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@lady-eleanor-vane
LEON S. KENNEDY || Epiphany.
"Keep your helmet, keep your life, son Just a flesh wound, here's your rifle Crawling up the beaches now "Sir, I think he's bleeding out" And some things you just can't speak about
With you, I serve With you, I fall down, down Watch you breathe in Watch you breathing out, out
Only 20 minutes to sleep But you dream of some epiphany Just one single glimpse of relief To make some sense of what you've seen"
GRACE & GIDEON || Devil, Devil.
"Devil, Devil, mm Bones of metal, metal, mm You torture saints with a single glance You make them think they ever stood a chance
Do not try me, Devil, Devil Cannot buy me, Devil, Devil You won't make a fool of me, oh, no What makes you so special, special To think I would ever settle For that devious dance between you and me Devil, Devil..."
LEON S. KENNEDY || END OF BEGINNING
"Just one more tear to cry One teardrop from my eye You better save it for The middle of the night When things aren't black and white Enter, Troubadour "Remember twenty-four?"
And when I'm back in Chicago, I feel it Another version of me, I was in it I wave goodbye to the end of beginning
This song has started now And you're just finding out Now isn't that a laugh? A major sacrifice But clueless at the time Enter, Caroline "Just trust me, you'll be fine"
And when I'm back in Chicago, I feel it Another version of me, I was in it I wave goodbye to the end of beginning (Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye)
You take the man out of the city, not the city out the man You take the man out of the city, not the city out the man You take the man out of the city, not the city out the man You take the man out of the..."
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“What do you feel, Francesco?”
She needed to know whether the same chaos ruled within him as within her. From the outside, he seemed barely disturbed, yet he had never been restless in his sleep, and still he had lunged at her as though danger lay in wait the moment he let his guard down. She remembered him kneeling in the cathedral after it was over. He could not feel nothing.
He looked up at her and paused for a moment, then shrugged.
“I feel nothing, except satisfaction that it is finally over.”
Novella smiled and shook her head. He was lying. Perhaps to her, perhaps to himself — likely both. It was what he needed to believe in order to go on, but she knew that what he had done that day would haunt him for the rest of his life. She took the sponge back from him and wiped his face in turn, caressing his skin gently.
“That isn’t the truth,” she replied. “You can say whatever you like, but I know you cared for Lorenzo. He was your closest friend for a long time. Perhaps even your only friend. You can lie to yourself for as long as you need. But one day the truth will come out. It may be tomorrow, in a year, or in ten years. When that day comes, I will be there to hear it.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
There was a joyful mood in the church that day. People were relaxed, smiling. The sun shone brightly in the sky, as if to greet the rebirth of Christ. Its light passed through the cathedral’s windows and illuminated the nave with a soothing beauty that everyone seemed to feel deep within themselves.
Lucrezia and Clarice de’ Medici were seated right at the front, given the status of the Medici family in hosting Raffaele Riario in Florence, who was celebrating Easter Mass today in complete innocence. They looked happy, and Clarice was in a good enough mood to smile at Lucrezia Ardinghelli, seated on the other side.
Everyone was chatting peacefully, about everything and nothing. Everyone except a few people among the crowd, who went completely unnoticed amid the murmur.
Novella and Jacopo came to sit side by side opposite the Medici women, but very close to the place reserved for Giuliano. Very close, though not as close as Francesco would be. Usually, he was at his side, but today he would position himself behind Giuliano, with Marco Vespucci. Later, she was sure, this would be a detail people would remember. But on the day itself, no one would notice anything, not in the midst of such joy.
She wondered how she was meant to interpret this general mood. Was it like a sign from God, indicating that they were making the right choice by acting this way, even if it meant violating his sanctuary? Or was it, on the contrary, meant to lay before them the beauty and peace they were about to destroy?
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“You’re going to kill them. God - you’re going to kill them.”
She pulled away from Francesco and paced the room, her hand over her mouth. She thought of Clarice, before everything led her to where she was now — her gentle smile, her kindness. Of Bianca, always so fierce and protective, even when they had been partial enemies. Of Giuliano, and the love he bore Simonetta, to the point that he would likely welcome death as a blessing. Of Lorenzo — his dreams for Florence, and what Novella knew he represented to Francesco, deep down.
And yet, he wanted to kill him.
“Only Lorenzo and Giuliano,” Francesco confirmed. “Once their heads fall, the rest will pose little danger to us. And once the Medici have truly collapsed, we will take control of this city, once and for all.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“You play your role well, priest. What did Lorenzo offer you for this charade, tell me? I could double it.”
“Oh, he offered me many things, but nothing I could accept,” Savonarola smiled. “You don’t understand, messer Pazzi, and that is normal. I am not in the service of Lorenzo de Medici, nor would I ever be in yours. Medici, Pazzi, Alessandri, Bardi… in the end, you all seek the same thing. All of you keep this morbid, corrupt cycle turning over and over again.”
