brother before a roaring fire in their beautiful, fresco-rich dining room.
“Pietro,” Natanaele began, and the younger man winced at his tone. “You are far too old to be doing this...this...poor work.” The words slipped from his cultured mouth like poison. “Leave the beggars to the priests and the women. You should be studying, helping me with our wool trade. Mio Dio, I would even prefer it if you were painting.” Natanaele’s stern face, with its square jaw and penetrating eyes, bore a slight expression of disgust. This alone might have left Pietro trembling, for his powerful brother rarely let any emotions show.
A powerful hand reached up to cup Pietro’s young, angular face, undermining the older man’s apparent coldness. The brothers were very close, and Natanaele had to work to deny his brother anything. The gesture gave Pietro courage.
“But, Natanaele, I have to. I need to!” He sighed as Natanaele’s face grew stony and unmovable, a bad sign. The hand which had rested upon his cheek and bore the ruby Petrelli family crest dropped back to Natanaele’s side. “Please, mio fratello, understand.” His eyes blazed with desperation as he pressed on, ignoring the ice he felt emanating from his older brother. “They have no one, nobody, and I just want to-”
“Enough.” With a wave of his hand Natanaele cut off Pietro’s pleading. “Enough, Pietro. It is one thing for Clara to go out and be generous. She is young, and a woman. Charity is a useful quality in a bride. But you,” he continued, ignoring the heartrending anguish which pooled in Pietro’s eyes, “you are a Prince of Florence. Such actions make you appear weak, and your weakness is the family’s weakness. I cannot have that, do you understand?” Natanaele sighed and brought strong fingers up to massage his temples. “You are sheltered, and I blame myself for that. But you cannot ignore the political situation any longer.” Pietro looked as though he were about to interrupt again, but Natanaele spoke before he had the chance. “Brother, sit down,” the imposing figure commanded, and Pietro took a seat in one of the plush chairs that stood on either side of the crackling fireplace.
“There is trouble in the church,” he continued, staring at Pietro down a strong Roman nose. “Dissenters are beginning to speak up against it, and this makes the Pope very nervous. And when the Pope is nervous, the Princes of Italy grow afraid. Despite all their bravado, all the new learning which has spread throughout Italy, the Church is still a threat to their power. ” He gave his brother his back as he contemplated the fire, wondering privately how much to reveal to the naive young man before him. “Added to this worry are dangerous rumors.” He shook his head, staring at the snapping branches in the hearth.
“The Inquisition is coming to Florence, Pietro.”
The young Italian gasped. He was naive, yes, but not so naive that he didn’t know how dangerous the Inquisition could be. He’d read horror stories of its actions all his life. Those who threatened the power of the church went before its unforgiving council, and most did not return. It was terrible, harsh judgment, where the lucky ended up strangled and the unfortunate burned alive. Natanaele watched his brother’s face closely, looking for a sign as to how far to proceed. It brought pain to Natanaele to see such worry upon his brother’s face, for the boy was innocent (so painfully and carefully innocent and he’d do anything, anything to protect that), but there was little choice. He would not allow his brother’s pity to become the rope from which the other Princes would tie their noose.
“But...why did I not know?” Pietro’s query was understandable. Usually the Inquisition operated in a loud, blustering manner, leaving a wake of fiery deaths in its path. It was hard to be subtle about burning men alive, after all. So a man would think if he knew no better. Those with the right connections understood that in reality the church was a cunning and sly beast. Its bloody scare-tactics were only to fool its followers, to catch them in a net of fear and screen the clandestine workings of the church from their eyes. A few saw past this curtain. Natanaele, holding tradition with the powerful Petrelli legacy, was one of them, unlike his brother who was far removed enough from politics that he was completely unaware.
“There are many things that you do not know,” was Natanaele’s only reply. His voice was gentle, taking any reprimand out of his words. Yet in the time it took to blink he had grown stern as stone once again. “Now promise me, Pietro. Promise that you will not venture to places below your station!” Pietro, weakened by shock and fear, agreed. Natanaele’s smile was soft in response. “Bene. You may go.” A heavy hand lingered upon Pietro’s shoulder for a moment, giving comfort as his brother dismissed him. Pietro allowed himself to absorb some of Natanaele’s strength before rising. Two swift kisses upon the older man’s cheeks, soft lips meeting rough skin, and Pietro was gone. Natanaele sighed, exhausted by his harsh words. Night closed in upon him as he stood before the dancing flames, wondering what else he had to do to keep the world’s most elegant vultures at bay.
