Chapter Text
The dark-haired boy makes his way over the crest of the hill, his feet dragging in the mud. Around him, the landscape is desolate and grey, the morning perfectly still.
It rained the previous night, the earth soaked with life-giving water. His brother had peered out from the entrance to their tent as it poured down, a sliver of moonlight catching his profile, his eyes fixed up at the clouded sky.
The earth has always been Cain’s domain. He has no shame in working the land, pale hands dark with dirt, caked beneath his fingernails. But Abel prefers his flock, tending to each one gently, always watching the sky as they roam the abundant fields.
He follows his brother obediently, ignoring the feeling of wet dirt in his sandals. Cain looks back at him—he’s always been the younger of the two, always trying to catch up.
“Just a little further now,” he says, and Abel ducks his head, wondering what Cain could have found in these distant fields, so high above the valley they call home.
They reach a clearing then, and Abel sees storm clouds rolling in above them. “Maybe we should go back,” he says hesitatingly, until he sees Cain turn, and something isn’t right.
The rock clutched in Cain’s hand is large and rough-edged, and he rushes at his brother with a fury Abel has never known. His eyes narrow, glimmering darkly as Abel raises his hands above his head to shield himself.
“Stop,” he cries out. “Cain, stop!”
They wrestle in the mud, Abel struggling to find his footing, to tear the rock from Cain’s hands, to flee. His brother bears down upon him with the wrath of an avenging angel, and Abel cries out again and again as the stone makes contact with his head. His blood runs across the ground, mixing together until the earth is stained with it.
A silence falls over the clearing, broken only by Cain’s shallow gasps. The rock drops from his hand, squelching wetly in the mud, and he looks up at the sky. It starts to rain.
“Goodbye, Abel.”
†
Quintilis 79
Caius awakes, shuddering, from a nightmare. He had dreamed of being an old man at the end of his life, body gnarled in pain, awaiting his death. Yet when the blessed darkness had washed over him, he had felt something tethering him to the mortal world.
You will be a restless wanderer on the earth.
That was when Caius’ eyes had snapped open, sitting bolt upright, staring at the frescoed walls of his chamber, thankful it was nothing more than a nightmare. Some believe that dreams portend ill fortune, but he's never been particularly superstitious.
Allowing a slave to present him with a bowl of water, he splashes his face, before lifting his arms to be robed in his toga. It is hemmed with gold thread, perhaps a touch extravagant, but he is Caius Valerius Flavius, and today is a very special day: the public announcement of his father’s will.
Enjoying his breakfast reclined upon a bench, a slave cutting bread and fruit into small pieces, he savours its sweetness, licking honey from his fingers. Judging by the sunlight filtering through the atrium, there is not much time before he’s due at the Forum, but he feels no need to rush; he’s always loved making an entrance.
The group of witnesses are already gathered when he saunters up; among the seven he spots Marcus Aurelius Aquilius, once his father’s ward, dark hair ever-so-slightly mussed by the wind. They had grown up together after Marcus’ parents passed away, but had since taken diverging paths, with Caius prepared to inherit his father’s estate and Marcus joining the army to make a name for himself.
Upon seeing Caius, his father clears his throat. “Now that we are all present, I must admit that I have brought you here for more than the reading of my will.” Caius stiffens; this is not part of the plan.
“I wish to announce to those gathered today that I have adopted Marcus Aurelius Aquilius, a centurion of our great army and my former ward. Henceforth he will be known as Caius Valerius Flavius Aurelianus.” Caius’ eyes dart to Marcus, who gazes at his father—their father—with a well-disciplined calmness.
“Now I shall declare my will. I, Caius Valerius Flavius, bequeath two-thirds of my estate to centurion Caius Valerius Flavius Aurelianus, my adopted son. I bequeath the remaining third to Caius Valerius Flavius, my son.”
The remaining details are drowned out in Caius’ ears, replaced by a shrill ringing as he struggles to grasp the situation. His eyes are fixed on Marcus—he will not, cannot call him by their shared name—as he feels rage building deep inside of him.
He tries to calm it, tries to douse the flame, but cannot help pushing to the front of the group. His father looks at him evenly, watching as Caius’ shoulders shake.
“Why?” he cries out, no longer caring if the entire Forum bears witness to his anger. “Tell me, what have I done for you to deny me my rightful share as your son?”
His father’s eyes are cold. “I have no wish to air our family grievances in public,” he hisses, but squares his shoulders, prepared to announce them regardless. “You have dishonoured our family through your over-frequenting of whorehouses, your excessive indulgences, your lack of discipline, and your inability to lead a responsible and upstanding life.” He pauses, eyes dark with disgust. “I have no doubt that you would squander our family legacy.”
Caius breaks free of the crowd without looking back, running as fast as he can. He doesn’t notice the shocked expression on Marcus’ face, nor the sadness in his eyes as he watches him disappear into the city.
He spends the afternoon in a haze, visiting his three most favoured prostitutes and drinking copious amounts of wine. By the time the sun has fallen beyond the horizon, he’s made his way to a taberna. The wine has done nothing to dull his pain; if anything, he feels more determined than ever, committed to the vengeance he must pursue.
