Authors Note: As with my previous fiction upload 'Sommerrodelbahn': Once a week in a RP forum I frequent I am set a writing challenge by our resident Germany. I'm given a prompt (be it a quote, video, picture, or random set of words), and my aim to produce a short piece using that prompt. It's a lot of fun and I find it to be a good way to broaden my imagination and linguistic skills. It also gives me motivation to write, and allows me to gain helpful critiques.
My most recent prompt was for Feliciano to interact with a historical figure in Italian history that he admired in someway. I decided to choose Carlo Collodi for this. For those who don't know; Carlo Collodi (born Carlo Lorenzini) was the author of Pinocchio. He also served in the Tuscan army during the Italian Wars of Independence and wrote satirical articles for newspapers during that time. A pretty interesting guy, not to mention smart, witty, and truly someone I think Feliciano would learn to like and look up to.
As to Feliciano's slight OOC behaviour in the beginning. My personal headcanon came into play here. I believe that during the Wars of Independence and Unification of Italy, Feliciano was probably going through something of a 'growth spurt' and like young human adults all this extra stress and heightened emotion would have led him to be rather obnoxious and somewhat moody at times. Hey he can't be chirpy and chipper all the time, right?
So without further ado, please enjoy~
❝A Flattering Comparison?❞
The first time Feliciano meets him he decides with some measure of childish petulance that he does not like the man. In some ways he still is, childish that is. He's been repressed and ground under firm boot for so many years, decades, and centuries; that compared to his kin in other nations, he feels as if he hasn't grown as much as he should.
In some ways he's grateful for this. Growing too much would lead him down a path far too familiar; far too like his grandfather or his beloved- No he wouldn't allow himself to fall like them.
Yet another part of him is screaming defiance, throwing himself against the oppression of others with fierce abandon, wanting to be free, to be independent and whole.
It seemed as of late, a lot of his thoughts were split two ways. Like the opposing poles of magnets he appeared to attract and repel ideas with nary a thought to the future. He couldn't help it; his body ached. As bad as… or perhaps worse than it did during the plagues.
His people wanted change; he knew that much, but comfort in the familiar and no uncertain amount of guilt stayed Feliciano from snatching at his independence as so many others were, as his own brother to the south was attempting this very moment.
But… Feliciano could not find the strength within himself to betray the likes of Roderich…
All these things added up to make Feliciano feel very much like an uncertain child in a world of adults.
He was used to being ruled, used to taking orders; and so that's what he continued to do. He thought nothing of it when the Grand Duke of Tuscany summoned him personally and requested he investigate a new newspaper circulating the area. It was causing something of a sensation with its well written and witty satire.
Such things were dangerous in times like these, or so Feliciano had been told.
And so Feliciano had hurried to do as he was bid. The newspaper was called Il Lampione and Feliciano had been told that its creator was a young man originally from Florence, a political minded creature by the name of Carlo Lorenzini.
Standing before him now, Feliciano decided his judgement had been on the mark. He disliked the man. He seemed too sure of himself; too sure of what he was writing and that he and his cohorts knew what was best for Italy. The too-pleasant smile he sent Feliciano's way was proof enough of that.
Carlo Lorenzini was seated behind a desk, elbows resting atop and hands neatly folded as he tapped a forefinger to his lips in contemplation of the (apparently younger) man stood in his doorway.
"Apologies, Signor… Vargas was it?" at Feliciano's nod, Lorenzini's smile widened and he continued. "But I must confess myself a little confused. You say you wish for me to end my publication of Il Lampione?"
"Si, signor… I must ask that you cease at once. The content is too… inflammatory. I'm sure you're aware that there have been many problems concerning the group known as Carbonari. Your writing can be seen by some as a justification of their acts. It's a disturbance of the peace… I'm sure none of us wish for war or violence, so I must ask that you desist."
There was that smile again, edging towards a smirk that caused the hairs on the back of Feliciano's neck to prickle in irritation, much like an offended cat. The man was mocking him?
"Please, Signor Vargas, I mean no offence when I say this… but aren't you a little… young to be ordering me to do anything?"
