Cataline & Cristofolo - Me & You

[palabrasnecias]

Who: Cristo and Cataline
When: after this
Where: Sabreme mansion
Rating & Warnings: G

Mood musiccc because I can.

Cristofolo shut his ledger and pulled off his gloves. They were fraying at the tips, worn and threadbare, and it was a relief to finally cast them aside. He had no more reason to wear them. Everyone knew. He set them atop each other beside his ledger and rose from his chair, steps slow and deliberate to his door and out into the hallway.

Whatever fear, apprehension, or horror he felt at having to face his mother like this was irrelevant, he tried to convince himself. There was nothing he could do now; he'd made his choice. He'd written the words. He took the staircase and felt the eyes of the servants on him; he looked up to meet their stares before he continued on. He'd gathered them all the night of Myron's speech, down in the entrance hall, and told them what he'd told Tyrol. He was a werewolf, but they were not in danger; he was Cristofolo, would always be, and they had nothing to fear from him. So far only two had left; most had been with the Sabremes since he was a boy and wouldn't leave no matter what became of him. He was grateful for it. If he'd had less loyal servants...

He shook the thought from his head and gripped the door handle to the study - it was startling to see his own claws in broad daylight - and after he took a deep breath, he turned it and went inside.

"Mother."

What had he done? What had he done?

Cataline was sick to her stomach with a mixture of fear and anguish; the idea of confronting him after she'd read his words had nearly driven her to vomit. She'd harboured and protected and loved a monster. A monster who had placed them all in danger by telling the world what he was. Already she had heard whispers that this was her doing, her strange foreign blood infecting the line. Already she knew the Sabremes to be gathering, ready to dethrone him. Who would marry his sister? Who would marry him? Who would lend their allegiance if another was to put their name forward for the next head of the family? If the riots came again, would any of them be safe? How could any of them show their faces in the Citadel again? What would she do without the support of her religion?

But Vida was correct. Between her god and her son there was no contest. Or there shouldn't be. There was still the little voice in her head which told her that cutting his throat in the night and giving Sena's hand to some cousin would be the best way out of this and when that voice spoke for more than a second inside her head she felt like vomiting all over again. No.

She turned, surprised as he opened the door and her eyes fell upon his claws and she shook. She had held those hands when he had been a child, felt them grip her fingers when he had been a baby, marvelled at their strength and dexterity every time he'd placed her hands in his. She had promised herself that she would not be weak but his hands, his beautiful hands with their ten perfect digits, the fingers that had touched her face, held her arm, squeezed her fingers, now transformed into this-

Her eyes filled with tears and began to spill down her cheeks. Her child had been transformed into a monster. Her poor child, her poor, poor boy.

He froze. His mother didn't often cry; often she looked on the verge of tears, more sorrowful than he could stomach, but rarely did he see her break. To watch her crumble now shook him deeply. She'd stared at his hands. He should've kept the gloves on, he thought, but another part of him insisted it was for the best. She would see them eventually. There was no hiding anymore.

Cautiously, he drew closer. "Mother," he said in Spanish, hoping it would calm her. "I'm--" A thousand possible endings to that sentence swarmed in his head, but all he could say was, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I lied. I didn't-- I didn't want to hurt you. I'm so sorry..."

She went to him, despite the voice which screamed internally and demanded she take a step back, turn back time somehow, unsee the claws he now owned instead of - oh Cita. She forced herself to take them, gripping one in each hand, and they were so strange and different beneath her skin that she found herself crying harder. "Who did this to you?" She demanded between sobs. "Who did this?!"

His first reaction was to jerk his hands away; they tightened and flexed, ready, but at her sobs he relaxed them. Who--? His thoughts went to the wolf sleeping in his room, and for the first time he was afraid for Jack. "The last night of the Fest," he said, voice strained. "I went down an alley on the way home. A wolf was waiting. It- it bit me." Cristofolo swallowed and looked down at his hands when he couldn't stand to see the grief in his mother's face anymore.

"I have been this way since." He couldn't tell her about Jack. Couldn't. She'd blame him. Rightfully, yes, but his resentment towards what the other wolf had done to him was long since past, and whatever punishment he ought to suffer for it was Cristofolo's right to give, and his alone. Swallowing, he forced himself to meet her eyes. "I am not so different. You-- You never noticed."

She had noticed he had changed, no longer taking meals, going on long trips. Cataline shook her head and turned away, covering her face. She had to compose herself, she had to look at him again, but the heels of her hands fit so well over her eyes and from there it was only too easy to hunch over, protected from the sight of her son the monster by her forearms and hands. "Why didn't you tell me," she managed after a moment.

"I didn't know how you'd react," he said softly. His mother couldn't even look at him. The others - Arman, Maire, Adelle, none of them had reacted his violently. He'd harboured a small hope that his mother would be the same. "I was scared. I didn't know what- what would happen." He drew a deep breath.