It’s easy enough for him to swipe a knife from the counter when the worker, an old woman, isn’t looking. He drops a couple of coins on the table before heading out into the evening, the last rays of sun still visible upon the clouds.
He makes his way back to the domus with it concealed beneath his toga, folded about him precariously following the afternoon’s activities. Pausing at the door, he’s careful to not make any sound as he stalks through the atrium, towards Marcus’ chamber.
He lingers outside long enough to ascertain that they are alone before pushing the door open. To his surprise, Marcus is writing a letter, a lamp burning on his desk.
“Caius,” he says in surprise, “I was not expecting you.”
Caius grits his teeth, feeling the handle of the knife in his hand. “Brother,” he says, by way of greeting.
Marcus’ eyes are pensive as he takes in Caius’ disheveled appearance, the messy folds of his toga, the wine on his breath. Caius feels the pity radiating off him in waves. No doubt Marcus will take his time to gloat, to rejoice in the inheritance he has stolen.
Before he has a chance to do so, Caius draws the knife and rushes him, aiming for the heart. Marcus gasps, lifting his hands in a futile attempt to shield himself. But Caius’ aim is true, piercing his palms until he feels the sticky mass of flesh and bone through the blade. He doesn’t stop until he can feel Marcus’ pulse, until he’s sure he can hear the beating of his heart growing fainter. He twists the knife, relishing in the resistance and eventual give of the other man’s chest.
Marcus blinks, his face growing pale. His lips are already struggling to form words, though Caius can’t tell if this is the result of shock or blood loss.
“Why…?” he chokes out, his voice barely more than a whisper. Caius doesn’t respond, pulls the knife out instead, blood spurting onto the desk and his toga. Golden thread is stained with red now, Marcus’ eyes growing glassy as his head slumps down to his chest.
He staggers out of the room, and the knife falls noisily to the mosaic tiles. Too late, he sees a slave at the entrance to his father’s quarters. Letting out a horrified shriek, she rushes away, ready to tattle to the master of the house.
Through the adrenaline and alcohol, Caius makes his way to the pool of water at the centre of the atrium, gazing at the elegant tiling on the bottom. The reflection of his face, splattered with blood, smiles bitterly back at him.
†
März 1395
It feels as though he’s floating in the pitch-black, face-up, with no sense of direction or ability to control his movement. This persists for an indeterminate amount of time—it’s hard to discern, in the perfect darkness—until he hears a voice, breaking through the clouds of nothingness.
Sin desires to have you. You must rule over it.
Unable to move, unable to even shake his head, he lies powerless, completely at its mercy.
You will be a restless wanderer on the earth…
When he awakes, he cannot even remember his own name. It comes to him after a few moments, and he blinks away the sleep from his eyes. He is Dietrich, son of the Count of Braunfels, and today is the day he will propose to his beloved.
Elfriede is a beautiful girl, her skin soft and white, her eyes a brilliant shade of blue. He’s noticed her many times, visiting the town below the castle, the image of a maiden pure as snow. She is the daughter of a wealthy and well-respected merchant with whom his father often conducts business, and the Count has already approved the match.
He knows she will accept; he is shrewd enough to recognize that marriage is one of the only ways for a woman to make something of herself, to rise above her predestined lot in life. Though he's certainly not lacking in looks, charm, and intellect, his status as a noble is simply irresistible.
After taking his breakfast, he’s delighted to see Jakob, the son of his father’s longest-serving knight, in the courtyard. With a sword at his belt, he is the image of a young soldier, full of vitality and strength.
“Are you going to town today?” he asks, and Jakob grins, stretches his muscular arms above his head.
“How did you know?” he asks in reply. His dark hair sways gently in the breeze, blue eyes twinkling. A warm feeling rises in Dietrich’s chest; he’s always admired Jakob deeply for his chivalry and strength, those qualities of nobility inherent in him though he is of common birth.
“I have business there as well,” Dietrich replies. “We shall go together, then.”
As they set off, he reminisces on their life as children. They had been inseparable then; they trained together, ate together, even slept in the same room. Their bond had only grown stronger through the years, built upon the idyll of childhood.
The sunlight is cascading through the trees, Jakob humming under his breath, as they follow the path down the hill. Dietrich wonders if this is true contentment. He’s enjoying the sound of Jakob and the birds, yet still finds himself curious: “What do you have to do in town?”
Jakob looks momentarily surprised before his face settles into an easy smile. “My father wants me to check at the blacksmith to see if a sword he had commissioned is ready.”
Dietrich finds himself chuckling at the thought. “A sword? Whatever would he need that for?” Their town has known peace for the duration of their lifetimes; Braunfels is rich and prosperous. He’s reminded of the dreams he had in his youth, of the stories he’d heard of the Crusades, of traveling the world with Jakob at his side.
“He tells me it is a gift,” Jakob says. “For whom, I do not know.” He resumes humming his little tune. Dietrich allows himself a moment to imagine adventuring together, a fantasy he has since dismissed as childish folly. They are both of marriageable age now, ready to settle into their respective roles at Braunfels Castle: a knight and a lord, keeping the town safe.