Feliciano, as obtuse as he could be when it came to reading between the lines, easily picked up on Lorenzini's hesitancy in his question. He wanted proof of authority.
He assumed most likely, that Feliciano was a simple nobody, someone who had taken offence to his writing and simply wandered in off the street to confront him about it. He had not been pre-warned about the Grand Duke wishing to end their newspaper it seemed.
Somehow this knowledge only served to infuriate Feliciano further. To the Grand Duke, Carlo Lorenzini would probably yield; but to a young, scrawny sparrow of a man like Feliciano, Lorenzini would only scoff. This infuriated him because, at least in this immature moment of indignant anger, Feliciano personally felt that if Lorenzini should be cowing before anyone, it should be Feliciano himself!
A Grand Duke pales in comparison to a nation given human form after all.
With some grim satisfaction, Feliciano draws himself up to his full (and unfortunately rather unimpressive) height, before marching smartly forward and placing the papers he'd been given onto the desk.
"By order of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, Signor Lorenzini. You are to stop your circulation of the newspaper Il Lampione."
Lorenzini's eyes flick over the papers, widen in surprise, and become steely in well suppressed anger before he speaks; tone still irritatingly civil. "So the Grand Duke has sent a messenger boy to do his work for him, rather than make things official."
The way he spoke, as if Feliciano were not there caused an angry flush to appear of Feliciano's cheeks. Had he been a more rash, strong, or maybe even an older nation; he may have been quite tempted to clip Lorenzini around the ear for such impertinence.
Instead Feliciano found himself deflating at the words, and hissed a sullen, sulky reply. "I'm not a mere messenger boy, Signor Lorenzini."
"Then who, do I have the privilege of addressing? Your name is not known to me as any of the lords or high ranking politicians, nor their sons. So, who precisely are you if not an ill mannered messenger boy?"
Feliciano would have bristled again, perhaps if he were more like his brother, he would have said something very off-colour. Instead, his natural disposition seemed to surface, and he recognised for the first time that Lorenzini regarded him with polite interest and a thoughtful, almost calculating air.
He felt more than a little ashamed at his behaviour thus far. Despite being distrustful of the man before him, and disliking him on sight simply because he craved a quiet existence and instead was besieged by revolts, and wars, and people thinking they knew better… Lorenzini hadn't done anything in particular to annoy him.
And yet here Feliciano was shutting down his newspaper on command of the Duke and being fairly unpleasant. That wasn't how he'd been raised to act.
Sighing, Feliciano shook his head and shrugged as if summoning what he wanted to say to actually leave his lips. He couldn't tell him, not properly. There were rules after all, and if many people knew… things would get messy.
He mumbled instead, a strangely apologetic little reply, "My name's Feliciano Vargas, that's all you need to know."
Without giving Lorenzini more time to question him, Feliciano turned on his heel and trotted from the room without a backward glance. He thus missed the surprised and somewhat perceptive look Lorenzini gave him.
The next time Feliciano meets him... or rather hears of him, Carlo Lorenzini is Carlo Lorenzini no more. Or rather he is, but he's adopted that intriguing little habit that writers often do and given himself a pseudonym.
Feliciano is confused at first; until he recognises the sharp, witty way with words and recalls that Collodi is the name of a hillside village in Florence; his birthplace. Carlo Lorenzini is now Carlo Collodi… at least to his readers.
And readers he has; many of them. He's achieved a certain tentative amount of fame; just as Feliciano himself as achieved a certain tentative amount of independence. And somehow, in that moment, Feliciano feels a strange connection to the man he had disliked on sight and realises that perhaps they're not that different after all… Besides, looking back, hadn't Lorenzini- or rather Collodi, only wanted what was best for Italy? He'd wanted him to be free and achieve fame of his own as a nation. Granted he hadn't known that there was an actual 'Italy' running around wearing a human guise and living a life as he was, but the thoughtfulness was there nonetheless.
That revelation in itself is enough to make Feliciano regret his earlier prejudice against the man, and feel warmer towards him.
