A Vieri de Pazzi fanfic I wrote a while ago. He's quite an underused, underexplored character, and I wanted to try and plunge into the darker side of his psyche hinted at in the game. He's quite captured my imagination! Warning: this fanfiction is quite gruesome, disturbing and bloody, so if you have a weak stomach or do not like detailed violence, I do warn you now.
At that moment, he would not have been surprised if his head were to explode. A ferocious pounding in his skull blocked most rational thought, but to Vieri's dismay, failed to assuage the stinging pain of loss. Through the haze he wondered why it was always his thoughts, rather than feelings, that abandoned him at times like these.
He was no stranger to rage, but this particular fit of fury was worse than most. He tried to reason that perhaps the throbbing headache assaulting his head was precisely because of his quickly failing attempts to suppress the boiling fury and bitter disappointment, but any reasoning he may have been able to come up with was instantly dispelled by another stab of pain.
All his efforts, all the dishonest measures he dared to take, and he still lost. The terrible feeling as he saw that bastardo cross the finish line ahead of him still beared its effect upon him; an awful sinking which left him struck with disbelief, a hollow hole left in his chest. His face burnt as he remembered the crushing humiliation that followed as he fought his way through the jeering, laughing crowd, celebrating another person's victory over him. The list of things Vieri couldn't stand was long, but first and foremost was someone else besting hm. That, he truly would not stand.
He had raced home, sneaking through dark grimy alleyways and forgotten side streets, avoiding Florence's busy crowds as much as possible. Resorting to climbing through the window as he reached his family's palazzo, he was thankful he did not run into his father. Facing his father at this time would have simply been too much, too mortifying. It was almost funny, because he knew his father didn't care at all, but still could not bear the thought of his failure displayed so plainly on his face, shouted out on the streets by those laughing spectators, paraded around by the stronzo who defeated him. Should his father see...no, it was too much.
Vieri was seated on the edge of his bed in a room lit only by a single dim, flickering candle, and a few strains of the ghostly moon's light struggling to be seen through heavy, dark clouds. He was convinced the thoughts that stirred through his mind were wrong, all wrong, but he still stared at the ornate chest of drawers opposite him as if its contents would somehow help rather than damn him. He tried to stand up, but was still dizzy with the idea that had somehow snaked into his head between the confusion and humiliation.
Would he really do it? Could he really do it? Instantly, a voice in his head whispered 'yes' (funnily enough, the voice sounded remarkably like his father), and Vieri blinked. A sudden yet shaky resolve took hold of him and he all but leapt off the bed and made his way over to the chest of drawers. Vieri stood before the chest and reached out to open the topmost drawer, but as soon as his hand came into contact with the cold wood, he froze. Oh, could he really do it?
Fear struck him and blending with his still-pounding headache until his legs nearly gave out beneath him. Water, he thought, and almost stumbled over to a nearby table he had previously set a drink down on. Reaching out to grasp the glass, he was surprised to look down and see that his hands were shaking. Taking a deep breath and attempting to calm the storm brewing in his mind, he lifted the glass to his lips.
A sudden movement at the window scared him half out of his wits. His hands fumbled for a moment, and with a loud crash the glass in his hands shattered against the floor, jagged fragments of glass scattering out in all directions and water flooding around his feet. Glancing over at the window, a pair of yellow eyes stared at him from the darkness. They blinked, before their owner, a feral black cat, leaped off the balcony and disappeared into the night.
Paranoid, he scolded himself. Paranoid idiot. Stepping over the glass, hearing it crunch beneath his feet as he walked, his still-trembling fingers grasped the knob of the drawer and tentatively pulled it open, his breath hitching at what he saw inside.
The cool steel felt like ice against his skin as he traced his hands over the shining metal blade. He grimaced as he saw his reflection on its silver surface, and turned the dagger over in his hands. It was quite heavy, yet easily concealable. The blade was sharp enough to pierce flesh, and the handle covered in ornate gold patterns that suggested a great amount of money had been spent in obtaining it. The young Pazzi's mind surged with images, half-thought-out plans and disturbing fantasies as he held the dagger in his hand. He pictured blood dripping off the blade's sharp edge, heard the muffled cry of the man who now held all of his hatred and rage, imagined tearing and slicing and cutting flesh until his conqueror was barely recognisable. He saw the light leaving the man's eyes, the breath hitching in his throat, the crimson liquid spilling out of his neck and onto Vieri's hands, staining the floors beneath him with red, grime and flesh caught under his fingernails and clinging to the sleeves of his robes.
