This is something I post with much trepidation...because I am so unsure if it will be any good or whether the fandom will take any interest. So here I am posting this, the preview-(prologue)-thing to my newest, long running series in the KHR fandom.

A completely 1st gen centric fic.

This new fic is still in the planning, because it is going to be 40 something chapters long (I hope), and since very little is given to us in regards to relationships and personalities of the Primo generation a lot of planning needs to be put in, especially since I do not want them to/feel they would be carbon copies of Decimo's generation. This won't formally begin being written and posted until sometime in Late-August, Early-September...because I need to PLAN. My beta, mercyn, can vouch for that.

I want to make this as historically accurate as I can, so each chapter or section will have as much research into it as I can afford. Please feel free to mention if you see a blaring inaccuracy. I am not a history student, after all.

Before you go on, I would like to thank mercyn, because without them this story wouldn't be half as detailed as it is. So thank you, mercyn for constantly questioning my plot and the relationships I threw at you, all without getting frustrated and with constant support. This wouldn't be half as detailed without you.

So enjoy, and please don't kill me.

Summary: Vongola did not just appear out of nothing. Giotto and his guardians were once strangers, and children with no concept of what they would one day do in the future. Giotto and G were street-rats, orphans with no prospects. Ugetsu was a travelling musician with infallible loyalty missing an outlet. Alaude was a constrained nobleman and Daemon was out for revenge. Knuckle was striving to be the best, but a gentle heart does not a fighter make and Lampo too had little hope in the world, lost in his own selfishness. But they had dreams and they saw what the Mafia could do to their friends and innocent people alike. Young and strong Giotto decided to fight. This is how the Vongola we know, and the people we don't, came to be and all their turmoil and mistakes along the way.
1st Gen. Eventual OC pairings. Slight violence. Swearing.

Making legends; Primo Generation.

Don't think too hard.

The sky was a beautiful thing. He had always thought so, even when it was darkened with storms and rain. Even in the night, when the sky no longer reflected blue, it let shine everything within it, past it and below it.

Something truly amazing.

Blonde hair rustled in the breeze as the wind danced in the air. Blue eyes gazed up at the mirrored azure sky, as their owner had for all his life. Giotto couldn't remember obviously, but the nuns he lived with told him that since he was a babe just new to the world, Giotto would always be gazing at the sky. His eyes never left the big blue heavens. Giotto wouldn't tell anyone why he did it, even deep into his teens, and that was because the boy himself did not know. He felt drawn to the sky, as if it held some kind of deep significance to him, personally or otherwise.

As for why he lived with nuns, well, Giotto was an orphan. He had been since he was born. Apparently his parents were nobles or something, lived the highlife and died in a fire. No one really knew, and Giotto didn't particularly care.

"Santuario di mare e marinaio." Giotto mumbled as he looked over the dilapidated building where he and about ninety other children lived. Though, none were over fourteen and the youngest had been dropped off that day when her mother died in childbirth; not uncommon, Giotto thought.

Some were bastards; some were runaways; others were too young to remember what a parent was; and others were abandoned as older boys and girls because their parents were stifled with debt and felt their children were the forfeit; some said temporary, but Giotto scoffed and doubted that at all.

Once an abandoned child, always an abandoned child.

Their children's home had a strange name, but an even stranger location. It was one of those rare towns that took root upon the rocky coastline of Portofino and favoured fishing over military guard. Giotto figured that was why the orphanage took such a name, instead of the usual iconic title after some unknown or mistaken saint. Many fathers of the orphans were probably once sailors or had been marines from those fascinating, far away placed across the sea that Giotto had heard so much about. He wouldn't have been surprised if the foreign sailor has knocked up some young maiden from the little fishing town with the promise of marriage before promptly leaving.

Again, nothing uncommon about that.

Still, Giotto wanted out. He wanted freedom so badly. He wanted a family more, but so did every other scruffy kid in the home. The nuns were great, sure. They didn't spank without reason and didn't scream too much. Sometimes they even fed them fresh bread and patched up their clothes for them, instead of leaving the older kids to teach the younger ones how to sew. But they weren't mothers, well not in the sense that the children wanted.

Giotto was determined to get a family though. It was his one dream. He wanted to be the man of a house with a wonderful wife, and children that he would never, ever, abandon. He wanted to be strong and brave, and depended on.