He sets aside the new periodical La Scaramuccia and rests his chin on his hand, gaze distant and thoughtful as he plays with his meal more than eats it; pushing it around the plate with his fork (a habit he's sure that a certain Austrian would highly disapprove of).
It seems as if he's been entirely mistaken then, disliking poor Collodi with such intensity. The hot guilt gnawing at his stomach doubles with the discomfort that spasms still throughout his body as the wars and revolts tear Italy apart and sew it back together again. He's certainly not hungry anymore.
Perhaps if he was wrong in this matter, he was wrong in others too? To feel the need to keep the current rulers of his lands where they were… to keep Italy under foreign rule for so long… there were still pockets of land ruled over by others at this moment in time, and suddenly he couldn't help but feel as if he were responsible for that… That it wasn't a good thing at all. He and Lovino were Italy, nobody else. So why shouldn't they rule their own lands? Why shouldn't they unify?
Feliciano sets his fork down with as much dignity as he can muster, sits up straighter than he has done in months, and picks up La Scaramuccia once more; a small determined smile curling his lips as he reads.
Reading Collodi's work became almost an obsession for Feliciano after that. He'd seek out any article or critique the man had produced and read it, smiling and nodding to himself as he did. Even if it wasn't something Feliciano particularly agreed with, the man's satirical, humorous way of getting his message across to his readers gave Feliciano a certain sense of hope and peace of mind that he just couldn't explain.
He was sure to purchase a copy of In vapore when it was released, delighting in the defiant, humorous tone the novel evoked; and quietly promising to one day let Collodi know of how much he admired the work.
Between the pain of wars and political upheaval, Feliciano found solace in Collodi's newspapers, novels, and theatrical dramas. Surprising even himself, he all but cheered when Il Lampione was re-published, and purchased every copy he could.
Over time Feliciano learned to ignore those critics who claim Collodi was lazy; and instead felt a strange almost fatherly pride when he heard of people referring to him as 'versatile' and 'clever'.
It is a shame, Feliciano mused one day after unification had finally, finally been achieved. That Collodi has given up on journalism. Those sharp words in every periodical had always brightened his day.
But no, now that the ends had been achieved, it seemed as if Collodi was branching out down a different route. Of course Feliciano didn't begrudge him this; if anyone were qualified to know, then it was he that knew first hand how politics could become tiresome after some time.
Still Feliciano missed the articles now that there was no definite frequency to Collodi's work. He still worked of course; Feliciano had found Collodi's unmistakable mark in theatre sketches, editing, and various other works throughout Italy.
It would be pleasant if I could read some more though…
It's 1876 before Feliciano gets his chance to meet Collodi in person again.
Unbeknownst to Feliciano's current higher ups, he had again been ordered to meet with Collodi; however this time the circumstances are a lot more light-hearted and inconsequential. A publishing company wish for Collodi to translate and write some of the old forgotten French fairytales, and they need someone to recommend a good illustrator. Who better than to ask the opinion on art than Italy himself?
Feliciano is overjoyed; he recalls with great fondness the fairytales Francis had told him so long ago, and that his people's children should get to read such lovely stories in their mother tongue makes his heart sing. Add to that the fact that it is Collodi who will translate them and add his own spin to the tales, and that the publishers have requested his opinion on the art causes Feliciano to nearly skip to the office where they are meeting.
Like so many years before, Feliciano is struck that he probably appears very childish upon entering the room; only this time it is with light steps and a bright grin rather than a sullen, moody countenance.
He's aged… that much he'd been expecting, though somehow it's still mildly surprising for Feliciano to see the changes firsthand. Grey in his receding hair and a moustache and beard where one hadn't been present before. He looks… maybe a little frailer too, though the keen eyes and clever smile have not dulled one bit.
His own shock is mirrored in Collodi's gaze, and the confident man falters for a moment, blinking as if trying to convince his eyes that what he sees is in fact the truth.
Feliciano decides to be gracious and prevent him the few moments of thinking he's losing his mind by supplying a sly quip. "See; I'm not just a mere messenger boy."
