'Victor' : Leonardo/Salai, G
Title: Victor
Author: Capella
Fandom: Renaissance Art
Pairing: Leonardo/Salai
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Real characters, my imagined version of events.
Note: Written in about 80 minutes for the 'Death' challenge.
Summary: So the old man is dead...
Victor
So the old man is dead, and at last I know it as a certainty, rather than having to wake up every morning wondering. Two men brought me the news this evening. Somebody must have told them it was urgent - they came directly from the city gates and arrived exhausted. I'm supposed to be living like a gentleman here, so I had to invite them to sit and take some wine, although I’d rather have been alone.
It came as no great surprise, of course. All through the last winter I spent with him it seemed clear that he couldn't hold on much longer. There were whispers all over the house to that effect. When he announced that it was time for me to leave Amboise, I realised that he knew it himself.
I try not to resent him for sending me away. He probably believed that he was doing me a service by sparing me the end. "You have given me all the years of your youth, Salai," he said. "I must not take your manhood as well." A dozen years ago I would have made the obvious jest, that it was far too late to worry about that, and enjoyed his laughter, his delight at my brazen earthiness. Seeing him then, so frail and yet so resolute, I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Nor could I challenge his words, although I knew they masked the truth. He may have been the world's great genius, but he was often unaware of his own motives in such matters. Perhaps for him ignorance was the less painful option.
I understood why he wanted me to go, if he couldn’t admit it to himself. For all these years I’ve been more to him than servant, student, lover, companion. I was a symbol, his emblem of spirited youth. It wasn't always an easy expectation to meet. He needed to believe that I would be happy after he had gone, perhaps raising children of my own; and he didn’t want the memory of him that lived on in me to be that of an old, dying man.
It's true that there were problems back in Milan that I couldn't ignore, and easy profits to be made here in Paris. But had I the will, I could have found a man to speak for me in those domestic disputes. The rest of the business could have waited. The fact is, I knew that what he said was right, whether it was the whole story or not. I was tired of the stench of sickness and it was time for me to live a life of my own. So, after twenty-eight years at his side, I allowed myself to be persuaded. I’ve nobody but myself to blame for that.
I didn't leave him alone when I set out to make my way in the world. Francesco stayed with him, naturally. Sweet Francesco, the perfect little gentleman, with his delicate hands and mournful eyes! I can picture him all too well, hovering like an anxious shadow by the Master's bedside, and weeping like a girl at his passing. What will he do now that the light of his life has been extinguished?
Whatever my faults, I’m no glib-mouthed hypocrite, and I won't pretend to feel much sorrow for Francesco in his loss. There has never been any love between us. I despised him as an upstart from the first, and many months passed before I could admit that he had any redeeming qualities at all. Eventually I came to know some of his finer points - skin like smooth cream and the firmest arse this side of the Alps, for example - rather well, though only under the piercing gaze of our master. His body may have failed him, but he never lost his love of spectacle, nor his gift for staging it. Even his ingenuity, however, was not enough to turn rivals like Francesco and myself into friends.
So Francesco stayed, and I left, but he is not the victor. The proof of his defeat lies before me, set out in fine script on creased parchment. In his place I wouldn’t have sent the letter, but he, adhering as he does to his ludicrous code of honour, couldn’t fail to keep a promise to a dying man.
He asked for you at the end, when his mind was clear, Francesco writes. If I look closely, I can see the tremor in his hand. And he bade me assure you that, though you are far from his sight, his love has never wavered.
One day I might derive some satisfaction from my victory. Right now, as I fold the letter and stow it carefully in the coffer, my eyes are damp and there’s an ache in my chest. For months I’ve known this moment was coming; that doesn't mean I'm adequately prepared for it. Nonetheless I must find some words to say, if I'm to have any sleep tonight.
Farewell then, Leonardo, my master, teacher and friend. Had you not infected me with your own doubts, I might imagine you now at God's right hand in some happy afterlife. As it is, deprived of such certainty, I can only offer a wish, and hope that it’s not too late for you to hear it.