Giotto was a child that thrived on that dependence, he drew from it a passion and a will to live and fight. When the children of the house left him, or told him to go away Giotto felt lost and empty. He was certain that a family would give him that unadulterated, unconditional purpose in life.

"Giotto, if you think too much you'll hurt that small brain of yours." the voice that appeared next to him had laughter within it, something touching and soft.

"Shut up, Galileo." Giotto snapped as he sat up and glared at his red-headed friend.

"I-idiot! You know I hate that name!" His dear friend sputtered, and Giotto found himself grinning toothily.

"And that's why I call you that, G."

G started a rant about stupid parents and how unsuitable his name was. Giotto's attention drifted away from the rant, and the slight flush that painted G's cheeks. His eyes trailed over his slender friend, he saw the scruffy clothes and the dishevelled hair and couldn't help but smile.

G was orphaned too, but unlike Giotto, much more was known about G and his lineage. At least his parents were still alive. G was left at the orphanage when he was one and a half; his parents had met when they were young and grew to love each other over the four years they continued to meet in secret. It was a sweet and gentle love. But with heavily Catholic parents, when the couple consummated the love they shared and G was conceived, they knew they could never keep their beautiful child; but they couldn't bear to find some back-alley witch-doctor to terminate the sweet child- the evidence of their love.

G's father was a priest in training, though left the priest-hood once G had been left at the orphanage two whole cities away from where he was born. G's father proceeded to find other work in a blacksmith; he was young and strong enough to pick up the apprenticeship with ease. Later he would marry G's mother, and when they travelled back to find G and take him home it would be too late, G would already be starting his life outside the orphanage with Giotto.

G's mother was a beautiful soul. She lived the high-life as the daughter of an instrument maker; her parents were Catholic but had little to do with the church. She would be distraught over having to leave her sweet baby boy at the orphanage but she knew that her parents would not help her care for the illegitimate child, and as a woman of a nobler status she had no qualifications in labour to work and keep her child safe. The first year showed her that she couldn't raise her child herself yet. Still, she left her family upon giving G up and worked as a seamstress; hoping that one day her sweet baby would be back with her.

Though it would never happen.

It was a sad truth, unmarried families were not welcome at the time, and with money tight and Italy as a country progressing steadily a child was safer in an orphanage where he might be fed and clothed, than on the streets while his parents worked.

Of course, Giotto was happy that G was abandoned by his parents. It was a cruel and sad thing to believe, but Giotto didn't want to think of his life in the drab, poor children's home without G; it wasn't worth imagining. G and Giotto had been together forever. As long as forever was for young boys in an orphanage anyway. They were inseparable, perfect like fire and wood were perfect. But it didn't always start like that of course.

G and Giotto had always been aware of each other's existence in the home. It was hard not to really. G was a spitting, yowling mass of energy, constantly in people's faces; but he was smart and quiet too and Giotto saw that more often than anyone else. Giotto knew that G saw things and understood things far beyond any normal child.

Giotto on the other hand was a sullen and quiet child. He was looked up to in the home and all the younger children flocked to him because of his inherent kindness and compassion. He helped everyone he could, but he also pushed them harder than anyone. To better themselves; to better others. It was as if he was a leader, even in the beginning when he wasn't even ten yet.

It annoyed G to no ends.

They formally met when they were seven. Giotto was napping in the wooded area outside the orphanage and G had been sent out for a 'time out' by the nun who ran the place. Apparently picking a six year old up by the ankles and shaking him was not being passive-aggressive which was a big lesson in the orphanage, something like 'and eye for an eye' and 'hurting others hurts you'; though G rarely listened. Apparently G was supposed to be listening.

"Che, stupid nun. Those kids need to learn to toughen up or else they'll never survive when they leave this run down place." G's voice didn't hold as much venom as it should have, and he had a very valid point. But as was usually the case he was not great at socialising with people, or getting his point across.

Giotto had heard G's little soliloquy and had begun staring at the red haired boy. He had always been intrigued by G; he too was protective of the younger children, getting into physical brawls with the older ones when the bullying- in his opinion- got too rough. Which was ironic, given G's own treatment of the young children. More often than not Giotto saw G sitting in corner on his own, attempting to read one of the few books in the orphanage. Giotto didn't kid himself, none of them knew how to read; it wasn't taught to them. Giotto thought though, that G was probably smart enough to teach himself given the chance.