Collodi sits heavily, and opens his mouth as if to speak but clearly thinks better of it, shaking his head quietly.
"I must say, you're taking it far better than some… you haven't screamed or fainted yet." In a way it's a relief to have someone that isn't royal or in charge knowing again after all these years, and Feliciano smiles, taking a seat opposite the still slightly thunderstruck Collodi. "Forgive me, Signor… For the shock… and for my appalling behaviour the last we met."
"I- I was suspicious, when you seemed so offended by my words, but I didn't think- are you a spirit?" Collodi seemed to be having a hard time speaking coherently, but Feliciano appraised him for even managing to speak at all. After all the man had just become reacquainted with a person who apparently hadn't aged a day in what must amount to nearly thirty years.
"Well, something like that," Feliciano smiled and shrugged helplessly; in truth it was rather difficult to describe what they were precisely. "Though I believe I'm a little more tangible than most spirits." He held out a hand for Collodi to shake, which the man did, albeit with some trepidation, and Feliciano grinned encouragingly.
Not one to think things through too much, Feliciano wasted no time in pulling some illustration samples from the bag he'd brought with him for Collodi to look over, and was a little startled to see that the man looked somewhat pale. Excusing himself he stood again and got the writer something to drink, which Collodi accepted gratefully, running a hand through thinning hair as he took a sip. "My apologies… this is something of a surprise."
Feliciano brushed the apology aside and chuckled. "No no, not at all… I tend to forget that meeting someone like me must be shocking. You'll have to forgive me; I've often been told I've a somewhat absent-minded personality. I'm afraid that never instils much confidence in my bosses when they find out just how flighty their nation is." He grinned roguish and a little wicked. "Though sometimes it's fun to pretend I'm even more hopeless when I don't like them."
That seemed to snap Collodi from his state of shock, and he bit back an incredulous laugh at the man before him. "I had heard tales, Signor Vargas… from one or two places, of nations being given a life of their own. However I had always dismissed it, as most would. To meet a nation- and for him to be so… well like yourself… I suppose I was expecting a nation to be-" He trailed off clearly not knowing what to say that wouldn't offend.
Feliciano took it within his stride and laughed, "Someone a bit more serious? Commanding? Important? Someone that doesn't look quite like a half-starved sparrow?" His laughter grew worse with each word, and he held up a hand in apology. "Please don't fret, Signor Collodi, I've heard them all over the years."
Finally Carlo Collodi appeared to relax, and within a matter of minutes the pair were in deep discussion over the best illustrations to use for Collodi's work.
Over the next few weeks, Feliciano had reason to talk with Collodi again regarding his work, and having recovered from the initial shock of seeing a person who apparently represented an entire nation; Collodi was only too happy to discuss matters again.
"I have to say… I do miss your newspapers." Feliciano chirped as they scrutinised a sketch for 'Puss in Boots'. "Why did you decide to translate fairytales?"
"It's not my true calling, I'll admit… all childish twaddle really, but work is work; and I'm sure the children will enjoy them." He confided to the nation.
Feliciano pretended to appear scandalised, but the effect was only comical and Collodi suppressed a snort at the expression. "I understand, I can't really see how a political journalist can really feel at home writing about a disobedient girl in a red cape." He hummed and sorted through some more leaves of drawings from various illustrators looking to make a name for themselves.
Collodi had been scribbling industriously as they spoke, and said with slight hesitance. "I was actually considering writing my own… It's all very well to re-write what others have done; but something all together more impressive if you can create your own stories about life and taking caution in general, wouldn't you agree?"
Feliciano nodded, but couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps his agreement had given Collodi permission to do something rather than just sharing the same views.
In 1881 Feliciano Vargas devotedly collects a copy of Giornale dei bambini (pointedly ignoring the curious looks given by the store owner who is aware that he has no children), and turns the page to see one of Collodi's original works has been printed…
He reads it, and then reads it again; a small nagging insistence growing in the back of his mind that this is what he'd given Collodi permission to write some years before.
At first he brushes the story off as coincidence and creative licence, nothing more. However with each installment, each week that passes, Feliciano finds himself feeling more and more amused, and just a little embarrassed.