~
“Who is that, padre?” Soft hands pointing to a statue of a woman. She is beautiful, a serene expression highlighting her face. A cowl falls about her shoulders, revealing only that loving smile and gentle hands folded in prayer.
“La Madre de Dio, la Vergine Maria,” answers a deep baritone. Tiny fingers push forward, straining to touch her and somehow absorb some of her love. An older man lifts the child Prince up so that minuscule hands might land on her graceful ones. The dark haired boy, caught up in the earthly trappings of a Prince, feels a golden light settle about him. At that moment he knows God, and he-it-is beautiful.
“Oh, Madre, what am I going to do?” murmured Pietro. It had been three days since he’d made his promise, and in that time he had eaten little and slept less. The stone floor upon which he knelt was cold with the dawn, anchoring his shivering body to the earth as he searched for answers on a spiritual plain. Thin hose and an old doublet, the poorest clothes he had (which was not saying much, considering his family’s place in Florence) were all that protected him from the predawn chill. Before him sat an ornate alter, the statue of the virgin gently placed behind a row of lovingly braided candles. A gold cross, powerful in its simplicity, stared down upon him. This was a small chapel, private and accessible only to the inner family. On this morning, as every morning for the last few days, Pietro had it entirely to himself.
The young Prince was torn inside, stretched a dozen different directions until he thought he must be dying from the strain. On one side was his brother, la famiglia, and his need to keep them safe. He’d promised, and Pietro had never made a promise he didn’t keep. There was also the fact that he was absolutely devoted to Natanaele, who’d kept the family strong even after their parents were taken by disease. Yet at the same time he was filled with a pressing need to aid those unfortunates. He had always been devout in his faith, if not in attending mass. Deep inside he felt strongly that the strange compulsion he had to help the wretched was a holy one, given to him by the Virgin Mary when he’d first felt her love all those years ago. How could he deny such an urging when it came from the heavens themselves?
Added into this mix was a healthy dose of fear. The Inquisition was coming. Natanaele’s power-the Petrelli family name- would keep them safe, of this he was sure. But the thought of knowing that it was in his city, his Florence, filled Pietro with dread. Despite his piety Pietro could not understand the need for such a vicious and spiteful tribunal. He would not believe that God had ordained such a thing. To accept that would be to lose his faith.
Outside a bell rang, announcing the arrival of the sun. Pietro stood, ignoring the creaking of knees stiff from kneeling. He had prayed all
night, searching for answers that never came. It was time to take a break.
~
Had Claude the patience for such things, he might have noticed that God had blessed Florence with the perfect weather: warm, balmy air, a bright sun high in the clear blue sky, smiling down upon Florence’s citizen’s with elegance and joy. Had he been the man he had once been he would have smiled and shared his scrap of bread with the rangy looking old man lurking on the corner of the poorest market in the city. But the Claude who roamed invisibly amongst spread out blankets and rickety tables was very different from that kind and benevolent memory. Now he ate food fit only for dogs, and called the mad and the destitute his neighbors. This Claude wore a scowl most of the time and kept his wisdom and empathy locked away where they could not hurt him. Ignoring the cries of red faced farmers and skeletal men hawking their second, third, and fourth hand wares he pushed through the crowd with little thought to those in his way. After all, he was invisible. They’d forget their pains when they couldn’t find what had moved them.
He almost sniggered as he pocketed a rotting turnip, though whether at himself or the equally pathetic woman standing behind the stall he didn’t know. Finally he came to the end of the street. Deciding he’d stolen enough to last him the day, Claude turned and began the filthy journey to the street corner he now called home.
A blazing sun seemed like a less of a blessing to those such as Claude who had to tread through rapidly heating filth to get where they were going. The stench down in the slums, a mixture of human waste and death, was almost unbearable in the heat. Claude breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted the abandoned, crumbled building he’d chosen as his temporary shelter.