"What you staring at?" G has turned to face the blonde child, and he didn't like that look. It saw too much, knew too much. It was the look of someone more mature. Even though they were both children.

"Nothin'." Giotto had intoned quickly, "Just thinking that you're not as angry as you make people think."
"Oh yeah?" G had scoffed, "And what would a pretty boy like you know, hmm?" Giotto was silent for a moment, and that annoyed G even more. "Oi, I'm talking to you blondie!"

Somehow or another, in the minds of two seven year old boys the brash declaration and blatant disregard in each other's faces and body-language meant that a fight was needed. They attacked each other with small fists making solid contact, and G even went as far as to bite Giotto's shoulder- hard- when the blonde had him pinned awkwardly.

Of course, the nun was not pleased when she came outside to find the two boys rolling around on the ground hissing and maiming each other. She had immediately proceed to break them up, spank them with a paddle a good few times before sitting them each in a corner of the kitchen, facing the wall, to reflect on what they had done.

For ten minutes the boys had sulked, wincing each time they shifted as their rumps throbbed in pain. The nun was harsh and her philosophy loosely translated into 'a good whipping builds character in boys.' or something like that. G and Giotto despite their affinity to being alone practically made the philosophy for the nun.

"Sorry I came off as rude earlier. You're just so interesting, Galileo." Giotto was the first to break the silence, still staring at the wall. G could see the blonde scratch his hair out of the corner of this eye.

"How the hell do you know that name, bastard?"

"Well," the blonde began, "I've known it for a while, hard not to notice when you're always being yelled at."

G had the indignation to blush, "Well don't call me that, bastard. It makes you sound like a stalker."

It was Giotto's turn to blush. "I-I'm not a stalker i-idiot! You just piqued my interest, I wanted to be friends; not be bitten! Are you a dog or something?"
"A-a dog?! Bastard, what did you call me?!"

"What am I supposed to call you when you bite me?!"

By now the boys had turned from their corners to glare each other down. But, to G's dismay, the glare on Giotto's face was more of a pout, and the boy looked pathetic. His eyes were clear-cut like ice and though resolve burned in them, G couldn't see past the puffed cheeks that were still painted with an embarrass blush.

He found himself doubling over with laughter.

"G," he finally relented, "just call me G, only my friends do."

Heavier laughter soon joined his, and G found a smile on his lips. He has always seen Giotto surrounded by children-younger and older- yet the blonde always seemed so distant and unapproachable. Like he was acting out a part that he wanted to play but couldn't. Seeing him laughing, his eyes closed and stomach tensing under the dirty cotton shirt he wore, G found himself comfortable like he had never felt before.

"Then you can call me Giotto."

From there it was fire and wood, it wasn't explosive like it had first been- as if the pair was fire and dry bush touching during a drought- now they smouldered slowly, kindling each other in that slow and furious way. Giotto hated the feeling of abandonment and hated that G had to feel it too. But at least they had met. The last six years were amazing, and Giotto would never change it, even if he wished they could have a real family.

"Gio," G started again, his eyes soft this time to match the sad smile on his lips. "I said to stop thinking so hard about things. You'll only hurt yourself."

Giotto's only reply to the taunting was that cheeky upturn of his lips that slowly settled into the brilliant smile that G had the pride of being the sole receiver.

"I know, G." Giotto laughed, "But there is so much to think about."

"Ah," G got that faraway look in his eyes as the implications hit him. It wasn't long anymore before they'd be leaving. "we only have until the summer, huh?"

Giotto nodded to himself as he stood up to join his friend. It was true, by the time it was summer he and G would be cast out by the orphanage as grown boys. They couldn't stay forever, but even as cold as the children's' home was it was the only home either knew and to leave was not something they wished.

"Yeah, we still have to figure out what we're going to do though. The money the orphanage gives us won't last us long." Giotto mumbled as they made their way out of the gardens and towards the town.

"We'll figure it out. You know that someone in the town will give us jobs." G didn't looks concerned, but Giotto could see differently.

"Giotto, G!" The boys paused in their walk, straightening as their eyes passed over the older man who had called them. "How are you boys doing this morning?"