They reach the town gate soon enough, going their separate ways. Dietrich visits the town hall, checks on the market stalls, ensures that order is kept as his father has done before him, and his father’s father before that. Eventually he makes his way to Elfriede’s father’s shop, but she’s nowhere to be seen.
“Excuse me,” he asks, “do you know where Elfriede might be?”
Her brother looks up from where he had been arranging some knick-knacks on a shelf, surprised to see him. “Ah, I believe she said she’d go to the meadow to pick some wildflowers.”
Dietrich thanks him, hurrying out before he can say another word. He knows she must be at the meadows to the west of the town, overlooking a picturesque pond. It is a beautiful spot, quite romantic; if he can meet here there before she returns to the town, he’s sure to sweep her off her feet.
Leaving the town, he wonders if Jakob has similar aspirations towards any of the girls in the town, though there are none quite as beautiful as Elfriede. He shakes his head at the thought, casting it aside; Jakob is a knight, pure of heart and honourable. He will find a maiden in due time.
The glittering waters of the pond make him shade his eyes as he steps into the meadows. The flowers are in full bloom, spring triumphing once again over the harshness of winter. He ambles towards the pond without much thought, pausing beneath a linden tree overlooking the water, when he hears the sound of voices.
Peering out from behind the trunk, he’s horrified to see Jakob and Elfriede overlooking the water, their backs to him. Her hands are clasped in his, and she’s looking up at him with what Dietrich can only imagine is a starry-eyed gaze. He strains to catch their conversation despite the breeze in his ears.
“Elfriede, it would make me the happiest man in Hessia if you would take me as your husband,” Jakob says. Dietrich imagines the intensity of his sapphire-blue eyes, brimming with emotion, the same expression he wore when they sparred. “Marry me, Elfriede.”
Dietrich is too shocked to do anything; it feels as though his feet have frozen in place, as though he’s rooted to the ground like the linden. Jakob had never told him he was courting a girl; Dietrich had thought him too loyal to Braunfels Castle and its future Count. He misses what Elfriede says next, the betrayal too profound in his chest. Evidently, she has accepted, as she leans in for a chaste kiss.
His feet unstick from the ground as he surges forward, grabbing Elfriede by the shoulders and shoving her away from Jakob. All thoughts of his proposal are forgotten as he looks up at the other man, lost in a tangled web of emotion.
“How could you?” he asks, and he doesn’t know what he’s asking Jakob, only that his heart feels like it’s being ripped from his chest, and he can’t figure out why.
Jakob looks equally shocked to see him. “I—what?” He looks to Elfriede for explanation, but she seems just as befuddled, her eyes welling with tears.
Dietrich struggles to find words for what he’s feeling, the root of his emotion. His tongue feels as though it’s tied in knots, his mouth dry, his eyes wet. Finally, he settles on: “My father approved of the match between Elfriede and I!”
“We’ve been courting for nearly six months,” Jakob snarls, his shock turning to anger in what feels like a split second. “How dare you, Dietrich.”
Before he can stop himself, barely aware of his actions, Dietrich draws his sword. Jakob, ever the honourable knight, does not rise to the challenge of his superior. His eyes look back at Dietrich stonily, defiantly. “You can kill me,” he spits out, “but you will never have Elfriede’s heart.”
Something echoes in Dietrich’s mind. You will never have him.
He has a sudden feeling, a premonition, that he’s been here before. He pushes it down, looking into Jakob’s beautiful blue eyes, sick to his stomach.
Before he can think twice, he closes his eyes and swings as hard as he can.
†
Maggio 1504
I will be a restless wanderer on the earth…
Davide sits up with a start, still feeling the impression of the drafting table’s surface on his head. The workshop is still, light filtering gently through the dust in the air. He watches the motes swirl for a few moments until his peace is interrupted by a loud clatter.
The insufferable sculptor with whom he shares his studio, Giacomo, enters the room guiltily, holding a chisel in his large hands. “I apologize for my clumsiness,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “You were sleeping so soundly that I wish you could have remained that way for a while.”
Davide rolls his eyes, tempted to just ignore the taller man, but despite his better judgment he’s ended up somewhat attached to the sculptor in the last few months that they’d been working together. After the previous occupant had accepted a position as a court painter somewhere in the Holy Roman Empire, he’d needed to find someone on short notice, and his old teacher had recommended a novice sculptor who’d just finished his training.
Giacomo is a remarkable artist despite his lack of practice compared to Davide, whose formative years were spent in various artists’ studios mastering painting, sculpture, and drafting. If he thinks about it, Davide can admit that he feels pangs of envy at the other’s natural talent, at the energy of his sculptures, the way their marble flesh looks soft enough to touch.
Still, being a one-trick pony is nothing compared to Davide’s skills, and he finds it easy to push those feelings aside. He’d recently gained the attention of the Duke of Florence, well aware that he sought a new artist for whom he might become a patron. This offered David a chance, a foothold to prove his greatness and ingenuity to the world.
“I was wondering if you might pose again for my sculpture,” Giacomo says, interrupting Davide’s thoughts yet again. “It’s almost finished. I just need a few more references.”
“Of course,” he says. Though he’s too tired to continue his sketches, he may as well make himself useful.