'Will I do it?' he whispered, as if posing the question to the heavens, to some invisible force that could make the decision for him. It was unnecessary, though. He already knew the answer to his question. He knew he should have felt disgust at his murderous thoughts, but instead only felt a strange anticipation, the pangs of excitement overwhelming his former headache and the pain replaced with wonderment at his own thoughts.
'Va bene,' he said to himself as he tucked the dagger away and closed the drawer. As he walked away, he became acutely aware of the fact that his senses seemed in some strange form of overdrive. Vieri's entire body was trembling and shivering (whether it was with excitement or fear, he could not tell), his ears prickling and a shudder running up his spine as his feet crushed broken glass against the floor. Even the dim light of the moon seemed too bright for him, and he squinted as he clambered out the windows and onto the streets below.
The long walk to his victim's palazzo left him with plenty of unwanted time to think. The streets were unnaturally still that night; so quiet that each flash of moonlight from behind the clouds put him on edge. There were next to none of the usual bands of thieves and courtesans prowling night-time Florence. It was as if the entire city were waiting with baited breath for the atrocity to take place that night.
Anger had kept most thoughts of doubt at bay so far, and Vieri was trying to draw upon this well of rage to rid his mind of the strange nervousness he now felt. Still, the doubt rang through Vieri's mind. Despite all his efforts to convince himself otherwise, Vieri could not help but believe he would surely fail in his undertaking.
'I will stumble,' he said aloud, his voice barely audible even in the dead silence of night. 'I will make a mistake. He will overpower me, or attack me first, or I'll lose my head and slip up somehow, I am sure of it. Yes, absolutely sure!' His footsteps stopped briefly, halting on the sidewalk as he contemplated what he was about to do. Before hardly a moment had passed, his thoughts again turned to the events that had taken place that day.
The bastardo had dared to defeat him at his own race. Again, with the memory of the humiliation and disappointment came the pulsing fury, and Vieri shuddered with hatred towards the man that caused his failure. As he reached into his coat and fingered the dagger's cold steel, the fantasies of bloodshed entered his mind once more, and the feelings of shame briefly faded into the Pazzi's nightmarish thoughts. He would destroy the instrument of his public disgrace, shred him up and stop his heart from beating. His grasp around the dagger's handle strengthened, and so did his resolve. Sudden logic formed in his mind, and it all made so much sense, all of a sudden: he would simply eliminate whatever caused him distress, through any means possible. It was impossible for him to fail. Besides, he had seen his father do the same thing on many an occasion...
These thoughts comforted him as he continued on his path towards the home of the day's victor. On several occasions, Vieri could not hold back a nervous yet chilling laugh as he joked to himself about what he would soon do. Yes, it is quite unlucky to be the winner, sometimes! his inner voice cackled. Altogether quite unlucky!
Some time passed until Vieri came to the palazzo of his target. Against the moonlit sky it seemed more imposing, more majestic, than it had during the day; Vieri was instantly reminded of a castle, or a prison. Despite the intimidating sight before him, Vieri had calmed considerably since his departure from the Pazzi household. The young nobleman had been here many times during the light of day, and was familiar with the layout of the palazzo. Setting his eyes upon a nearby window, he had no doubts as to where his target would be. Quietly edging closer, he checked to ensure he was alone before carefully climbing through the window.
He was hoping he would find his target asleep and vulnerable, making his job much easier and cleaner. In his mind, he had never imagined there to be any opposition; it was always a simple job, merely approach and attack. However, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and scanned the room, his heart sank to see his intended victim casually sitting on the edge of his bed, preparing to go to sleep. The man was surprised to see the young Pazzi in his room at such a late hour, but nowhere near as surprised as Vieri was to find his target conscious and alert before him.
The shock and sudden return of nerves must have shown on Vieri's face, for the man in front of him began to smile slightly at the dumbfounded expression colouring the Pazzi's countenance. Vieri was indeed too startled to say anything, half-immobilised and incapable of making a move. It was the other man who spoke first, eventually.
'Come to grovel at my feet, friend?' the tall man grinned cruelly, his tone jesting but his words scathing. 'Indeed, I cannot blame one such as pathetic as you wanting to bask in my glory.'
Something snapped. Vieri roared and lunged towards his opponent, his mind in a red, raw frenzy, barely aware of what he was seeing or in what direction he was brandishing the dagger he now clutched in his hands. Somehow, between the curses and rage and strong hands trying to fight him off, his eyes found a bare expanse of skin, and he plunged the sharp shining blade into the flesh before him. Vieri's heart raced as he watched crimson liquid spill out from under his blade, streaming down his enemy's shoulders in countless rivers of red, flooding, overflowing, chilling him as he felt it run over and under his fingers as the blood spurted out ceaselessly.
