Perhaps Daemon Spade was right, perhaps I am too weak.
Giotto's golden eyes closed as he felt the cool ocean air engulf him. He leaned over the railing and listened to the constant sound of the ocean echoing in his ears, as he remembered Cozart. He had loved the sea with a passion, despite his flames being Earth flames. Throughout his life on the sea, he had even found a little deserted island off the coast of Japan.
Cozart had been so excited when he wrote back to Giotto. In his mind's eye, he imagined Cozart's child-like wonder and excitement as he wrote the letter informing him of this discovery. And then the memories changed...
The terror.
The screams.
Giotto's eyes snapped open and flashed and shone as if there was a flame burning with in them. He heard the heavy thumping of his heart in his ears.
He had escaped. Escaped it all. He had run away. Ever since Daemon's attack, he had noticed the cruel side of the mafia with shocking intensity. It was blinding. Terrifying, and blinding.
He was a coward.
He couldn't face it. Couldn't confront what his son had wanted it. Desired. The thrill of the mafia.
Giotto had seen it in Ricardo's eyes. The thirst to prove himself among these men. These men who were the the fiercest. The thirst to be able to control some, and conquer the others.
The primal desire to be the strongest.
He had seen in the Cozart's eyes that same desire. The greed and pride that came with power. And then...
His family's desperate eyes. Blinded by revenge. Smothered with bloodlust.
Daemon had called him weak for not confronting them. What could he say? 'It was all a misunderstanding'? Anything he said would have sounded like feeble excuses.
I told you, Cozart, I told you so many times. I didn't want to fight needlessly anymore. Why didn't you listen...?
At least here, in Japan, nobody knew him. Nobody knew about the terrors that he had faced. He was just another man.
It wasn't long before he had reached a small island. He basked in the beauty of the verdant forests and rocks that shone with sparkling ocean water. The leaves of the trees glittered with the mist and spray of the ocean.
The innocent view.
He regretted tainting it with the mafia and with death.
The sun was beginning to hide behind the dark clouds. Soon, there would be a storm. It was fitting.
He tied his boat to a particularly large rock and closed his eyes, allowing his other senses to take over. His ears took in the sounds of squawks and chirps of the indigenous birds. He took in a deep breath and tasted the crisp, salty air. The coolness of it calmed him, allowing him to finally being at peace for the first time in days.
Carrying a simple cloth bag, he walked through the dense forest. The heavy canopy above him allowed glimpses of increasingly fading light skim through. Before long, a shower began, and shortly after that, a downpour. Nevertheless, he continued to trudge on, never letting anything get in his way. He eventually came upon a little shrine.
It looked simple. Just a large, gray rock with a picture on it. But it was angled and placed perfectly so that it would never have to face fierce sun, nor the cruel storms. Instead, only a trickle of rain could drip through the thick ceiling leaves. The details of the carvings on the rock were exquisite, and, through the glean of the raindrops, looked as if they were mourning.
He paused for a second just as he reached the shrine, almost hesitant. However, he soon started walking again, with the same sure steps until he was in front of the shrine.
He brushed his fingers against the icy cold smoothness of the rock and traced the words in the stone he had etched in long ago.
Givro eterna amicizia.
His fingers traced the lines of the portrait, all the while, muttering soft apologies, begging forgiveness.
He unwrapped his bag and pulled out two porcelain cups and a jug of sake. He poured some of the alcohol into each cup. He placed one cup on the rock, in front of the picture and raised his own silently before downing it all.
He felt something warm on his cheeks amidst all the numbing cold and instinctively brought his fingers up. Tears. Staring straight at the shrine with blurry vision, Giotto felt his chest tighten. And then, in a voice so quiet it was inaudible against the splattering of the rain...
"I'm sorry, Cozart. So, so, sorry."
Giotto gave the shrine a final, low bow. He collected his now-drenched cloth bag from the rock floor. He removed a small bundle of flowers and added it to next to two other bouquets that were already there.
Purple hyacinth. Azalea. Lily.
Sorrow.
Why couldn't he save his best friend? When it mattered the most?
Fragile passion.
Their relationship ran deep, but at a simple misunderstanding, it had shattered like glass.
Regaining innocence after death.
Perhaps now, Cozart would be free from the terror and violence that is the mafia.
Nearly a century and a half later, the Shimon family would return to this island. The Vongola would soon follow, seeking revenge. Throughout their fight, neither families would notice the remains of hundreds of flowers on the patch of damp earth nor the weathered picture upon a painstakingly carved rock.
Revenge only begets revenge. It is a never-ending circle of pain.
The sky cried.
The earth shook.