The man was a round-bellied, jolly man. Thick brown hair stuck to his scalp, and green eyes lit up round cheeks. He had a stern fist- not afraid to whip a thief- but he was kind hearted and genuine.
"Mr. Anderson. Good morning." Giotto smiled with a bright, charismatic grin and G nodded in his silent greeting.

"Mornin' old man."

"Sarcastic as ever I see." The man chuckled.

"We're doing well, sir." Giotto chuckled, "Just taking a stroll."

Mr. Anderson was the local baker. He owned the largest shop in town and was pretty much the local gossip too. If you needed to know something, Mr. Anderson knew it. The entire town loved him and if a leader had to be named, beside the mayor of course, it was this man.

"Ah," he hummed, "I recon you lads are almost of age hmm?"

G scoffed, hands in his pockets comfortably, "You'd be right, we leave that dump in a couple months now."

A large hand came across the back of G head suddenly, and the young red-head almost fell on his face from the impact. "Hold your tongue, you little bastard," the man laughed good naturedly. "Those people raised you since you were a young'un. Respect that."

"Sorry about him, sir." Giotto placated. "You know G."

"Giotto!"

"Your friend is right, lad." Mr. Anderson placated before turning to the blonde, "But you shouldn't have to keep bailing this little rat out of trouble, young man."
Giotto looked a little put out, a small blush colouring his cheek bones, "He's no trouble, sir. 'Sides, we're friends." he grinned.

Mr. Anderson sighed. "Apparently, so what do you recon you'll do? You can't keep sneaking about to get your way; you won't be orphans anymore, technically. No leniency there."

Giotto was silent for a moment, looking to the sky just behind Mr. Anderson's head. "I don't know. We could travel if we had the money."
"We'll have to get a job, I suppose." G shrugged, "Know anyone looking for a pair of young boys?"

The baker hummed, a hand on his stubble covered face and another on his floured apron. "I can think of but a few, most of it is strenuous; an' you'll get a whippin' if you act up." He warned.

"I'm sure I can keep G in line, sir." Giotto grinned, his face lighting the air as it usually did.

"Giotto! What do you mean 'keep me in line', bastard!?"

"I'm sure you can, lad." The man's deep chuckle had both boys grinning despite themselves, "Alright boys, I'll talk to a few people and see what I can do. Keep in mind that I can't promise anything."

"That's alright, we'll figure out something," G sighed, and then he turned back in the direction they had originally been headed with a wave over his shoulders.

"Thank you, Mr. Anderson. Have a good day." Giotto smiled thinly before following his red-headed friend down the winding path.

"Good boys, those lads." The baker sighed as he watched the bantering pair leave, "They'll make something of themselves they will, mhhmm."

Mr. Anderson was a good man to know, and G and Giotto knew him well. When they were eight they had been messing around as they walked down that very street, and before they knew it a cart came barrelling down the street. After seamlessly dodging it they looked in its origin to find Mr. Anderson cussing out every man and beast he knew. The red-faced man had looked at the shocked pair of boys on the floor and promised them a large loaf each if they could catch the cart before it lost all his merchandise. None of it was baked goods, but equipment that had taken months and fortunes to get shipped to his store.

Giotto and G of course didn't hesitate, and using their dodging and thievery skills had the cart subdued and on the long journey back to the bakery before half a clock chime had sounded.

Since then they had tried to outwit the man, steal or dance-talk their way into more food; sure the orphanage fed them, but anything was better than what they were fed. Mr. Anderson, in all good faith, humoured the boys and over the years they had both developed bargain tongued that could lash out with the best of them. Mr. Anderson fed them for a price from time to time, and offered their 'youthful energies' elsewhere. They had a few people who regularly caught the brunt of their pranks –training they insisted –and services, but most of the town knew of them.

In fact, the two boys were known by name by a majority of the people in the town; for various reasons. Giotto, charismatic and helpful often got the stuff he and G needed by smiling politely and offering a youthful hand; either that or acting as distraction while G did the dirty work.

Couldn't blame the boys, they were orphans and nineteenth century Italy was hard living.

For instance, there was Mrs. Swanson, the seamstress at the top of the longest road of the town. She had taught Giotto how to sew when he was five and had wondered out of the orphanage. She was a gently lady and often needed a hand with her groceries; when Giotto helped she rewarded him by patching up his or G's trousers for him. Through her Giotto was able to teach the younger boys and girls in the orphanage and made their lives easier.