As Giacomo pulls the sheet from the nearly-completed statue, Davide strips off his clothes until he is standing, bare, next to the studio wall. Once, he might have been ashamed to expose himself in such a way, but with Giacomo those feelings have long since dissipated. Lodging in the loft of the studio, they’ve grown comfortable with each other through the routines of everyday life.
Giacomo takes some measurements with his chisel, eyes darting between Davide’s body to that of the sculpture. He’s not in the habit of talking much during the process, but finds the time to say, “You are the perfect model, Davide.”
Holding his pose, but allowing the corners of his mouth to turn up slightly, Davide replies, “Thank you.” Such a compliment might have made him blush as a teenager, but as an adult, he’s well aware of the proportions of his body, how close he comes to the Grecian ideal.
A few hours pass in companionable silence, broken infrequently by Giacomo’s quiet huffs as he focuses on the task at hand. Davide allows himself to occasionally break the pose, resting on a stool during those moments.
At long last, Giacomo lets out a sigh of relief. “It’s finished,” he breathes, “Davide, it’s finished.”
Not bothering to slip on his overshirt, Davide moves to stand behind the taller man, leaning over to inspect the flawless marble. “It’s beautiful,” he says, honestly, awestruck by his stone twin. His own eyes stare back at him, set in a perfect replica of his face. His body, too, is immortalized, from the ridge of his collarbones to the contours of his muscles.
“You’re beautiful,” Giacomo says after a few seconds, and there’s something more than just flirtatiousness to his words. Davide feels his gaze, so different from when he was posing, something warm and sweet he can’t identify.
“Let’s have a bottle of wine to celebrate,” Davide says, not ready to address the strange gulf of emotion emerging between them. “Who is this for, anyway?”
A light blush dusts Giacomo’s cheeks, and he runs his hand through his hair self-consciously. “Actually… it’s for the Duke,” he admits. They’ve rarely talked about the nobles who commission them, much more interested in the artistic process than the business side of things. Davide feels something drop in his chest.
“Oh,” he says, not knowing what else to do. “I… have also been working on a commission for the Duke.” It’s nowhere near done, hardly more than a sketch, and nowhere on the level of Giacomo’s sculpture; it’s a simple portrait which will probably be relegated to some back room of the palace.
“Perhaps I shall be your model?” Giacomo teases, before his face becomes softer. “That way we might see each other still.”
Davide wants to ask what he means, but somewhere inside of him, he knows what Giacomo is hinting at, and his heart starts beating so fast that his breaths feel shallow. “The Duke will become your patron?”
The tips of Giacomo’s ears redden. “W-while you were out one day, the Duke himself came to see the statue. He was so impressed with its progress that he promised I would receive his patronage upon its completion.”
A coldness settles over Davide, even if he’s desperate to not let it show. He’s glad Giacomo can’t see his face as he turns to their meagre cupboard. “Well, I’ll get the wine, then,” he offers instead, hoping his voice doesn’t betray his bitterness.
Giacomo senses it, damn him, and Davide feels his eyes on his body as he digs around the cupboard for something to drink. Suddenly his nudity feels vulnerable, too exposed, but his overshirt is still in a pile with the rest of his clothes, next to the marble version of himself that can catch the Duke’s eye in a way he never will.
“I’ll put in a good word for you,” Giacomo says softly, and bile rises in Davide’s throat at this expression of pity. Something dark swirls deep within him, and although he bites it down, it’s not enough. Without a word, he takes two cups from a shelf and fills each with rich red wine. His eyes fall on the pigments for mixing his paints; in a high enough dose, they can be severely poisonous. He’s heard of political assassinations carried out with such chemicals, laced in a meal or drink.
He has the time to think about it, dark temptation whispering upon his shoulder. He has a sinking feeling that he’s been here before—not like this, not in this room, but at this particular crossroad, at the edge of something unseen.
Shaking his head, he silently twists open the vial, sprinkling a generous dose into one cup. He has come too far, come too close to greatness to have his ambitions shattered by a young usurper. Mixing it with a finger, he returns to Giacomo.
“Sorry I took so long,” he says. “Only the best for you.” He hopes his smile comes across as genuine, knowing that the sadness still shines through. Giacomo reaches for the poisoned cup. There’s a ringing in Davide’s ears. He still has a chance. He still has a choice.
Sin desires to have you. You must rule over it.
“Congratulations,” Davide says, and they clink cups. Not a drop spills over the rim.
They drink the wine down to the dregs, and if Giacomo can taste any difference, he doesn’t say anything. Within a minute, he’s on the ground, gasping for air as he reaches out to Davide, eyes bulging.
Davide dresses himself in silence, methodically, pulling on his boots at last. He still hears Giacomo wheezing as he shuts the door, the sound growing ever weaker.
He doesn’t think he could bear watching those lips turn blue.
†
Février 1789
He struggles below the surface, feet kicking in vain as his lungs scream for air.
If you do what is right, will you not be accepted?
Dark blue surrounds him, cold and unyielding against his flailing limbs. Distant lights draw his vision, and he yearns to reach for them, to touch them. Where is he? Why is he here?
There’s a sudden pressure beneath his arms as he’s dragged back up to the light. Coughing up water, blinking in the unbearable brightness, the handsome face of a man leans over him.
