la pace di Dio

Summary: I stared. I . . . was a miniature female Giotto. Um. On the bright side, hey, at least I was still a girl. On the not-so-bright side . . . Oh. My. God. I know I've always wanted to have blond hair, but I didn't mean it like this! SI!fem!Giotto

Disclaimer: Nope, still doesn't own anything.

CHAPTER I: "Hello, I am―"

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"Why do you still remember?"

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"Oh."

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Time was a strange, fickle creature. It made you slowly forget, distorting the images in your mind until they fluttered away like elusive butterflies. And no matter how much you tried to hold onto a wisp of shredded memory, it would just teasingly dissolve in your hands.

Time was an enemy of all mankind. It was the fact of life.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, stood against the unbending flow of time. After all, memories faded, people grew older, and the world would unceasingly change. Nothing was ever able to defeat time . . . nothing human, at least.

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"Oh you poor thing."

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Looking back onto it, perhaps that should have been my first clue that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

"Nothing can dwindle to nothing, as Nature restores one thing from the stuff of another, nor does she allow a birth, without a corresponding death."

― Titus Lucretius Carus

I was three years old. I was a girl. I had blonde hair woven like flaxen gold, orange eyes the same colour as a dying sunset, and a smile that ―according to my snarky but surprisingly romantic father― could brighten the world.

To you, that description probably just flew over your head like the white noise in the background. AKA, it meant nothing. At most, you would have been currently grumbling about how I was just exaggerating my apparent prettiness. Or maybe you would coo over the mental picture of me you have in your head. After all, I was just a cute toddler, right?

Wrong.

I was not three years old. I did not have blonde hair. I did not have orange eyes.

And my father . . . the handsome, dark-haired and slim Italian man with a fedora was definitely not my father. And no, it was not because my hair colour was different from his. Because that was not the problem here. After all, I was certain that I . . . my body was related to him somehow; my nose was sloped in the same manner, and I even had the same shaped mouth.

But still . . . I was also certain that he was not my father because I already have a father, thank you very much. And a mother. And a different life, if we wanted to get technical.

A life that I was obviously not living in.

(Yeah. I was still salty. Bite me.)

. . .

I was three years old when I finally realized that I had been reborn, in a place (and time) far different than what I was used to. Slopping green hills decorated the earth and the sky was a natural shade of blue that would have been impossible with the amount of pollution in the air. Pollution that was supposed to be in the air. The house I lived in was a tiny but homely place, where the electricity I had once used freely was glaringly absent. In addition, people did not speak in any language I knew. The food was different. My clothing was different. Heck, pretty much everything was different.

. . . At . . . At least they got my sex right. Small mercies that I was definitely thankful for. After all, though it would probably be doable in the end, being reborn as a boy would have taken more than a little while to get used to . . .

Hmm, maybe that was why nobody could remember their past lives? Then again, I obviously did (to a certain extent). Which meant . . .

. . .

How on earth did I even mess up my own reincarnation?! That's a completely different degree of stupid!

I was four when I realized my name was Giotto.

Kind of pathetic, I know, but in my defense my . . . new father rarely called me by my name. And even when he did, I was never too certain that he was actually talking to me. After all, sure, I was probably born in Italy, but I definitely did not know how to speak Italian.

. . . Of all the places I had to be reborn in, why couldn't it be somewhere with a language I actually knew? Why couldn't the people speak English (you know, the universal language?) or Chinese? I could have even gotten by if it was Japanese or French! But noooo, it just had to be the one language I had no idea how to speak.

Anyway, right. Giotto. My name. Wow, that was a weird thought.

. . . According to my funky and really distorted memories (which I spent forever to dig up, ugh), it meant 'God's peace'. I had absolutely no idea why I would once know something like that. It was very . . . quaint. And important-sounding. Pfft, could it be a premonition?

. . . Yeah, no. I did not want to be the protagonist who has to save the world . . . or the main antagonist who tries to stop them. Please. Just no.

On the other hand, I found it to be quite unusual . . . although I was certain that it was not my, ah, previous name, it still felt extremely familiar. I even knew its meaning, for crying out loud. Had I known someone with that name before?

Giotto. Giotto.

Giotto.

For some reason, the first thing that came to my mind was a picture of clams.

I was five when I discovered I had superpowers ―that premonition was starting to look increasingly more likely, to my utmost horror. On the other hand, it cleared up my doubts about how my new world was definitely not the same as my old.

Thank god. I knew I used to live under a rock, but I didn't think I would actually miss something like this.

"Giotto, come here," Father called, eyes distant and tone pitched in a way that sounded almost sad. My heart immediately lurched in unease. "I want mostrarti you something."