Mr. Miles from the docks was the best fisherman in the town, and G had often helped out from the age of seven to eleven at the docks, chucking fish in the market for the man while he did other things. This got G enough money to buy sweets from time to time; all of which he shared with Giotto.

Giotto wasn't entirely sure why G had stopped working for the man, but he had his suspicions. the man was the best fisherman at the doc, but Mr. Miles also had a sickly child whose medical bills occasionally grew more expensive than what the man could afford while paying his extra hands. Giotto had seen Mr. Miles be cussed out more than once when his numerous hands had quick and called Mr. Miles fraudulent. G never left though.

Giotto thinks that the reason G left was because Mr. Miles forced him to. The man had since moved inland, away from the shore where it was hoped his son would recover some. Mr. Miles was a good man, and when he couldn't pay G he was always wracked with guilty, so in the end he sent the boy off with a guilty apology and half of his usual pay extra when G finally stopped going.

Or, that's what Giotto thinks, because the boy didn't know; he could only rely on that nagging instinct he had.

Giotto had always been very intuitive, and as a child the nuns had thought him of feral blood. As a baby and toddler, and even into his older childhood, Giotto would be haunted by a kind of 'knowing'. Things would happen as a baby, and he would cry for hours straight, only to for something dangerous or spectacular to happen, and his crying stop.

Once he had bawled for two straight days, his cries getting louder, hysterical, and more desperate as the hours went by. As the other babies in the 'infant' become furiously grumpy from the lack of sleep the infant's wing caught fire; Giotto stopped crying. They had lost not only a lot of their orphanage – the older children's' wing had been evacuated before the fire spread thankfully –but a lot of the younger children; twelve in total.

As Giotto grew older he'd just move suddenly, or look around as if someone had spoken in his ear.

It was disconcerting for the Nuns and they thought him possessed at first; after a priest had met the boy they were quickly soothed as the priest had never met a purer child in his lifetime. That didn't placate them much though, they thought later that he was of bad genes and had a mental deformity; but he learnt much quicker than the other children.

So eventually the nuns and other children simply put it to the back of their minds, they were highly aware of Giotto when he did make a strange move, but over the years it had become more conditioned to not make a big deal of whatever 'gift' Giotto had been given by God.

Sure his instincts made Giotto's life better, but sometimes they would make him pause and would scream at him; as if he were doing something wrong. It got quite disruptive at times.

Once while Giotto was working at a small restaurant – as a dish boy –he had that destructive screaming assault him and had broken ten dishes. He had been whipped for that and G had forced him to quit quickly after.

That was one reason that G and Giotto had so many different jobs and they didn't last long. Though over the years Giotto had gotten better at controlling these 'intuition' spikes. By the time he was leaving the orphanage he would very rarely be overwhelmed by them.

After Mr. Miles and the restaurant jobs were other jobs too, of course; the town may not have been large but it wasn't tiny. The various faces of employers and the details of their jobs faded in and out of the boys' memories and experiences. All along they made a name for themselves through giggled gossips and boisterous tales of their boyhood.

They were often called the 'switchblade brothers'. Now it wasn't maliciously labelled, it was simply because the boys could be grinning, sarcastic bastards one minute before becoming cunning and dangerous the next. It left the town baffled and not too rarely laughing whole heartedly as the pair pulled another stunt with the local merchants.

Even more amusing was when travelling merchants came to town.

Once when G and Giotto were ten, a whole market of travellers arrived at their town on the way through Italy from the east. There were traders with furs and instruments of all sorts of bizarre and fabled kinds.

It was a paradise for those of little hands and swift feet.

They had never eaten so much food or had so much material to fix their clothes. Giotto and G lead the group of older children in the hunts and the few older boys were in the process of teaching G and Giotto how to hide their loot from the nuns so they didn't get a hiding. It was exhilarating, and though G wanted to keep all the food to themselves, they always shared with the younger children upon Giotto's insistence.

There was only one band of travellers that never got tricked by Giotto and G. It was a small family merchant group; but they weren't quite merchants. They were musicians. They had taken up a small stage-like stand at the entrance of the market, a small group played music while the rest sold instruments from some faraway lands.

They were mystifying; the music was hypnotising.

G and Giotto tried a total of twelve times to snatch a reed pipe they called a 'flute' and each time they were met and just missed the sliver glint of the merchant's blade; another instrument the boys had never seen in all their lives.