Unfortunately his respite was short lived. He reached the pile of rubbish that acted as a door, thinking fondly of the shade inside, only to realize that something was wrong. Instantly his body tensed, ready for a fight if need be. With uttermost caution Claude put his eye to a crack in the tan stone wall to the right of the door. A smirk broke across his face. It was only another beggar, taking the opportunity to steal Claude’s spot while he was out scavenging. Well, that was easy enough to take care of. Claude turned, meaning to put his stolen food behind a rock so that he could give the interloper a deserved thrashing. Something caught the corner of his eye, however, and he froze.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered under his breath. There was the same young fop that had pestered him several nights ago. He still had his ridiculous basket tucked beneath his arm, though his clothes were now ragged and unremarkable and a hood was pulled tightly about his face. Still, Claude could recognize the steps of a noble from miles away. Lacking the stamina to deal with the idiot’s charity, Claude crouched down to observe him, thanking providence for the invisibility that still shrouded him from his venture into the market.
The boy was acting peculiarly. He was looking about, almost as though he were searching for something. Claude sneered. What could a rich child want with the castoffs of Florence? As the boy turned his face towards Claude’s corner the older man caught a glimpse of what lay beneath the hood- pale skin stretched tightly across aristocratic cheekbones, dark eyes haunted by some strange mixture of yearning and despair. A pang of pity resonated through Claude’s chest before he quickly banished the feeling. What a fool, to feel pity for someone else, when he himself was so utterly wretched. He shifted slightly, bringing his thumb down into a particularly rotten spot on his stolen turnip. It seemed that the universe was echoing his sentiments.
Heart hardened, he turned his attention back to the boy only to see- but no, that wasn’t possible. The dull thud of his pulse grew loud in
his ears as it happened again. The boy was flickering. Turning invisible, just as he himself could, though the stupid chit didn’t seem to realize what was going on. He just stood there, flitting in and out of visibility while staring at Claude’s corner. Mind racing with paranoia and not a little fear, Claude quickly stood. All thoughts of his stolen food were banished from his brain as he approached the fool standing in the road.
~
Pietro had seen an opportunity for some closure that morning, when his brother announced that he was going to tour the Woolens Guild and would not be home for three days. He’d quickly borrowed some of the old servant’s clothes that they had saved to use as rags, throwing them upon his lean form with reckless abandon. An old cloak went over that, complete with hood, and Pietro was ready.
As he crept out of the Petrelli family estate and made his way to the slums, Pietro rationalized his actions. He’d only promised that he’d not go to places that were beneath him, and to someone as virtuous as the young Prince, such places did not exist. Guilt and indecision still plagued his heart, but he realized that he needed to visit the slums one last time. They deserved a farewell if nothing else. The journey was long and unpleasant as the sun beat down upon him, heating his body as well as the increasingly large piles of refuse which littered the streets. Finally he reached his destination, stopping once or twice to give out some of the bread he carried under his arms.
There were memories in these poor and wretched places. Each corner, every archway reminded him of some particularly grateful old woman, or a poor young boy who’d grinned at him cheekily upon receiving his gift. There had lived a former blacksmith, robbed of his life savings and forced to revert to slum life, with whom Pietro had talked for almost an hour. There was a young man who’d almost bled to death from a knife wound, saved by Pietro’s bandages and joyful spirit. There had once been the home of a mother whom he’d comforted upon discovering that her child had only just passed away. Such memories brought fresh pain to Pietro’s heart, for they reminded him of all the good he could yet do if he could only bring himself to lie, fetch danger upon his family, betray his word.
Eventually Pietro paused, staring at one dilapidated street corner upon which rested an equally dying building. It would have been undistinguishable from the other hundreds of crossroads he’d passed that day if not for the man he’d met there but a few nights ago. Sadness welled in Pietro’s chest as he recalled the man’s despair and the anger that was eating him up inside. If only he’d been able to help, to somehow-
A snarled curse in a foreign tongue fell in tandem with a heavy mass upon the back of his head. Blackness enveloped the young Prince as he dropped leaden to the filthy street. His last thoughts before the rushing emptiness consumed him were a mad swirl of confusion, dread, and his brother’s stern face.
~
Title: The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love: A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy (Entry 2)
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: pg 13 so far.
Warnings/Spoilers: none
Summary: By the time the 1400's rolled about, Italy existed primarily as five major city states, one of them being Florence. This is a story about a Prince of that esteemed and powerful city, Pietro Petrelli, and Claude Raines. Other Heroes characters will play prominent roles.
Installment 2, peeps. Pietro and Natanaele have a talk, a Danger is revealed, Claude gets cranky, powers begin to pop up. Also, the Catholic Church and hints of power plays...read away.