Um . . . yeah. They were right when they said that children learnt languages faster than adults. Although I was completely immersed in the Italian culture, I was still struggling to pick up the language. Thankfully, most times I was able to guess the meanings of each sentence if I was too lost.

Obediently, I walked over to the young man and watched as he sighed. He ran his fingers through my thick hair before pulling away, seemingly reluctant.

"Look at my hands," the man ordered softly. I blinked as I obeyed again.

And then my jaw dropped open when my Father's hands literally burst into yellow flames.

What. The. Heck.

No, actually. What the heck. Why were the flames so yellow? Why were they not burning my father? Why was my stupid father watching me with so much open amusement?! This was definitely not normal!

The flames petered out slightly as I tried to recover my lost jaw. While I finished that important task, Father walked over with a soft and sad smile as he rubbed my head again. With his still flaming hands. I was too shocked to even scream, and when I finally realized what he was doing, there wasn't any need to. After all, the yellow flames felt as if they were taking all my bruises and cuts away.

Seriously, what the heck. What kind of wonderland did I fall into here?

"You can do it too," Father promised, as if that was my main worry. Obviously he was looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses. "I'm teaching you how to this year."

. . . Great. I can become a pyromaniac. Definitely my dream job right there. What happened to the parents who warned their children away from playing with fire?

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I ignored how the back of my mind twinged, as if there was something I was seriously missing. It can't be that important, right? Probably just a memory of a character in a novel or something who could use fire. It wasn't uncommon in my world.

But using yellow flames to heal . . .

I was six when, after a whole year of harsh physical training (Father was ruthless, I tell you), I produced the tiniest wisp of yellow flame. Just like the one Father made on that first day, where he blew away all my hopes of being reborn as a normal girl. Father stared at it uncomprehending, before he looked away, eyebrows furrowed together.

". . ."

And then he started to laugh.

Uh. I blinked at the usually-calm man's sudden hysterics before giving him up as a lost cause. Looking away, I took a curious peek at the tiny flicker of warmth in my hands. It was and felt . . . strange, for the lack of words to describe it. Logically, I knew that the flame was suppose to burn me. Theoretically, I knew that. And also the chemical equations for combustion and all that jazz.

Fire was suppose to hurt.

It wasn't though. Burning me, I mean. It just danced on top of my palm, warmth not scorching but in reality soothing.

. . . Clearly this world had infected me with their crazy. Because I actually felt as if this was normal. And it might just well be, for my Father had been healing me every single day in the past year.

Speaking of Father, the man finally stopped laughing as he wiped a tear from his eye. Crouching down in front of me so he could look at the flame again, he ruffled my hair and smiled indulgently.

"Good job, Giotto. This is a Sun Flame. You are not a Sun Type, but I guess your true Flames will come out one day when you need them. I didn't think you would copy your Papa, though."

I froze, despite the soft words of encouragement.

Sun Flames. That healed. Wasn't that an ability in that manga series called Kat―

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. . . Nahh, it couldn't be. After all, I couldn't have messed up my reincarnation that much, could I?

I was seven when I plopped myself in front of our house's only mirror and stared.

Not for the first time, I wondered who my new mother was. After all, I clearly got all my colouring from her. And considering who I thought I probably was, it was interesting to note that I actually had a family.

. . . Well, a father. But having my father was enough for me.

In the end, it wasn't surprising that I had completely missed this for a couple of years. Especially when I was trying my utmost best to delude myself into thinking that I was normal. As if remembering my past life was just a little fluke.

I shouldn't have even hoped for something like that.

Anyway, you know all of those self-insert stories you once read when you were bored? Well, they all tended to forgot to mention one tiny but important detail. Because . . .

When you were reborn into the world of a manga or something, you don't just . . . magically turn into an anime character. Or a cartoon. No, everything still looks like real life, with real people. Everything was still in 3-D, not . . . 2-D.

That changes things. At most, you could maybe recognize others if they had weird hairstyles, or because of their names. They looked like those extremely well-done cosplays at an anime con.

For me, however, I didn't even realize that I was also one of those cosplays. Could you even blame me? I was still a child! I didn't have . . . ah, my character's mantle or his gloves or even his ring. But . . .

Magical Flames, check.

Bright dandelion hair, check.

Unnaturally orange eyes, check.

Name, check.

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"A-At least my sex . . .?" I murmured desperately to myself as I resisted the urge to cry. I couldn't be that Giotto, could I? I couldn't. I didn't want to become a Mafia boss, or even a vigilante! I didn't want to be the one who cursed his descendant to become the same! I didn't want to be betrayed by family, I didn't want to watch loved ones die, I didn't . . . I didn't . . . !