“And I suppose you mean to control that cycle,” Jacopo scoffed.
“No, messer,” Savonarola replied, his smile widening. “I intend to break it. One day.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Maybe we shouldn’t try to understand it, my love,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Maddalena may be doing better, but she’s still a haunted woman. Some things are probably too complicated for even her to explain.”
“No, I don’t believe that” Novella objected. “There’s something there, I just can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it’s because we have two children now, and they both survived. Maybe that triggered something in her.”
The next morning, Novella was determined to find an answer. She had tried several times to talk to Maddalena about it, but the latter had always managed to dodge the subject or slip away. This time, she intended to force her to open up — for her daughter’s sake. She went to knock on Maddalena’s bedroom door and waited but received no response.
Frowning, she turned around and checked Jacopo’s room, though he had already left for the bank, and she didn’t find her there either. She called out to Ginevra, who was busy cleaning the rooms, and asked “Ginevra, have you seen Maddalena this morning?”
“No, madonna,” she replied with a shrug.
“She didn’t leave her room?”
“I don’t think she joined messere Jacopo last night, if that’s what you mean,” Ginevra clarified, frowning. “I saw her go into her room the evening before, and I don’t think she’s come out since.”
Troubled, Novella returned to Maddalena’s room and knocked again, calling her name, Ginevra on her heels. A sound came from inside, and both women froze and looked at each other.
“Madonna… is that a baby I hear?” Ginevra asked, alarmed. “Viola?”
“No,” Novella replied immediately. “I spent the entire night trying to get Viola to sleep, and I just laid her in her cradle in my room. It’s not her.”
“But there is a baby in there, madonna,” Ginevra whispered, horrified.
And Vieri was far too big now to cry like that. Something inside Novella turned to ice when she heard the infant’s cries again — undeniably coming from behind Maddalena’s door. She tried to open it, but it was locked.
“Bernardo!” Novella shouted. “Bernardo, you must open this door!”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Don’t you agree?” she asked with a knowing smile. “When I look at Novella, do you know what I see? What our daughter might have become. I wonder, Jacopo — would you have been as cruel to her as you were to Novella, if she had lived?”
“I wasn’t cruel to Novella,” Jacopo shot back sharply, shaking his head. “If she had been any other woman, I wouldn’t have bothered trying so hard to get rid of her without hurting her. I would have simply had her killed. But I always spared her.”
“How generous of you,” Maddalena scoffed, dripping sarcasm.
“Do you want to know why I spared her?” Jacopo continued, stopping in his tracks. “Contrary to what she thinks, it wasn’t because of the threats she hinted at involving you, nor because I knew it would break Francesco’s heart. I doubt she would have ever harmed you, and her determination to save you proved that to me. As for Francesco — he would have been strong enough to move on.”
Maddalena stopped and listened. Novella had confessed to her early on that she had first tracked her down intending to use her against her husband. There was a certain logic to it. That woman had a tender heart, but she also knew how to protect herself. Maddalena couldn’t blame her. She would have done the same.
But she wasn’t as convinced as Jacopo about Francesco’s ability to recover easily from his wife’s death. She had barely spoken to him since her return, unable to reconcile the lonely little boy she had once known with the quiet, withdrawn man he had become. He clearly didn’t know what to say to her either. But she had seen the way he looked at Novella. If someone took that woman’s life, she wasn’t sure Francesco would survive it — not now, not anymore.
“The real reason I never went through with it,” Jacopo continued, his voice deepening, “was that every time I looked at Novella, I saw you. Every time I watched her, I also saw who our daughter might have been. And that is the only thing that saved her life.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“You fancy yourself my savior? You’re not a savior, Jacopo. Just another jailer.”
Maddalena spat the words with contempt and wrenched free of his grip, and she was so weak she toppled backward, catching herself awkwardly with her hands. Her words broke his smile, and he stepped back, looking dazed. What exactly did he expect? That she would find comfort in his presence? The time when she had loved him was long gone. The time she had hated him too was past. She had often wondered what she would feel when she saw him again. In the end, she felt very little.
“Go”, she murmured, trying to get up, but her body would not allow it. “Just… go. Leave me to die in peace.”
“In peace?” he sneered bitterly. “Because you think you’ll have an easy death? Even in the state you’re in, they’ll have to use force for that exorcism to kill you.”
“I don’t need you to teach me what they can do in an exorcism”, she replied sharply. “This wouldn’t be my first time at it.”
This revelation sparked a surge of rage in Jacopo, and he kicked the cross on the altar so that it toppled to the floor with a crash, breaking in two. Maddalena didn’t even react as he panted with anger, staring up at the ceiling above him with fury. Some things never change.
“I’ll finish what you started and burn this place until nothing remains but ashes,” he vowed in a dangerous voice. “They had no right to do this to you without my consent.”