It became a game in the end, Giotto and G used the master swordsman's –which was amazing, because the man was a musician and yet he knew how to fight so well –speed and skill to test their own mettle. To see just how close they could get to stealing the merchandise, even when by that time they had absolutely no interest in the flutes and musical materials at all.

a week into the festival they realised that the merchant knew they weren't interested in any of his materials. G and Giotto were walking back to the orphanage empty-handed from their latest failure to get more food when they had been cornered by a couple of the homeless men from the other side of town. These men were grimy and vile; they smelt of death and had poor thieving skills. They had cornered G and Giotto knowing that the boys were skilled.

"Give us 'ur food. 'er else we'll flail you." one man had slurred drunk on cheap spirit.

"As if, bastards." G has snarled, and even when the second man, missing all his teeth, had pulled out a rusted flailing knife he did not move from in front of Giotto.

Both young boys knew they were screwed, but that didn't mean they were cowards. they also weren't ungrateful.

The elder merchant and swordsman from the travelling musicians appeared out of nowhere, and in a few parries had the two homeless men running and screaming with shallow wounds that Giotto knew would scar but would not kill them.

"You lads okay?" he asked with that strange accent of his, "They didn't hurt ya' did they?"

His eyes were a deep brown and they scanned the boys for injury with genuine concern; it unnerved the orphans, because no one looked so concerned with them.

"We're fine, old man." G had scoffed. "Why'd you care anyways?"

Giotto would have elbowed G for his rudeness if he weren't as curious and suspicious. No one cared about orphans, especially ones who stole and pranked good, honest people. Merchants especially hated kids like G and Giotto; this man obviously wanted something. The pair of boys had tried to steal his precious merchandise and hounded him for hours at a time to test their skills.

He wanted something; the question was what.

To their surprise the man smiled gently and sheathed his bloodied sword with a swift click. "My son is about your age. I would want someone to help my boy if 'e was in the situation you two were in. Besides, you remind me of myself as a boy. I know the orphan life is difficult." he grinned and winked.

He had turned his back on the still wary boys, and before he left through an alley way that would lead back to his stall and inn he turned to face the boys again.

"Come again tomorrow and you'll meet my boy. He's be'n helping his mother with some other work so he'll finally be at the stall tomorrow. I'm sure you'll like him; he's much like you."

With that he was gone and Giotto and G made their hasty way back to the orphanage. They hadn't been scared, but they realised that the man they had been outright harassing for the past while really could have killed them at any time; he was skilled enough to do so.

They questioned a lot of things that evening, and made a pact to go thank the man for saving them; even if it shattered their pride to do so.

When the merchants left, having been passing through to another town where a famous musician family lived, G and Giotto were more distraught than they ever thought they would be; especially since the merchant-swordsman's son was very much like them. They had hit it off like a duck to water and to see him leave was depressing.

it wasn't easy for the orphan boys, with their rash and cold personalities, to make friends.

"Maa maa, I'll be back soon. My family travels the world often and Italy is a favourite of my mother. I'm sure we'll pass through again in a few years."

"See G, nothing to worry about." Giotto smiled softly, looking at G with confidence. The boys were walking away from Mr. Anderson's place and towards the pier.

"Ah, I wasn't worried." G explained. "I just wish we didn't have to stay in this town."

"You don't want to stay?" Giotto knew this well, the red-head beside him was practically a part of Giotto's soul at this point.

"Nah, don't you want to see the world?" G asked, a sceptical eyebrow raised; he knew the blonde wanted to travel. "I found this book that said there are lands to the east that don't have a God."

Giotto looked sceptical; after all he wasn't entirely sure where G would find such a book.

Years ago Giotto and G stumbled upon a small chapel tucked away between a book store and a brothel. Upon stumbling in they met a charismatic boy and a rather blunt priest. After a few visits the priest taught G to read while Giotto did other things; errands, or spending time with the young boys in training for the priesthood to pay the man back. Most, like G and Giotto himself were orphans, but had been deposited at a different church three towns away before moving to Portofino years ago.

From G, Giotto would learn to read; from Giotto, G would learn basic boxing. Though writing was still a little tricky for both boys, they were curious and interested in learning so much more. They were blind to the world before learning about books and language. But the priest had been to many counties, east and west, and had told the boys many stories about these places.