“Didier, are you alright?” the man asks. A name comes to him then: Jean-Baptiste. He’s still expelling the river from his lungs, unable to speak, but manages to nod his head weakly. Jean-Baptiste looks concerned, tucks Didier’s hair behind his ear so as to see his face fully.
When he thinks he’ll be able to manage speaking again, he sits up, gasping: “Thank you.” He feels frozen to the bone, so cold he can no longer shiver. As though he senses this, Jean-Baptiste shrugs off his cloak, laying it over Didier’s shoulders.
“We have to get off the ice,” he says, urgently. “Can you stand?” Didier pushes himself up with his arms, legs shaky, leaning on the larger man for support. They make their way to the shore slowly, Jean-Baptiste’s arm comforting and warm around him.
It’s all coming back to him now—the race across the ice to the island in the middle of the lake, the sickening sound of cracks forming all around him, the plunge down into the depths and the darkness that had overtaken him.
“You saved my life,” he says softly. He’s begun to feel his limbs again, his clothes wet and heavy against his skin, the winter wind making its way into his core.
Jean-Baptiste tightens his grip around his shoulder, and there’s a tenderness in his eyes when he replies quietly: “You would have done the same for me.”
His wife, Didier’s sister, had passed away in the famine that swept through the countryside several months before; they had only been married that spring. With the meager harvest and subsequent lack of grain to sell, they had taken to spending time together, at least when Didier was not preoccupied with his meetings.
They make their way back to the town in a comfortable silence, until they find themselves at Didier’s front door, and Jean-Baptiste doesn’t hesitate to pull it open for him. His expression is gentle, soft even, as he says: “You should change out of those clothes.”
Didier doesn’t have to be told twice, already making his way up the stairs. Looking back over his shoulder, he sees Jean-Baptiste lean over the hearth, piling up the firewood.
The afternoon turns to evening, Didier lighting a candle and placing it in the window. They will congregate in the tavern soon to discuss the latest news from Paris and Versailles; Jean-Baptiste always shrugs him off when he suggests joining in. Tonight, though, as he gazes at the dark-haired man, something feels different.
“Come with me tonight,” he says, the unspoken invitation clear. Jean-Baptiste turns to him, his emotions inscrutable. Didier feels a longing for something he doesn’t understand, pulling within his chest. “It doesn’t have to be for long,” he wheedles. “Just to hear the news.”
That night when they leave the tavern together, the streets dark, Jean-Baptiste pulls him to a niche between two buildings, running his thumb over Didier’s cheek. “I thought you might have died today,” he breathes out.
“I could never leave you alone,” Didier replies, and the sincerity in his own voice surprises him. Not wanting Jean-Baptiste to take in the full weight of his words, he adds: “Besides, there is still so much left to be done.”
The news from Paris is not good. The people of France are starving—Didier knows this firsthand—while the government remains at a standstill. He has lost his sister, Jean-Baptiste’s wife; they have no crops to sell and very little to eat. The winter is harsh, a shadow of hopelessness falling across the land.
“Try not to think of it,” Jean-Baptiste says pleadingly. “We have each other.” His hand clasps Didier’s, warm and hopeful, and Didier closes his eyes. He’ll take this for what it is, heart beating faster in his chest.
What seems like an endless winter eventually makes way for spring, and spring turns to summer, and the Estates-General is summoned, and it becomes clear that still nothing will change. The weekly meetings at the tavern become more frequent, the debates more intense. Jean-Baptiste watches it all unfold, quiet yet faithful at Didier’s side.
One July afternoon they receive a letter advising that the Bastille has been brought down by the people of Paris, that the aristocracy are withholding grain in their manors to starve out the peasantry and enforce order. It cannot wait until evening, and so they gather with the sun still high in the sky.
Didier finds himself the first to speak. “How much more must we endure?” he asks, looking around the room. The tavern is crowded; nearly every man, and even some of the women of the town, are present. They look to him with rapt attention, and he feels as though something has been set alight inside him.
“We have all lost family to the famines; we have all suffered.” He pauses for dramatic effect, before continuing: “We can no longer live under the tyranny of those who would see us starve to preserve themselves.”
A hollow-cheeked woman, body gaunt beneath her tattered dress, speaks up then, and he sees fire in her eyes. “What can we do?”
Jean-Baptiste cuts in before Didier can respond. He steps forward, and the way he stands is like a statue, firm and unyielding. “We must see for ourselves,” he says. “These are nothing but rumours. What can Paris know of every town across the nation?”
“Paris knows enough,” Didier snaps. “We shall see, then. But we must be prepared for what we find, and we must be prepared to take it—at whatever cost.” He pauses, looking around the room, meeting the eyes of enough men to ensure that he is not misunderstood. “A thief never likes to part with his contraband.”
After nightfall, Didier sharpens his dagger. Jean-Baptiste is standing next to the window, watching silently. Didier doesn’t bother asking if he will join; he already knows the answer.
“Did you not care for Élise?” he asks instead as he turns away, sheathing the blade in his belt. He imagines the pained expression on Jean-Baptiste’s face, the sorrow in his eyes at the mention of his beloved wife. There is no more time for softness, no patience left for whispered platitudes.