Finally it's the irritated and offended correspondence that arrives from his own brother that spurs him to investigate this marionette character further and then visit Collodi to question him himself.
"He's supposed to be me- or rather certain aspects of Italia itself, si?" Feliciano murmured hesitantly, not entirely sure of his conclusion, and not yet sure he was entirely comfortable with it either.
There was a flash of wicked good humour in the man's eyes, a mischievous sparkle that bordered on childish. "Do you take offence at such a character being used to portray the less noble parts of yourself, Signor Vargas?"
Something that may have been an indignant squawk was cut off mid-utterance and instead transformed into a surprised chuckle that grew to become helpless laughter. Feliciano eventually ended up bent double and wiping tears of mirth from his eyes as he fought to regain his breath.
"T-tell me, did I really come across as being quite as awful as your little marionette when we first met!?"
There was a hint of relief in the other man's face, his moustache twitching with barely suppressed amusement. "I wouldn't say quite as awful Signor Vargas… you have a smaller nose."
Collodi had half been expecting a tongue lashing from the young Italian man in his presence; instead he was rewarded for his seeming disrespect toward his own country with another peal of laughter.
"You're right… you're very good at this… I was a complete and utter brat, I'll admit it." Feliciano chortled and straightened once more as his laughter finally subsided, though a bright unabashed grin remained on his face.
A bushy eyebrow quirked in mild fascination; he hadn't expected Feliciano to take this revelation so well. Many people in his place would feel terribly offended that certain traits from them had been used to create a character that was so… un-likeable. At least for the first part of his stories.
True, had Feliciano's brother been present to hear confirmation about the character created to represent their less favourable qualities; he would have flown into an uncontrollable rage.
However Feliciano had always been the more optimistic of the two, and his sunnier disposition in general meant that he tended to be less affronted and more likely to forgive and find humour in life and in people; up to and including himself.
"Shall we chalk up our first encounter to growing pains then, Signor Vargas? If I remember correctly that time for you was something of an upheaval. I'm sure any person in your situation would have been a little on the er… prickly side." Collodi had chosen his words carefully, and the notion that independence and unification could be accounted as growing pains amused Feliciano further still.
"Si, we shall. I am glad to have provided a muse of sorts for you."
Collodi grew more serious then, resting a placating hand on Feliciano's forearm. "You truly do not mind? The critique from the church I can bear, but I would not like to think I'd insulted my own nation."
Feliciano chortled, shaking his head and patting the hand resting upon his arm with a paternal sort of fondness. "No, Signor Collodi. I'm quite fond of him in fact. He seems like a brat at first, but he's really rather sweet in the end. I'm not insulted in the least."
Collodi breathed a sigh of relief and smiled, and the pair spent the rest of Feliciano's impromptu visit discussing who best to illustrate the character of Pinocchio.
Feliciano was often asked by other nations who in his history he felt closest to, and though as with all nations he tried his best not to get too attached to any one person or leader, the personification of Italy found that the man he disliked on first meeting had definitely become one of his favourite citizens when he looked back.
His writing had helped reshape his views on independence. His witty verse and satirical jab at anything he found ridiculous aided Feliciano into always questioning those who would assume power. All in all Carlo Collodi had been a great a friend and mentor (even if he hadn't been aware of it) as some of those Feliciano called 'brothers'.
He'd died quite suddenly on October 26, 1890, and Feliciano had felt the loss keenly. He'd made sure since that time to visit the national Central Library in Florence with every chance he was granted in order to read over his manuscripts again. When writers deemed too sensational appeared in subsequent years, Feliciano tried to coax them on rather than quash their voices. He felt he owed it in some small way to his friend; that questioning governments and political ideals should be something quietly celebrated and not censured.
As for the character of Pinocchio; Feliciano was overjoyed that the little wooden marionette gained such acclaim, though there has always been some amount of embarrassment at just how ill he was perceived at one point. As with the older fairytales, Feliciano had taken it as cautionary tale, though somewhat more personal than most could admit to, and tried his best to be better for it.