Perhaps G got the book from the priest.

"No God, that seems strange?" Giotto murmured.

"I know, their language and culture's strange too," G continued, making hand gestures as if to prove his point. "The book I was reading had examples of their language, it was all strange symbols, not letters." G scoffed, as if it weren't real.

The boys kept walking, G letting the information about this eastern country pour out of his mouth in torrents. Giotto smiled as he watched his friend; G was never in a more natural setting than when he was learning. It was nice to see him open slightly, because when others were around G steeled up into the cold, sarcastic brat everyone knew him as.

Giotto and G had always wanted to travel. Neither of them really knew why, they just didn't feel comfortable in one place. Giotto supposed it was because they had been practically trapped within Portofino and the orphanage all their lives. Both their parents had been from towns miles away, and Giotto family was apparently from inland –though he didn't know for sure.

Giotto took an unhealthy interest in the stories that the travelling merchants told, and the strange visitors from the west always proved to make Giotto wonder; what if he could be the same. What is he could travel the world too; could see it all?

G had always been curious about culture and language, the few books he had found about western language and of strange eastern symbols never failed to bring out a idea of G that only Giotto and the Priest was privy too. It was an open and childish side of the usually serious red-head.

Giotto thought that perhaps it was this side of G, his actual curious nature that made him want to travel around and learn. It was unfortunate they lived as orphans, because Giotto knew that if he were living in his family where money was not a problem G would be the smartest and most well educated man he knew one day.

Now though they were orphans and all they could do was figure out a way to live.

"We won't be able to leave for a while though, G." Giotto confirmed with a frown, "Travel I men." Giotto confirmed. We'll barely have enough money to eat, never mind somewhere to sleep. You can't expect us to be able to travel anywhere."

"I know that," G seethed, "but we will travel."

Giotto hummed for a while; soon they reached the pier where all the boats and fisherman lived. It was a beautiful town, a bay formed in front of the cliff-bound houses by an outstretch of rock that cradled the town, and past that the sea stretched warmly, it was a beautiful time to be living, and a wonderful town to be born in. Sure, Giotto wanted to know about his past, and wanted the love of a family, but he suspected what he and G had came close.

"Ah well, I guess we should to get dinner before that stupid nun gets on our case for not being home." G sighed, looking over to the horizon where he could see the boats returning home with their catch.

"Ah, we better clean our hands too." Giotto admitted.

As G began up the path, Giotto cast his eyes upwards, watching the sky as darkness bled in from the east. He imagined the strange place that G had spoken of, and his man filled with the imaginings of all the other places they had so little knowledge on. A place to the north with 'snow', a place where sun shone all year and foods that they could only imagine. Even places, apparently, that no one knew about.

"Will I see the world?" Giotto murmured to himself and the sky, "Or will I be stuck here, just another orphan boy?"

"Giotto?"

G had stopped half way up the steps, having realised that Giotto wasn't following when the boy hadn't answered his question.

"Coming!" Giotto called before taking the stone steps two at a time.

He had time to think about what he was going to do, and where he was going to go. We know where he ends up, and everyone knew he was going to make something of himself. But Giotto was a thirteen year old child, just about to leave his 'home' for a new adventure.

There was nothing more terrifying and exhilarating that that, Giotto thought.

So there you have it. The opening chapter to my newest and hopefully interesting story: Making Legends. Again, after reading below, if you feel there are any detrimental inaccuracies don't be afraid to mention them. I'm learning and enjoying writing as much as you (I hope) enjoy reading, and I would love to get better.

Some story references:

Santuario di mare e marinaio: 'Sanctuary of sea and sailor'. Honestly I made this up and hope that eventually it will make sense as to why I chose it. It's pretty random, and I got the translation online so I hope any Italian readers will correct me if I'm wrong.

"the rocky coastline of Portofino": This is a real place. I did some research into different rocky areas of Italy, because not many towns/villages were inland way back when and I want this to be as accurate as a teenager with no history and little geography knowledge can make it. Also, I wanted to set the scene of the sea for the future of this fic. I won't go into too much detail here though.

Fourteen and leaving the orphanage: I don't imagine that back in the day (18th century give or take) children would be allowed to stay in an orphanage for much longer than this, especially boys. After all, adults were younger long ago. I've based this on my very little knowledge of British history and the 18th (give or take) century.