Things in this world hoped for, longer for, and obtained are not always as we believe them to be. And what if Scipio were to discover that truth? That, as miserable as he might have been, it was nothing compared to the fate he had brought upon himself? I've always wondered what happened to him after the book - did he continue on, happy in his adult life? Or is the truth more sobering - that he found himself deep in regret for what he had done? This is my heart-felt figuring of how he might have felt, how he might have loved. This is A Price to Pay.
Dedicated to Hei Ryung-unni, for introducing me to the seductive and beautiful world of The Thief Lord and the warm and welcoming world of FanFiction, and to Priya-chan, who was the Prosper to my Scipio, a friend who makes me regret growing up so fast and growing so far apart. You are both my sisters, not by blood, but by stronger things.
A boy lies awake in his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. He is alone - and hasn't he always been? Rejecting the presence of his father and of most others, he holds company with only his cat and five friends of the human sort. These friends are his gang, the people he horses around with and pulls small heists from his own home for. They are the poor, the orphaned, the unfortunate souls, but that is precisely why he relates to them - he too is unfortunate, unfortunate to be living in a lavishly furnished tomb of a home with his rich but unloving and unforgiving father. The only time he can end his playacting of a dutiful son is when he is with his gang. And the only time he can truly be himself is when he is no longer himself - when he is the Thief Lord.
He hears the rhythmic clicking of the grandfather clock in the main hall as the pendulum swings back and forth, back and forth. What if his friends were to see him like this, lying in a comfortable bed in a home that is not a house but a palace? What if they were to know the truth behind his cunning lies and daring heists? What if they were to know him as he is, a spoiled brat, not worthy to be called a man? He banishes those thoughts, shaking his head as if they might tumble out of his head and onto long-tufted carpet that lined his bedroom floor. But they did not, as he might have vainly hoped, escape into the stuffy, dusty air of the house; instead, they fell upon him, eating away at his securities.
His mind takes on a life of its own, imagining the disgusted faces of his friends, of Mosca, of Hornet, of Prosper, of Riccio...of Bo. He twists madly in his sheets, fidgeting in nausea at the thought of the little boy who had so much looked up to him turning his back on him, crestfallen. Then his thoughts turn to the day when they will finally know the truth, the day all he can see of them will be their retreating backs in the Venetian moonlight. He will call their names, call apologies to them, but they will not turn back; they will refuse to see their former leader in the light of his disgrace. And, on that that day, he will have to return to being the person he once was, the one they all believe he'd be: the spoiled-rotten heir to the Massimo fortune, the one to carry on his father's duties and affairs.
This thought, too much to bear, torments him; he lies in a state of dementia, of illusion, between the domains of wake and sleep, and of life and death. He hurls through a nightmare world in which no one and nothing is safe. He is spun in dizzying cycles of things known and unknown, of reality and invention. No corner is without its demons; they circle him, converging on him as if he were a mouse and they were hawks, ravenous with hunger. They consume him and all is dark.
Dong, dong, dong, dong, the grandfather clock strikes, cutting into the world of dreams the boy's mind has built around itself. And that is what saves him. He awakens at the twelfth stroke and, dizzy with fever, hurries to his mirror. He feels his tousled hair, his sweat-wetted forehead, his pounding chest, and knows that he is alive. Dead no longer, he runs to don the mask, the dark, sharp-beaked border between reality and fantasy. Lowering himself out of the tall window, to the deserted streets below, he becomes himself, a figure shrouded in lie and truth.
A young man is pacing, sleepless, his shadow thrown on the plain linoleum-carpeted floor from the moonlight of the small window beside his narrow bed. His long hair swishes quietly back and forth as he loses himself in thought. He remembers the events of two years past, of the arrival of the two brothers, of the search of the Stella, of the lion's wing, of the mist-shrouded island, of the magical merry-go-round, of becoming an adult. He strokes the bit of stubble on his chin. Growing it out, he feels, would just be a little too...Barbarossa-esque. He smiles a bit, remembering the old Red Beard. Oh, how small and helpless he became after shrinking into a child. The man chuckles at the thought, but grows solemn at the remembrance of the cursed carousel. Cursed, he calls it, because, as he thinks of it now, it robbed him of his childhood. At a time where other young people are frolicking and having first loves, he is kept busy at work.
He sighs. He is known as a cool and astute young detective, but this exterior is only a curtain over the windows of his soul, concealing his deepest desire: to return to how he was. He misses being able to run through the streets, free as a bird, or visit the gang at the Stella. He would give anything, he would even go back to his father's house, just to be there again, just to become the fifteen year-old child he is deep inside.
But, no matter how much he wishes, he cannot have what he longs for. The merry-go-round has long since disappeared and Venice no longer holds the same magic it once did. There are no unicorns gallivanting about, no mermen leaning out from the shadows, no winged lions flying from their posts.
He gives a wry smile at the now-snoring detective who took him in. Victor, he'd miss. He'd miss this life, of adventure, of endless possibilities. But he knows that this life would be waiting for him if he were himself again. He would be in no rush.
He stalks over to the table and picks up the morning's newspaper. Lighting a candle, he can make out, through the flickering light, the day's headline: "Restored Lion Wing Sold Off At An Exorbitant Price". He lurches forward. A lion's wing. A replacement for the one the red-headed terror had broken off? He's not sure, but his heart alights with hope as he reads on.
"'The lion wing, estimated to be at least over a century old, appears to have originated in Italy. It was up for auction at Christie's in its Milan saleroom. It began at a high 22,358,867 lire. The auction ended with a bid of 25,800,000 lire from a Mr. Lorenzo Conte,'" he reads aloud softly.
Lorenzo Conte. It sounded familiar, but was faded by time. He has to know where he heard that name.
"Lorenzo. Lorenzo. Conte," he repeats. "Conte Lorenzo. Conte Renzo."
Conte Renzo. The old man he met in the confessional. The old man who requested a lion's wing. The old man who became young again. He grips the paper hard, crinkling it. Renzo was here somewhere, somewhere near Milan. And, if he didn't know better, maybe someplace near Venice. He picks up the cordless phone and dials a familiar number.
"Buonsera, Signora Spavento," he says with a hint of a smile. "Si; I believe I have a lead...would you mind lending your assistance?"
And, as he speaks, he rummages under his bed and pulls out a long-beaked mask. And, as he ran his fingers over his contours, he smiled, really smiled, for the first time in a long year.
The Thief Lord was back.
Thank you for reading. Did you enjoy it? I hope to make this a multi-chapter fic from others' points-of-view. But before doing that, I'd like to get your opinion - would it better or ruin it?