"I know what I've done," he said, lightly taking his mother by the arms. He wanted to hold her, but he couldn't bear it if she screamed or wrestled away. His hands shook nervously. "I know, I know the others are waiting to strike. I won't let them. I won't let them hurt you or Sena. The King is sympathetic to what Myron wrote; Arman told me himself that I had his support. They will not let us be harmed. I won't let us be harmed." Look at me, he thought desperately. "Please. We'll be alright."

"They are going to attack us," she told him, opening her fingers so she could look at him from between them. "Arman could not protect your father! The king cannot shield us from a knife in the night!"

Vida supported them. She would remember that. Vida, kind, loving Vida. She took a deep breath. Why had he decided to reveal it to all of Tyrol at once? "What are we going to do?" She asked again, trying to keep herself from crying. What had he done?

"I can," he snapped back, a growl in his voice. "I can smell them. So can--" Jack. He couldn't keep up the fiction of 'Rom' anymore. His mother wasn't stupid; she'd realize. He would have to find Jack and tell him... tell him to leave. His stomach turned with guilt; Jack wouldn't leave, not easily, no matter how much Cristofolo told him he was in danger by staying. His eyes lowered, and Cristofolo hesitated before taking a different track.

"I have other ways now. Of protecting us. If they want to hurt us they will have to kill me first, and it won't be easy." He drew back his sleeve and sliced a claw across his forearm; blood spilled out, fast at first, then slower as the wound visibly began to seal. It closed in only a few seconds. Cristofolo looked back to his mother. "I can't fall ill. I can heal. I can become a wolf the size of a man. I am not--" Guilt drew his mouth into a grimace before he said quietly, "I am not a man dying in his bed. They will not kill me like they killed him."

Please, he thought. Please believe me.

"Oh," she managed thickly, taking a step back. Every pro he listed took him further and further away from human in her eyes. "Please," she managed, eyeing her feet. "Leave me, for just a few moments."

Perhaps here, in the seat of her husband's empire, she could come to terms with what her son had become. She needed to think. She needed his mind to guide her, even now after he was gone. She needed his strength, needed it desperately. "Please, let me be alone."

Some of the fervor in his eyes faded, and Cristofolo stared helplessly, resigned, at his mother. He wondered if this was how Jack had felt. What he had was a gift, a shield, a power he could use to help them. All his mother saw was... what? A monster. A stranger. After a moment, he lowered his eyes and nodded. "As you wish. I'll be... outside."

She was frightened of him. The way she looked at him; it wasn't the way she'd looked at him before. Now it was wary, horrified. It was not, he realized - and the blow of it was enough to make his throat tighten - the look a mother gave her son. His hands fell to his sides, and he left her without another word, the door clicking shut quietly behind him.

The Hour had spoken of their werewolf as uncontrollable, mindless. Cataline pressed her forehead against the window as she tried to think clearly, the cool glass soothing. Had her son, her child killed people? With those claws?

Through sheer will power, she forced herself to stop crying, swallowing back the lump in her throat. She could not wash her face here, but she scrubbed at it with her skirts, glad there was nobody around to see.

And then she slipped into her husband's chair, taking his place behind the desk. "Come back in," she called and was pleased to find her voice no longer quavered. Here, she could be as strong as she needed. This place, where her husband had made so many deals, done so much, it would lend her some of his strength and wisdom.

He'd wondered if she was going to call him back in at all; he started when he heard her voice, and he turned and opened the door to step back inside. His mother sat in his father's chair - his chair, now. She looked calmer, but whether that was in his favor or not was hard to determine.

Cristofolo wet his lips and lowered his eyes, then glanced back up as he waited for her to speak.

"Sit down," she told him, gesturing to the chair in front of the desk. She wouldn't break down again, but this wouldn't be easy for either of them. "We need to discuss the future of this family. Together."

Some people might be accepting of what he was, but so many others were violently opposed. They could never show their faces in the Citadel again; likely as not people would begin to refuse to deal with them and there would be calls for them to be banished. Throwing in with Myron seemed best, but he was untested, untried. "What do you believe is our best course of action?"

He sat, clawed hands restless and scratching slowly against the armrests as he considered his answer. "We have nothing to fear, I think, from the other Houses," Cristofolo said slowly. "Myron is right. The Citadel is vulnerable without the Duchess to shield it. My Uncle has always been sympathetic towards the Hour; if he agrees to what Myron asks, none of the Houses will dare act. They don't have the power. Aronine's army is the King's now. The Vaux will not draw blades against us. The Bercators are extinguished, or nearly so. The Evandroses are either with the Hour or the King, and Naevin with the Hour.

The rest of our family," he admitted, frowning, "Will try to depose me, or kill me. They will have a hard time with both. If Ishmael gives me the right to retain my title, which I believe he will, they will have to think of a new reason to disinherit me... one that they haven't tried already. I believe our best course of action is to continue as we have been. If we show that we are frightened of what may happen, they will feed on that fear. If we show them we are not afraid, they will fear us. Or," Cristofolo smiled grimly, "Fear me. We will lose some patrons, but not many, I think. Whatever I am, we are powerful, we are rich. They will not find our coin elsewhere; they will have to choose between starving on a smaller commission or swallowing their pride and taking ours."