May the questions that have haunted you be answered, and may you at last find peace.
Author: Capella
Fandom: Renaissance Art
Pairing: Leonardo/Salai
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Real characters, my imagined version of events.
Note: Written in about 80 minutes for the 'Death' challenge.
Summary: So the old man is dead...
Victor
So the old man is dead, and at last I know it as a certainty, rather than having to wake up every morning wondering. Two men brought me the news this evening. Somebody must have told them it was urgent - they came directly from the city gates and arrived exhausted. I'm supposed to be living like a gentleman here, so I had to invite them to sit and take some wine, although I’d rather have been alone.
It came as no great surprise, of course. All through the last winter I spent with him it seemed clear that he couldn't hold on much longer. There were whispers all over the house to that effect. When he announced that it was time for me to leave Amboise, I realised that he knew it himself.
I try not to resent him for sending me away. He probably believed that he was doing me a service by sparing me the end. "You have given me all the years of your youth, Salai," he said. "I must not take your manhood as well." A dozen years ago I would have made the obvious jest, that it was far too late to worry about that, and enjoyed his laughter, his delight at my brazen earthiness. Seeing him then, so frail and yet so resolute, I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Nor could I challenge his words, although I knew they masked the truth. He may have been the world's great genius, but he was often unaware of his own motives in such matters. Perhaps for him ignorance was the less painful option.
I understood why he wanted me to go, if he couldn’t admit it to himself. For all these years I’ve been more to him than servant, student, lover, companion. I was a symbol, his emblem of spirited youth. It wasn't always an easy expectation to meet. He needed to believe that I would be happy after he had gone, perhaps raising children of my own; and he didn’t want the memory of him that lived on in me to be that of an old, dying man.
It's true that there were problems back in Milan that I couldn't ignore, and easy profits to be made here in Paris. But had I the will, I could have found a man to speak for me in those domestic disputes. The rest of the business could have waited. The fact is, I knew that what he said was right, whether it was the whole story or not. I was tired of the stench of sickness and it was time for me to live a life of my own. So, after twenty-eight years at his side, I allowed myself to be persuaded. I’ve nobody but myself to blame for that.
I didn't leave him alone when I set out to make my way in the world. Francesco stayed with him, naturally. Sweet Francesco, the perfect little gentleman, with his delicate hands and mournful eyes! I can picture him all too well, hovering like an anxious shadow by the Master's bedside, and weeping like a girl at his passing. What will he do now that the light of his life has been extinguished?
Whatever my faults, I’m no glib-mouthed hypocrite, and I won't pretend to feel much sorrow for Francesco in his loss. There has never been any love between us. I despised him as an upstart from the first, and many months passed before I could admit that he had any redeeming qualities at all. Eventually I came to know some of his finer points - skin like smooth cream and the firmest arse this side of the Alps, for example - rather well, though only under the piercing gaze of our master. His body may have failed him, but he never lost his love of spectacle, nor his gift for staging it. Even his ingenuity, however, was not enough to turn rivals like Francesco and myself into friends.
So Francesco stayed, and I left, but he is not the victor. The proof of his defeat lies before me, set out in fine script on creased parchment. In his place I wouldn’t have sent the letter, but he, adhering as he does to his ludicrous code of honour, couldn’t fail to keep a promise to a dying man.
He asked for you at the end, when his mind was clear, Francesco writes. If I look closely, I can see the tremor in his hand. And he bade me assure you that, though you are far from his sight, his love has never wavered.
One day I might derive some satisfaction from my victory. Right now, as I fold the letter and stow it carefully in the coffer, my eyes are damp and there’s an ache in my chest. For months I’ve known this moment was coming; that doesn't mean I'm adequately prepared for it. Nonetheless I must find some words to say, if I'm to have any sleep tonight.
Farewell then, Leonardo, my master, teacher and friend. Had you not infected me with your own doubts, I might imagine you now at God's right hand in some happy afterlife. As it is, deprived of such certainty, I can only offer a wish, and hope that it’s not too late for you to hear it.
May the questions that have haunted you be answered, and may you at last find peace.