Well, I didn't want to do a lot of things. Including living this life. But beggars couldn't be choosers, right?

I was eight when I started to realize that something was really wrong within my perfect fictional world.

How? Well, it was mostly thanks to the sheer amount of blood on the living room floor. Like, the floor was covered in it. And considering the fact that I called the only room in our little house that was big enough to be the living room, that was seriously something scary.

Thankfully, I was a girl, which meant I saw my fair share of blood every month. Or I used to. In any case, my hands did not shake at all as I used saltwater to disinfect the large gashes and cuts on my Father.

My father. He has been looking more and more tired lately, and his usual smirks were now just a feeble upturn of thin lips. To be honest, I didn't know what scared me more. Because of his mannerisms and looks, I had been subconsciously thinking of him as Giotto's own Reborn. After all, he even had a fedora! And he had Sun Flames! The Italian man who reeked of danger was supposed to be invincible, cool, godly.

Just like Reborn . . . who was also human. We saw that in the last arc, didn't we?

But . . . Father was my father.

I was not supposed to see him covered in blood, breathing labored as he tried his best to staunch his wounds. I was not supposed to see him so tired, so drained of flames that he could barely stay awake.

I was so scared, because. He was my father.

"Giotto," Father murmured softly, weakly, as a large hand ruffled my hair. I immediately tried to protest ―I still needed to clean up the blood! Even the fedora was drenched in it!― when I choked on the words.

"Giotto, Papa's sorry," Father said soothingly as he slowly patted my head. "Please don't make that face. Papa will be careful next time, alright?"

I desperately wanted to believe him. I desperately, desperately wanted to believe him.

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I didn't.

". . . lad, lad. Hey . . ."

I blinked my heavy eyes open, dazed as someone shook my shoulder gently. Someone who definitely did not have my father's voice.

. . .

Jerking up in a panic, the person moved back quickly. "Whoa! Easy there, lil' fella."

I turned to him, taking in the cloak and the traveler's outfit. More panic welled up in my stomach as I frantically looked around. I . . . was at the front of a . . . town? I was sitting on hay, in this small caravan, and just.

Where was my father?

"Mister, who are you?" I asked quietly, trying to keep the hint of terror from my voice. The man gave me a sad, almost knowing look. I felt my mouth dry up.

"A gentleman payed me well to make sure you got here safely. You slept through the entire trip."

I numbly turned around to look at the town. It looked familiar, and I probably had been there once or twice before. Or maybe all the towns just looked similar.

But. The nearest town was at least seven days away from my home. Had I been drugged?

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Needless to say, I had no idea how to get back.

Everything after that played through as if I had taken a backseat to my life. I thanked the worried driver, took the things Father had apparently packed me, and left to find a small inn. After all, the driver had given me a few coins so I could pay for the night. Inside the inn, I took some food and calmly set down my bag before I went to find a mirror. And when I did find it, I could only stare.

If I had any doubts about who I was, they were all gone now.

Father had cut my long gold hair, and it was now a fluffy mess that sat above my head. My usual dresses I liked wearing were gone, and I wore the simple outfit of a young boy.

No wonder the man had called me 'lad'. Right now, I just looked like a young, slightly feminine guy. I also looked startling like what I imagined Giotto, male Giotto, to look like. Wow, what luck.

. . . I never wanted to be proven right.

Going back to my bag, I unpacked everything I was left with. Some food and herbs. A pouch full of coins. Another change of clothes. A lovely necklace with a pretty blue jewel. A gun. A knife.

. . .

My breath caught in my throat as I lifted the next item out of the bag. It was Father's black fedora, still splotchy with bloodstains.

And . . .

Safely tucked inside was a letter in father's handwriting.

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'Giotto.' It said, in sloppy and fancy loops. 'I'm sorry. Do not come back.'

Do not come back.

. . . I could guess why. There were blood droplets on the letter too.

I was nine years old and my father was nowhere in sight.

I was nine . . . and alone when I buried my head into my knees and cried.

.END.

AN: Oh my god. I have so much homework and tests, and updates I should write (The Final Boss is my next update, hopefully), but instead I write this. I don't even know why I was trying to stop myself from writing yet another one of my plotbunnies ―it obviously never works.

I have been splurging on self-inserts and new stories lately. Someone stop me. Obviously having a self-insert for Tsuna wasn't enough. Ugh. Why me.

Anyway, all feedback would be really, really appreciated! I live on reviews and comments, really. It's the only thing that keeps me going as an author. As for why I wrote this, well, I actually adore the first gen of Vongola, maybe even more than our protagonists. They're so similar yet so different, and I'm going to have a lot of fun fleshing them all out.

Thanks for reading!