“If it makes you feel better,” she shrugged without looking at him.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Please, don’t be angry with me.”
Francesco gave a cold laugh, and she did not step back as he approached. He towered over her, waving the letter under her nose in a voice like ice “Because you think I didn’t know?”
Novella frowned, confused.
“You knew?”
“Of course I knew,” he snapped. “Do you really think I don’t know what goes on in my own house, that every servant is so devoted to you that no one ever comes to tell me who you write to in your letters?”
“Then why didn’t you stop me? Why did you say nothing?”
“Because it seemed to make you happy, and, in the end, I didn’t care. What terrible subject could you possibly be discussing with a half-crazed woman in a convent? It didn’t matter. But a part of me also wanted to see how long it would take you to admit you had explicitly disobeyed me. Because despite that, I decided to trust you — which you, apparently, did not do for me.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“I can’t tell why, madonna” Novella replied with a smile. “What I do know is that he always carries a locket with your portrait. No matter the situation, he never parts from it. He’s an icy man, always furious, who clings to that jewel as if his life depends on it.”
Maddalena’s lips tightened at those words, and she turned away from Novella, but she remained calmer and did not resume pacing.
“I gave it to him for a journey to Rome,” Maddalena said in a distant voice, lost in memory. “He was forced to leave just a few days after our wedding, and I gave him that necklace so he wouldn’t forget my face.”
“I doubt he ever forgot it,” Novella said.
“Yes,” Maddalena agreed, turning back to Novella, suddenly strangely calm, almost cold. “He always loved me more than I loved him.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“You should never have come back here,” he finally murmured in a calm voice. “I made you disappear once. I can do it a second time. Spare us that trouble, both of us, and go back where you came from.”
There it was. Ah — the arrow she then drew almost changed course. After all, she could pretend it was an accident. Arrows get lost so easily…
“It’s not very smart of you to threaten a woman who holds a bow,” Novella commented in a peaceful, almost cheerful voice.
“You have no power to kill me in my own house, woman, even with your toy,” Jacopo sneered with contempt.
“That’s true,” Novella sighed in a mock-tragic tone. “I can’t kill you, for you are already dead. You have been dead inside for a long time, Jacopo.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Are you nervous? For tonight?” Bianca asked kindly, sitting next to the bride.
Novella smiled as she sipped her glass of wine, watching people dance in the main hall of the Pazzi palace. Nervous. She had always thought she would be. Of course, after all, what young girl isn’t nervous before her wedding night? With all the frightening stories told to keep women away from men’s beds before marriage.
But she was not nervous, in the end. She had always known what to expect. She had grown up in Venice, after all, and in that city, it was hardly possible to remain ignorant for long on the matter. Novella remembered her horror when she had first seen the Doge, her great-uncle, fornicating with a maid. She had rushed away in tears, hiding in her mother’s skirts. Her mother had rolled her eyes, telling her that one day it would be her turn. That there was no use crying over such a sight, for she too would have to lie beneath a man once she married, and she would have to submit to him and let him have his way.
As a child, Novella had nightmares about it. As a teenager, she had felt resentment — toward her mother, toward men. She had decided she would never make the task easy for whoever won her hand. And all those resolutions had vanished when she met Francesco. Novella closed her eyes for a moment, trying to picture tonight. She pictured his gentle, careful gaze. She imagined herself beneath him.
And she smiled.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Breathe, Novella. This is a test. He is putting you to the proof.
She let her hands fall, swallowed her astonishment, and looked her husband in the eyes. He seemed to be searching for something in her gaze, and finally asked in a calm tone “It horrify you, doesn’t it? That I am capable of such things.”
“I have always known what you were capable of, Francesco,” she murmured without looking away from him.
“Oh really, you think so?”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Why?” he asked, his voice rough. “Why did you do all this?”
Why, why, why… They all asked the same question. Even him. It was so wearying.
“I would have died for your sins, Francesco,” Novella murmured with sudden, Olympian calm. “Instead, you let me die inside. You never asked the right questions that night. You frightened me into giving you the answers you wanted — the ones your uncle had convinced you you wanted. I never betrayed you. You told me so many things about the bank — did Lorenzo ever use a single piece of that against you? Tell me. No. Because he never knew. I tried to tell you, but you closed yourself off completely. I had no other way to make you understand.”
Instinctively, Novella lifted her free hand and caressed Francesco’s cheek. The familiar gesture caught in her throat, and he shivered, eyes closing at her touch. She had greeted him with that caress every night. He had always kissed the hollow of her palm in return. “You ask me why I did it? I did it because, despite what you’ve convinced yourself of, I was always loyal and devoted to you, Francesco. I swore before God to honor and obey you, and that is what I did, what I will continue to do until my last breath — even if you do not deserve it.”
FRANCESCO & NOVELLA || My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys.
"Oh, here we go again, The voices in his head, Called the rain to end our days of wild, But you should've seen him when he first got me"