Note: Not meaning to offend any Catholics (or anyone else, for that matter).
PLUS here's a link to Installment I, if ya missed that sucker.
~~~~~
The Inherent Dangers of Pity and Love:
A Plaude fic of 15th century Italy
Installment II
~
As Pietro had expected, Natanaele was furious. When he’d returned home, night already falling deeply upon the candle-lit estates of Florence, his brother had been waiting for him. Though he was twenty two he felt like a young milksop under Natanaele’s glare. The older man, garbed in a dark velvet cioppa which fell in thick folds down to his knees, met his brother before a roaring fire in their beautiful, fresco-rich dining room.
“Pietro,” Natanaele began, and the younger man winced at his tone. “You are far too old to be doing this...this...poor work.” The words slipped from his cultured mouth like poison. “Leave the beggars to the priests and the women. You should be studying, helping me with our wool trade. Mio Dio, I would even prefer it if you were painting.” Natanaele’s stern face, with its square jaw and penetrating eyes, bore a slight expression of disgust. This alone might have left Pietro trembling, for his powerful brother rarely let any emotions show.
A powerful hand reached up to cup Pietro’s young, angular face, undermining the older man’s apparent coldness. The brothers were very close, and Natanaele had to work to deny his brother anything. The gesture gave Pietro courage.
“But, Natanaele, I have to. I need to!” He sighed as Natanaele’s face grew stony and unmovable, a bad sign. The hand which had rested upon his cheek and bore the ruby Petrelli family crest dropped back to Natanaele’s side. “Please, mio fratello, understand.” His eyes blazed with desperation as he pressed on, ignoring the ice he felt emanating from his older brother. “They have no one, nobody, and I just want to-”
“Enough.” With a wave of his hand Natanaele cut off Pietro’s pleading. “Enough, Pietro. It is one thing for Clara to go out and be generous. She is young, and a woman. Charity is a useful quality in a bride. But you,” he continued, ignoring the heartrending anguish which pooled in Pietro’s eyes, “you are a Prince of Florence. Such actions make you appear weak, and your weakness is the family’s weakness. I cannot have that, do you understand?” Natanaele sighed and brought strong fingers up to massage his temples. “You are sheltered, and I blame myself for that. But you cannot ignore the political situation any longer.” Pietro looked as though he were about to interrupt again, but Natanaele spoke before he had the chance. “Brother, sit down,” the imposing figure commanded, and Pietro took a seat in one of the plush chairs that stood on either side of the crackling fireplace.
“There is trouble in the church,” he continued, staring at Pietro down a strong Roman nose. “Dissenters are beginning to speak up against it, and this makes the Pope very nervous. And when the Pope is nervous, the Princes of Italy grow afraid. Despite all their bravado, all the new learning which has spread throughout Italy, the Church is still a threat to their power. ” He gave his brother his back as he contemplated the fire, wondering privately how much to reveal to the naive young man before him. “Added to this worry are dangerous rumors.” He shook his head, staring at the snapping branches in the hearth.
“The Inquisition is coming to Florence, Pietro.”
The young Italian gasped. He was naive, yes, but not so naive that he didn’t know how dangerous the Inquisition could be. He’d read horror stories of its actions all his life. Those who threatened the power of the church went before its unforgiving council, and most did not return. It was terrible, harsh judgment, where the lucky ended up strangled and the unfortunate burned alive. Natanaele watched his brother’s face closely, looking for a sign as to how far to proceed. It brought pain to Natanaele to see such worry upon his brother’s face, for the boy was innocent (so painfully and carefully innocent and he’d do anything, anything to protect that), but there was little choice. He would not allow his brother’s pity to become the rope from which the other Princes would tie their noose.
“But...why did I not know?” Pietro’s query was understandable. Usually the Inquisition operated in a loud, blustering manner, leaving a wake of fiery deaths in its path. It was hard to be subtle about burning men alive, after all. So a man would think if he knew no better. Those with the right connections understood that in reality the church was a cunning and sly beast. Its bloody scare-tactics were only to fool its followers, to catch them in a net of fear and screen the clandestine workings of the church from their eyes. A few saw past this curtain. Natanaele, holding tradition with the powerful Petrelli legacy, was one of them, unlike his brother who was far removed enough from politics that he was completely unaware.