Jean-Baptiste doesn’t defend himself. Instead, he makes his way to Didier, his fingers on the blond man’s jaw gentle, turning his face until their eyes meet.
“I care for you,” he says simply. The words hang in the air. Didier has no use for them anymore.
“Then let me go,” Didier replies, and without another word he heads to the tavern, where he knows a crowd is already amassing.
By the time they make it to the château gates, the gendarmes are already outside. Uneasily, the townsfolk come to a stop. Didier steps forward.
“You lower yourself like guard dogs, begging for scraps at the table,” he spits. “They have starved you like the rest of us.”
“There is nothing to see here,” says one gendarme, but Didier sees his hand rise to the sabre at his side. “We have checked their stores. They are as empty as the town’s.”
The crowd rustles. They grow restless. The torchlight dances over their faces as long shadows of pitchforks crisscross the country road.
“Do not lie to us,” Didier shouts. “You are nothing but tools of the aristocracy, willing to kill us to save your own hides.” He sees movement in the shadow of the stone wall, no doubt an informant, selling out his own countrymen for a few pieces of silver.
“Show yourself, you coward,” he calls out, and when the man steps forward, he feels his stomach drop.
Jean-Baptiste stands before him, an enduring strength in his shoulders. “I cannot allow you to kill them, Didier,” he says quietly. “You are right, we have all suffered. But to spill the blood of innocents… cannot be your path.”
“Get out of my way,” Didier snarls, looking back at the crowd. They mutter among themselves, gazing at the outnumbered gendarmes, their energy like the ocean. “Progress crests like a wave, and it shall beat on whether you sink or swim.”
He pushes past Jean-Baptiste, not meeting the other man’s eyes. Jean-Baptiste catches his wrist, pulls him in, and his expression is pure and anguished. Didier feels tears prick his eyes despite himself. Something isn’t right, he thinks. He’s been here before.
He blinks, and a memory echoes through him, the image of a boy’s blood swallowed into the earth. He can barely see through the tears, his rage turning to sorrow in a moment.
Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground…
He reaches for the dagger, imagining flames burning through his chest. The people are ready to be set alight, and he must be the spark.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Jean-Baptiste says, soft enough that only he can hear. “Didier, please—we can go back to the town, things can be like they were before.” Didier wipes his eyes angrily, shaking his head. He grips the dagger tighter. He feels dizzy, as though he’s standing at the edge of a precipice, so close he can almost touch it.
“I told you I cared for you,” Jean-Baptiste murmurs. “You have to believe me. Everything will be alright. Please, just listen to me.” Didier blinks, tears dripping down his face, his head spinning. Blood rushes in his ears as Jean-Baptiste’s hand entwines with his. The handle of the dagger in his other hand is burning hot. He has no more time for sweet nothings, empty promises of a future that never comes.
Jean-Baptiste’s eyes glimmer like gemstones, his voice low and pleading: “Please, Didier. It doesn’t have to be this way. Come back with me. Didier… I lo—”
“Shut the fuck up, Jean-Baptiste,” he says, and draws the dagger clean across his throat.
Jean-Baptiste collapses, and as his blood spills across the earth, the mob surges forward. The gendarmes are overcome, the gates torn down, as Didier exults in their triumph. He is first through the doors as they fall from their hinges, first as they plunder the manor’s coffers, drunk on the bloodlust of the crowd.
Even if there are tears in his eyes, even if he cries openly, he tells himself it is from happiness. He feels the fire of revolution in his veins; soon he will ride to Paris, with no one to stop him joining in the work that must be done.
He watches them cart the bodies away in the morning. If he sees a corpse wearing a cloak that had once warmed him on a cold winter’s day, he pretends not to recognize it, just as he pretends not to hear the voice calling out inside of him, asking:
What have you done?
†
October 1888
Dio has learned to ignore his dreams, to suppress the feelings they conjure up within him. He prides himself on his discipline; for the past seven years he has managed to blend in with the English aristocracy, a snake amidst the flowers.
Still, recently he’s found himself waking up in cold sweats, images of blood pooling in mud flashing across his eyes, a voice echoing in his mind.
Where is your brother?
He’s been tormented by dreams of his father before, of the acrid stench of his breath and his wretched figure hunched over in bed, swearing and shrieking when he grew too frail to lay hands on Dio. Less common are those of his mother, of her soft voice and the way she stroked his hair, though they are hardly more than scraps of memories now. Yet these dreams feel different—there is something almost primeval to them, as though they precede his lifetime.
He will conquer them, as with all other things; it does him no good to dwell on the past when he has such a bright future ahead of him. Striding over to the vanity, he splashes his face with icy water. The inn is not to his tastes, certainly not as luxurious as he would prefer, but he’d needed a place to sleep off the previous night. More importantly, he needed a place to reflect on his discovery.
The mask has countered all of his expectations. He’d imagined the talons sinking into the victim’s brain, killing them painfully; instead, the mask seemed to unlock an even greater power within the user. The old drunk’s strength and speed was formidable, and Dio saw how his weathered face had become full and smooth after donning the mask, how he returned to the prime of his youth. He shudders upon remembering his blood rushing involuntarily towards the man’s outstretched hand, yet grins at the thought of wielding such power against another.