'Fucking stronzo,' he hissed, snarling viciously at the bleeding man now weakening his grip on Vieri's arms. The young nobleman grabbed his adversaries' hair and pulled roughly, wanting to agonise him, to cause him as much pain as humanly possible. 'Va a farti fottere! Vaffanculo!' Vieri could hardly see the man before him- rage still blinded him- and he gripped the dagger in his hands and stabbed again, tearing through the man's skin and deep into his flesh, ripping through tendons, shredding muscles. 'Morire! Morire!' Again, and again, the dagger in his bloodstained hands drove in and out of the torn, bleeding, unrecognisable flesh until the man's strangled screams had stopped.
Vieri watched the man's eyes turn cold, heard the choking sounds in his throat cease, saw the blood gurgle up from his mouth and dribble down his chin- and he laughed. It was a humourless, dead, hollow sound; sadistic and twisted, signifying dominion and conquest. Breathing heavily, he stared down at the lifeless body beneath him and had half a mind to attack again, to maim him further, until not even his own family would recognise him. Vieri could smell blood in the air, feel it still dripping down his fingers, and as he glanced down at the red liquid dripping from his fingertips his heart skipped several beats.
A dull thudding sound from outside the hallway caused Vieri to almost jump out of his skin, and as the footsteps drew closer he suddenly realised where he was and what he had done. Somewhere between the paralysing fear and electric excitement, he realised that being found with a dead body in front of him and blood dripping off the dagger in his hand was not an ideal situation to be in. He wildly threw his head around searching for another door, momentarily forgetting he had come in through the window. As he spotted the open window through which he came, he leapt for the frame and hauled himself out, leaving splatters of blood on the windowsill as he dove out of the room.
Stuffing the dagger back into his coat, Vieri ran through the streets with barely a thought in his head save for vaguely registering the blood slowly drying on his hands, and replaying what had just passed over and over again. He could still feel flesh under his fingertips, could still hear choking and spluttering echoing through his ears. The moon seemed unnaturally bright, so bright it hurt his eyes, and every blast of cold wind that assaulted him felt like torture. He sprinted towards his palazzo in frenzy, jumping at every sound and shadow. At any moment he felt his heart might stop, his head explode and his brains fall out his ears. It was half-painful, half-pleasurable, and he would be convinced he would pass out at any moment were it not for the blood coursing through his veins like fire and making him feel more truly and wholly alive than anything he could remember.
The young Pazzi could barely recall his flight back to his palazzo once he returned to the safety of his room; all he could recognise was the deafening boom of his heart thudding in his chest and the thrilling energy pulsing through him. He leant against the wall and tried to calm himself, taking deep, heaving breaths and shutting his eyes tightly against some unknown enemy. After several moments, he gathered the strength to stumble over to the nearby basin and nearly gasped as he saw himself in the mirror.
Vieri was caked in his victim's blood; it was up to his elbows, matted in his hair, splattered on his face. His pupils were dilated within his widened eyes, his tanned skin flushed with red. Shivering, he tried to wash off the dried blood with the water floating in the basin, desperately scrubbing at his arms in effort to remove all traces of his murder. He exhaled sharply as he splashed his face with cold water, still trying to calm himself down and slow his fiercely beating heart.
With a jolt, he remembered that the dagger was still hidden within his clothes. Hastily pulling it out and examining it, he found that it too was covered in blood. Seizing a nearby cloth, Vieri tried his best to scrub the blade clean, but hissed as the damned blood just wouldn't come off. He scrubbed harder, hoping eagerly that the dirt and filth would come off, but those last few spots of blood were being terribly stubborn...
Stifling an agitated cry, Vieri grasped the dagger in his hand and searched for an adequate hiding place. His eyes alighted onto his bed, and he was suddenly gripped by an intense desire to collapse onto the mattress and sleep. He had enough energy remaining to quickly stuff the dagger between the mattress and the bed's frame before his legs finally gave out and he fell in a heap onto the bed.
His breathing had finally slowed, and his heartbeat had returned to normal. Now the events of the night ran past his vision in a sort of dull, monotonous repetition, all in greyscale, and Vieri recalled them with a sort of detached satisfaction. The day's race and subsequent defeat no longer held much weight for him, and neither did the nervous anticipation of facing his father. Either they were overshadowed by the violence of the night's work, or Vieri was perhaps simply too tired to think about it in any greater depth at the time. For the first time in a while, the young man felt sleepy enough to simply close his eyes and allow slumber to fall over him. Before he fell unconscious, Vieri vaguely considered if his father had ever taken part in anything like the atrocity that Vieri performed that night.
If I ever get time, I will continue this, perhaps focusing on other events and characters surrounding that ever-fascinating Pazzi family. I hope you enjoyed it, and reviews would be terribly appreciated.