“There are many things that you do not know,” was Natanaele’s only reply. His voice was gentle, taking any reprimand out of his words. Yet in the time it took to blink he had grown stern as stone once again. “Now promise me, Pietro. Promise that you will not venture to places below your station!” Pietro, weakened by shock and fear, agreed. Natanaele’s smile was soft in response. “Bene. You may go.” A heavy hand lingered upon Pietro’s shoulder for a moment, giving comfort as his brother dismissed him. Pietro allowed himself to absorb some of Natanaele’s strength before rising. Two swift kisses upon the older man’s cheeks, soft lips meeting rough skin, and Pietro was gone. Natanaele sighed, exhausted by his harsh words. Night closed in upon him as he stood before the dancing flames, wondering what else he had to do to keep the world’s most elegant vultures at bay.
~
“Who is that, padre?” Soft hands pointing to a statue of a woman. She is beautiful, a serene expression highlighting her face. A cowl falls about her shoulders, revealing only that loving smile and gentle hands folded in prayer.
“La Madre de Dio, la Vergine Maria,” answers a deep baritone. Tiny fingers push forward, straining to touch her and somehow absorb some of her love. An older man lifts the child Prince up so that minuscule hands might land on her graceful ones. The dark haired boy, caught up in the earthly trappings of a Prince, feels a golden light settle about him. At that moment he knows God, and he-it-is beautiful.
“Oh, Madre, what am I going to do?” murmured Pietro. It had been three days since he’d made his promise, and in that time he had eaten little and slept less. The stone floor upon which he knelt was cold with the dawn, anchoring his shivering body to the earth as he searched for answers on a spiritual plain. Thin hose and an old doublet, the poorest clothes he had (which was not saying much, considering his family’s place in Florence) were all that protected him from the predawn chill. Before him sat an ornate alter, the statue of the virgin gently placed behind a row of lovingly braided candles. A gold cross, powerful in its simplicity, stared down upon him. This was a small chapel, private and accessible only to the inner family. On this morning, as every morning for the last few days, Pietro had it entirely to himself.
The young Prince was torn inside, stretched a dozen different directions until he thought he must be dying from the strain. On one side was his brother, la famiglia, and his need to keep them safe. He’d promised, and Pietro had never made a promise he didn’t keep. There was also the fact that he was absolutely devoted to Natanaele, who’d kept the family strong even after their parents were taken by disease. Yet at the same time he was filled with a pressing need to aid those unfortunates. He had always been devout in his faith, if not in attending mass. Deep inside he felt strongly that the strange compulsion he had to help the wretched was a holy one, given to him by the Virgin Mary when he’d first felt her love all those years ago. How could he deny such an urging when it came from the heavens themselves?
Added into this mix was a healthy dose of fear. The Inquisition was coming. Natanaele’s power-the Petrelli family name- would keep them safe, of this he was sure. But the thought of knowing that it was in his city, his Florence, filled Pietro with dread. Despite his piety Pietro could not understand the need for such a vicious and spiteful tribunal. He would not believe that God had ordained such a thing. To accept that would be to lose his faith.
Outside a bell rang, announcing the arrival of the sun. Pietro stood, ignoring the creaking of knees stiff from kneeling. He had prayed all
night, searching for answers that never came. It was time to take a break.
~
Had Claude the patience for such things, he might have noticed that God had blessed Florence with the perfect weather: warm, balmy air, a bright sun high in the clear blue sky, smiling down upon Florence’s citizen’s with elegance and joy. Had he been the man he had once been he would have smiled and shared his scrap of bread with the rangy looking old man lurking on the corner of the poorest market in the city. But the Claude who roamed invisibly amongst spread out blankets and rickety tables was very different from that kind and benevolent memory. Now he ate food fit only for dogs, and called the mad and the destitute his neighbors. This Claude wore a scowl most of the time and kept his wisdom and empathy locked away where they could not hurt him. Ignoring the cries of red faced farmers and skeletal men hawking their second, third, and fourth hand wares he pushed through the crowd with little thought to those in his way. After all, he was invisible. They’d forget their pains when they couldn’t find what had moved them.
He almost sniggered as he pocketed a rotting turnip, though whether at himself or the equally pathetic woman standing behind the stall he didn’t know. Finally he came to the end of the street. Deciding he’d stolen enough to last him the day, Claude turned and began the filthy journey to the street corner he now called home.