Yes, this is an interesting development indeed, one that Dio will not hesitate to use to his advantage.
The day passes uneventfully. Dio contemplates his good fortune, strolling about the town, relishing the last time he will feel the sun’s rays upon his face. By the time he returns to the Joestar manor, it is already evening, and darkness has fallen over the countryside. The wind whistles through the trees, the mansion looming before him.
It is time for him to face his fate, to accept his destiny of greatness no matter the cost.
To his dismay, it appears that Jonathan has survived his Ogre Street sojourn, dramatically lighting a candelabrum when he hears the door open. His eyes meet Dio’s in anguish, seeming almost mournful in the flickering light.
“I have proof of your devilish plot, Dio!”
The time for running is past; Dio knows that Jonathan will not go down without a fight, and he intends to seize the Joestar fortune no matter what. Still, this will go easier if he can camouflage himself one last time, a serpent among the lilies. He collapses into an armchair, thankful he’d had the foresight to bandage his arm to lull Jonathan into a false sense of security.
“I found the antidote,” Jonathan says, candlelight dancing across his noble features. “I gave it to Father moments ago.”
Although he puts on a front of bravery, wearing the mantle of a dutiful and righteous son, Dio can tell that there is a profound sense of loss in the other man. There’s a stiffness, a sense of pain, held in his broad shoulders. He continues: “Dio, I’m heartbroken. We were raised as brothers, and now I must turn you in. I’m sorry.”
Dio takes the opportunity to stand, as though he’s preparing to grovel at the other’s feet. In actuality, he’s gazing around the room, hoping to determine if anyone else is present. He’s already well-aware of the weapons around the room, heirlooms of long-forgotten Joestar ancestors. Jonathan carries on: “Dio… I’m certain you don’t believe me, but I can assure you my words are genuine.”
Dio settles back into the chair, confident that Jonathan is truly here on his own. He allows a resigned weariness to settle over his face, pretending to wince as he adjusts his arm; he’s practiced this charade for so long that it comes naturally to him. “I would expect nothing less from you,” he lies easily, turning his face to the ground to hide his annoyance. “Jojo, my selfishness is shameful, but I have but one final favour to ask.”
It's time for him to put on the act one last time. He savours the feeling of knowing that after tonight, he will no longer need to hide beneath the veneer of a grateful second son, nothing more than a charity case. “Please, give me time… time to turn myself in.”
He meets Jonathan’s gaze, knowing the man will see his crocodile tears as genuine despite his suspicions, that his trusting nature has not changed too much since their youth together. “I regret everything! My meager upbringing has made me greedy!” He lets out a rather convincing gasp of despair. “I’ve been a fool, poisoning the very man who raised me!”
Jonathan’s dismay is palpable; his expression is almost conflicted, yet his eyes are resolute. Dio feels his own brimming with tears, knows that it’s time to draw Jonathan in. His adoptive brother has always been susceptible to sentimental displays of melodrama, always the type to drop a shilling in a beggar’s hat at the mention of a tragic story.
Dio lets the tears fall. He just needs to lure Jonathan close enough to stab, to wet the mask with the other’s blood. “That’s why I came back… to confess!” He pauses for dramatic effect. “If I wanted to run, I could have gone anywhere!”
He sees the barest sign of a nod, Jonathan tipping his chin down. He’s susceptible to Dio now, in this moment. Dio fixes his face into an expression of pure regret, tilting his head so the light catches the tears rolling down his cheeks. “I want to make amends.”
Still gazing at Jonathan, hoping to see his features soften into sympathy, to see a sign of weakness, Dio hears a scoff from the shadowy recesses of the parlour. A man with long blond hair and a hat decorated with knives steps into the light. “Careful, Mr. Joestar. Don’t believe a word that snake says.”
This man—Speedwagon, as Dio comes to know—launches into a tirade about human nature and how he can tell the good from the bad before hurling the candelabrum at Dio. Striding to the curtains, he shoves the Chinese apothecary into the room. Jonathan’s face hardens, and any chance of him letting his guard down vanishes. “This man has confessed to selling you poison, Dio.”
As Dio’s mind turns, struggling to think of how he can flip the situation back in his favour, he hears footsteps on the stairs. “I’ve heard enough.”
It’s George Joestar, the old man himself, and Dio is not entirely surprised to see him able to stand so quickly. He’s come to know after all these years that a profound willpower runs in this family. A cadre of police constables stand behind his adoptive father; Jonathan was smart enough to call in reinforcements after all.
“This is truly a shame,” he says. “I loved you as if you were my own son.” There’s an unquestionable sorrow in his voice. Dio feels like a trapped animal, outnumbered and surrounded. His heart is beating loud in his chest, blood rushing in his ears.
“Father, you must rest,” Jonathan cuts in.
“I shall retire to my chamber,” the old man says, turning away sadly. “I refuse to watch my son’s incarceration. Jojo, do what you must.”
The revelation that multiple police are present is certainly preventing his plan from proceeding as smoothly as he’d like, but as long as Dio is in possession of the mask, he knows he will prevail. He may be outnumbered, but he will not run like a rat, nor will he bare his throat in submission like a dog.