He drew a slow breath then and looked at his mother. He tried to hide the earnestness in his eyes, the worry, and he asked, "What are your thoughts?"

"I think you are correct," she told him, voice quiet. "But if I have learned one thing in my life, it is that religion stirs destructive fires within people as well as leading them to salvation." She paused, placing her hands flat on the desk and staring at the joints in her fingers. "The Duchess is gone, but the Cancellari must be watched carefully. No doubt they will single you out, as the," she paused briefly, "Other with the greatest power. They are influential. We must watch for them. Further riots may also target you, or our property."

She stopped again, looking at the table. "We have strong ties to other houses. We may need to marry Sena off to one of them, to cement them." She privately doubted his overview of the families. Vida Aronine was her friend, but at least one of her sisters was a zealous follower of Cita. "Your position as nephew to the king may offer some protection yet, from both the major and minor noble families."

Cristofolo nodded, frown troubled. He'd not considered the possibility of more riots; he had no doubt his mother was right in saying that their home would be one of the first targeted. The threat of the Cancellari concerned him more. They'd killed Others openly already without remorse; how much would Ishmael's decree stop them, if it stopped them at all? They answered to the Occia, to Cita; they could decide themselves above Royal law. He'd considered himself a Civitate for years, though his faith had never been as strong as he would've liked; he'd stopped praying altogether after that first full moon. Cita would not want to listen to a creature such as him that murdered once a week for food.

"Yes," he agreed, hands still flexing restlessly against the arms of the chair. He wanted to pace, but he wasn't sure if the action would frighten his mother. "To who?" Who was the greatest threat that could be mollified with an alliance?

"Vida Aronine's sister is a zealot, who would oppose us if given a chance. The Bercator are weak, but have ties to the underworld we could use. They appear to be our best options." Unless they married poor Sena off to one of the Sabreme sharks. "There are minor nobles also. Or even a brother or relative of a Cancellari, perhaps."

Cataline sighed, looking up at her son. If she didn't look at his claws, she could pretend that he was still her child, still perfect, still human. "This is your choice. You are the Lord now."

Her words startled him; he'd not expected his mother to confirm his title so soon after she'd been sobbing, unable to look at him.

"No," he said slowly, shaking his head. "Putting her within reach of the Cancellari would be too dangerous. They would see her as a hostage, not a peace offering." The Bercators... he didn't know much of the strain of the family that had recently come to Tyrol. But, if they did have ties to the underworld, he doubted they had strong ties to the Citadel, and those with few morals were always easier to bribe.

"Lennox Bercator has three sons," Cristofolo murmured. "All of an age for Sena." The eldest, Quinn, would be their best hope. Sena was young and beautiful, a maiden still, and cunning enough to keep even a Southern Lord happy and entertained. He looked up at his mother again. It was frustrating to still feel that yearn for approval, waiting to see her nod or the small smile that indicated he'd done well. He wondered if he'd see it again. "I will speak to the Lady Bercator-" Who, by all accounts, wasn't much of a Lady, "About Sena's prospects." They had no shortage of gold to sweeten the deal, if it proved necessary. Cristofolo tried not to let his exhaustion show in his expression; he wondered how long it would be before he'd be able to have even a half night's sleep.

Cataline nodded, pleased with her son's decision. Had it only been an hour ago that she'd been hiding from him, afraid of what he would tell her? She wanted to slump back into the chair, relieved. "The Bercator, then. Good choice."

She stood and crossed the floor, placing a hand on his shoulder briefly as she left. She paused before reaching the door, turning. "Myron. Do you believe we should publicly lend gold and men to support his cause?"

Her touch meant more than she realized; as soon as she turned away he let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, relief washing over him so intensely that he could feel his throat tightening. When she spoke again, he looked up.

"Yes," he said after a long silence, blinking quickly to hide how wet his eyes felt. "It is what I hoped to do. To help. My name and my--" Were they really his? "My resources." He swallowed. "I want to help them." Them, Others, not 'us'. Not in front of his mother.

"Then we shall do it." Even if he had decided against it, she would have done it behind his back. Myron's way was the best for families like her own. The Citadel wished to destroy her son - she would never see them win this fight. She had given Cristofolo life; even if he became the mindless monster the Hour described, she would not see that life taken by some bloodthirsty and unthinking Cancellari. "I need to speak to Sena about her potential marriage. If you're at dinner, I will see you then."

"I will." Cristofolo hesitated, then said, "Thank you. I'm sorry. I love you."

Cataline paused at the doorway and looked back at him, feeling something unnameable rise up in her chest. "I love you too," she half-whispered, then opened the door and left.