A blazing sun seemed like a less of a blessing to those such as Claude who had to tread through rapidly heating filth to get where they were going. The stench down in the slums, a mixture of human waste and death, was almost unbearable in the heat. Claude breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted the abandoned, crumbled building he’d chosen as his temporary shelter.
Unfortunately his respite was short lived. He reached the pile of rubbish that acted as a door, thinking fondly of the shade inside, only to realize that something was wrong. Instantly his body tensed, ready for a fight if need be. With uttermost caution Claude put his eye to a crack in the tan stone wall to the right of the door. A smirk broke across his face. It was only another beggar, taking the opportunity to steal Claude’s spot while he was out scavenging. Well, that was easy enough to take care of. Claude turned, meaning to put his stolen food behind a rock so that he could give the interloper a deserved thrashing. Something caught the corner of his eye, however, and he froze.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered under his breath. There was the same young fop that had pestered him several nights ago. He still had his ridiculous basket tucked beneath his arm, though his clothes were now ragged and unremarkable and a hood was pulled tightly about his face. Still, Claude could recognize the steps of a noble from miles away. Lacking the stamina to deal with the idiot’s charity, Claude crouched down to observe him, thanking providence for the invisibility that still shrouded him from his venture into the market.
The boy was acting peculiarly. He was looking about, almost as though he were searching for something. Claude sneered. What could a rich child want with the castoffs of Florence? As the boy turned his face towards Claude’s corner the older man caught a glimpse of what lay beneath the hood- pale skin stretched tightly across aristocratic cheekbones, dark eyes haunted by some strange mixture of yearning and despair. A pang of pity resonated through Claude’s chest before he quickly banished the feeling. What a fool, to feel pity for someone else, when he himself was so utterly wretched. He shifted slightly, bringing his thumb down into a particularly rotten spot on his stolen turnip. It seemed that the universe was echoing his sentiments.
Heart hardened, he turned his attention back to the boy only to see- but no, that wasn’t possible. The dull thud of his pulse grew loud in
his ears as it happened again. The boy was flickering. Turning invisible, just as he himself could, though the stupid chit didn’t seem to realize what was going on. He just stood there, flitting in and out of visibility while staring at Claude’s corner. Mind racing with paranoia and not a little fear, Claude quickly stood. All thoughts of his stolen food were banished from his brain as he approached the fool standing in the road.
~
Pietro had seen an opportunity for some closure that morning, when his brother announced that he was going to tour the Woolens Guild and would not be home for three days. He’d quickly borrowed some of the old servant’s clothes that they had saved to use as rags, throwing them upon his lean form with reckless abandon. An old cloak went over that, complete with hood, and Pietro was ready.
As he crept out of the Petrelli family estate and made his way to the slums, Pietro rationalized his actions. He’d only promised that he’d not go to places that were beneath him, and to someone as virtuous as the young Prince, such places did not exist. Guilt and indecision still plagued his heart, but he realized that he needed to visit the slums one last time. They deserved a farewell if nothing else. The journey was long and unpleasant as the sun beat down upon him, heating his body as well as the increasingly large piles of refuse which littered the streets. Finally he reached his destination, stopping once or twice to give out some of the bread he carried under his arms.
There were memories in these poor and wretched places. Each corner, every archway reminded him of some particularly grateful old woman, or a poor young boy who’d grinned at him cheekily upon receiving his gift. There had lived a former blacksmith, robbed of his life savings and forced to revert to slum life, with whom Pietro had talked for almost an hour. There was a young man who’d almost bled to death from a knife wound, saved by Pietro’s bandages and joyful spirit. There had once been the home of a mother whom he’d comforted upon discovering that her child had only just passed away. Such memories brought fresh pain to Pietro’s heart, for they reminded him of all the good he could yet do if he could only bring himself to lie, fetch danger upon his family, betray his word.
Eventually Pietro paused, staring at one dilapidated street corner upon which rested an equally dying building. It would have been undistinguishable from the other hundreds of crossroads he’d passed that day if not for the man he’d met there but a few nights ago. Sadness welled in Pietro’s chest as he recalled the man’s despair and the anger that was eating him up inside. If only he’d been able to help, to somehow-
A snarled curse in a foreign tongue fell in tandem with a heavy mass upon the back of his head. Blackness enveloped the young Prince as he dropped leaden to the filthy street. His last thoughts before the rushing emptiness consumed him were a mad swirl of confusion, dread, and his brother’s stern face.
~