“So this is the end?” he asks, watching as George’s back disappears into the shadows. He looks around the room, willing his heartbeat to slow, for his breaths to even out. He need not panic; he will triumph over this, as with all things. Jonathan is still watching him, vulnerability creeping into his features once more. Despite all that Dio has done to the Joestars, Jonathan still regards him without a hint of anger.
The Chinese apothecary gives Dio a strange, knowing look. When he’d bought the poison, he’d heard whispers that the man was a mystic, but Dio has no time for such superstitions. “He won’t be caught here,” he mutters to himself. “His countenance, those three moles on his ear… he was born with the devil’s own luck.”
This is more than luck, Dio thinks. This is taking fate into my own hands.
He strides forward, wrists held up in surrender, and Jonathan meets him in the middle of the foyer. Their expressions are equally somber. The game is nearly up, though only Dio realizes it. “Jojo, I want you to be the one to handcuff me. For our years together.”
Jonathan’s sapphire-blue eyes are filled with sorrow as he takes the handcuffs from the old warden. “All right,” he says softly.
Dio hears Speedwagon cautioning Jonathan, but ignores him. The meddling fool won’t matter in a few moments, anyway. He can’t hide the gleam of excitement in his eyes as Jonathan approaches. “Jojo, humans have their limits… don’t you agree?”
Jonathan’s lips part slightly in shock, the handcuffs still stretched taut in his hands. Dio continues: “I’ve learned something in my short life. The more one schemes, the more unpredictable life becomes. So long as one remains human—”
“You’ve gone mad! What do you mean?” Jonathan interjects.
Allowing his arm to move freely, the wrappings falling to the floor, Dio rips the stone mask and his knife from his pockets. “I cast aside my humanity, Jojo!”
A commotion breaks out as he stabs straight to Jonathan’s heart. His aim is piercing and true, and yet—something is wrong. As he lifts the mask to his face, he sees that George had jumped in front of his son at the last moment, that it’s his adoptive father’s blood staining his hands.
It is no matter. He will have his way, whatever it takes.
He smears his fingers across the mask, feeling the talons emerge to pierce his skin, and then the pressure as they break through his skull. It feels as though he’s dying, his body burning and freezing at the same time, unable to see anything beyond the intense light emanating from the mask. He can’t help but laugh in exultation at his own triumph, louder than the gunshots that ring out in the air.
For a moment he sees the police, standing in a row like toy soldiers, futile in their efforts to destroy him. The bullets send him flying through the window, yet they are as insignificant as bug bites, his skin already smoothing over the wounds. But as his head hits the paving, glass shards skittering away from him, he can’t help but feel that something has gone terribly wrong.
He blinks, and the night sky above the Joestar estate disappears. He can tell, somehow, that time has stopped. Visions cascade through his mind of himself and Jonathan, disjointed and intemporal, too fast to follow. He can no longer feel himself breathing, can no longer feel anything, not even the cold flagstones beneath his body. He has lost all sense of himself, floating somewhere in the darkness.
He blinks again. Jonathan is kissing him in a famine-desolate field somewhere in the countryside, their faces illuminated by the moon.
Another blink, and Jonathan is gazing at his nude body with heavy-lidded eyes, his smile shyly flirtatious, taking measurements with a chisel. A block of marble stands between them.
Closing his eyes, he wills the visions to cease. When he opens them once more, Jonathan is glaring at him defiantly, his lips softly parted, the summer breeze ruffling his hair. Dio feels the weight of a sword in his hand.
He blinks, and blinks, and each time sees himself with Jonathan in another life. Sometimes they are lovers, sometimes barely more than acquaintances. But it always ends the same: with a knife in his hand, or a jar of poison, or even the heft of a sword or club. Sometimes it’s just his bare hands strangling the life out of the other man.
The darkness seems to swallow him up further. He feels three pinpricks burning through his left earlobe. Letting his eyes flutter shut and wincing in pain, he isn’t sure if he wants to see the final vision.
When he opens his eyes, he’s standing in a field, rain pouring down around him. Looking down, he sees the body of a boy, blood pooling in the mud around his head. A rock lies at his feet, streaked with blood. His hands are slick with it.
You will be a restless wanderer on the earth.
His mouth moves without him being able to control it. The words feel ancient on his tongue, like a long-forgotten incantation. “I will be a restless wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will kill me.”
Not so. Anyone who kills you will suffer vengeance seven times over.
The burning sensation intensifies until he can no longer hear anything, until his vision goes white with pain, and he falls to his knees. He screams until his voice is hoarse, knowing that no one can hear him in the desolate wilderness, that he is the only witness to this divine wrath. It feels as though three red-hot pokers are branding him, or perhaps the fiery hand of a god.
He is overcome by the urge to flee, to leave this place and never return. The sky above him seems to open, lightning tearing through the clouds. Thunder roars in the distance, before the sound is all around him. His body is floating through the darkness, limbs thrashing. More visions flash before his eyes, too quick for him to discern faces and figures.
When he returns to himself, feeling the cold paving at his back, gazing up at the black sky speckled with stars, all he can do is run.