First attempt at writing Lorenzo. I was listening to 'How do you love someone' (a mixed version apparently... youtube was being weird).
This -short- story takes place right after Giovanni's death and goes on until Lorenzo's death. Because I can.
Warning: Angst, and background presence of Giovanni/Lorenzo because I just love them.
Disclaimer: I obviously don't own this, otherwise we would not even need kinkmeme to get the FILFs together.
This is dedicated to A Libertine So Grim, without whom I would certainly not be writing AC fanfictions. If you have time people, check out her stories, they are well-worth the read - not to mention an awesome story with both Giovanni and Lorenzo making confession more... interesting. *huggles*
There are things you wish you never said and things you wish you had said more often. There are times when you wish that you had the courage to stand for those you loved. And then the moment passes, overcome by the daily storm of requests, requirements – grants and condemnation. His grand-father had told him that a prince should scarcely leave his city, for fear of someone taking over.
And he had left. And part of him died. And he died. He could have avoided it. Even the Spaniard would not have outwardly crossed the boundaries of state interference. Alas. It was too late. His heart wept what his position did not allow him to. He had seen his son carrying them to that frail ship, to their pyre. In other times, he would have protested. But it was fitting. The eagle flying back to his freedom on the fire's wings. It was hard. Holing up in his palazzo, recoiling from people who had done nothing. How could they? No one knew – not even Poliziano, who knew more than most. His fingers clutching a knife – something Giovanni had given him when he was still young – so long ago. His mother had given him an apple, and he had wanted to share. He did not know the stranger was the one who had saved him. But this stranger had taken a knife from his belt, saying that he would use it well – and give it back when they next meet. He had kept it, it was now a keepsake. It was painful to see it fitting so well in his palm. He could not throw it away. Not when it was the only material thing that remained. That still fed the memories – up to the last one. Right before he had left – insisting he does not go alone. And then allowing to be. He should have insisted. He should have known.
He had seen them leave the city – her face blank, ashen. An expression he would never have expected to see plastered on Maria's spirited features. He had a fleeting, dreadful impression that she had seen him through the crowd. For years, her husband had protected him – and he had failed to protect the man they loved from those blood-hounds. Failed to protect their children. It made his heart clench, as though his ribcage had turned into an angry fist. Helpless, enraged. The Pazzi will have to pay. And their allies. All of them. Giuliano often complained about him looking so stern. He had not seen it all. Turning back, he gave orders. The Palazzo Auditore will remain untouched and trespassers will be treated as thieves if found on the ground. The injustice will be exposed, he was certain. He had seen Giovanni's son – Ezio – Wearing his father's robes. The pain had seared its way through him. A ghost reminding him he had failed the only person who never had wavered. He had held his fate in the palm of his hand. And because he did not free Giovanni... blame hung heavy on his shoulders. Damocles sword hit the eagle in flight. Down to the ground. Because he could not catch it – did not see the thread – how thin it had grown.
His mind grew restless – even after the conjuration died. The wars tore at his city and he had to go back to the front. The state had never allowed him to mourn. Travelling to Naples – down to the adders' nest crawling with plots. Leaving Florence again. Would he see her again? The ride silent, doom hanging in the air. Peace or death, he had no illusions. Illusions died a long time ago. The banks could fall apart, the city could fall to Savonarola. What did it matter, ruling out of habit and doing all he could to keep the Florentine out of harms way. As he never could with him. How would it have been, to know that Giovanni was riding paces away, or was already in Naples, and reporting to him. The war would have not sparked to such a degree. No. He was the one who had ultimately kept Florence safe.
He would never ask the same from his son. It would have been unfair. Revenge was said to be wrong – but he supported the young man's wish to exact revenge on those who destroyed his family. Doing what Lorenzo could have done, would have done, had he not been the ruler of one of the most powerful cities along Venice. It was not the dry, hot air of the road that made it hard to breath and swallow – it was knowledge hitting him again. They say grief fade – it never does. You just get used to it. Until it is so deeply ingrained within your very existence that it fills the hole left by those departed. The traces remain, like the scars on the skin of the one he loved. He could see him, eyes closed against the jarring reality. He could hear his voice, feels his touch. Waking him, phantom pain that throbbed and never disappeared, dulled only by day's activity. At night the ghost returned, with him, guilt.
And in this evening, a candle flickers, pain and disease wrecking him bones, his entire being – his soul. The agony he felt, he welcomed. Never let them know, wife or children – Florence will survive him, there will be another prince. And in those last moments, let him be the man he had not allowed himself to be. Silent tears running at last, freedom regained. Flying high, to a realm he did not know if it existed for sure. Silently wishing to see him again. Death could not wipe the serene smile showing through his tears. Not when the face and smile of Giovanni Auditore accompanied him.
Thank you for reading.
Rotten tomatoes are on the left, tissues on the right. Feedback is much appreciated - it encourages me a lot - to improve and keep writing.