Epilogue: Histoire de Ma Vie

• Unpublished section from Histoire de Ma Vie by Giacomo Casanova; Fire-damaged lost volume partially recovered and restored by Dr. River Song

CHAPTER XVII
A Terrible Beast–Unexpected Passion–Angelic Visitations–Becoming a Fiddler

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... so I shall not forget. That was a night as I never could have imagined. From the first moment I laid eyes upon them, I became truly enraptured as if in a trance. For these were not men as I had ever known them, not as us mortals who tread upon the ground.

Somehow, I inveigled them into accompanying me for an evening. A casual affair, for I was quite unknown at that time, having only recently returned to Venice. But as angelic as their grace and countenance suggested, they had a penchant for the lower pleasures. Drinking, gambling, and public opera houses seemed to delight them. F. K— even seemed to have acquired the idle rich habit of smoking tobacco cigarillos, in the Spanish style. Yet it was obvious these were good men, despite the many temptations they led me to.

Things began quite pleasantly as we enjoyed an evening's performance of a mediocre opera. But their delightful company more than made up for the tedious script. Afterwards, we joined with friends to celebrate into the small hours of the night. My manservant and I quite enjoyed playing endless rounds of faro with D— to lovely music while letting ourselves become quite inebriated.

However, the evening turned grim, as we found the consequences of a brutal attack by a terrible beast, a demon that had been plaguing fair Venice for many months hence. And as a reward for felling the monster, they suffered so terribly.

D— and F. K— knew death, and madness, and understood things I hadn't thought to question. Even in the face of horror, D— and F. K— shared quick words, wit, and true affection. At first I could not understand it, but as D— explained, they were wanderers who had seen "more death than I could possibly imagine."

These were not idle words, I could sense it in their eyes...

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...introduced me to new and unexpected delights. I have loved many men, valued them as highly as any woman, which is the ultimate compliment I could pay. Yet never before then had I lain with one as a lover. Though I will admit to having passing fancies, never before had a gentleman stirred my heart as D— did. As even the memory of him still does.

He was truly an angel. Beautiful in form, physical perfection wrapped around a wise soul that retained a childish sense of joy which proved contagious to anyone in his presence. Slender, delicate, with blue-green eyes of a most peculiar shade, always quite deep with meaning, and a wide, generous mouth that seemed ever-wistful, except when transformed into a brilliant smile. And possessing of a velvet, feminine, grace, neither Lord nor Lady, but if possible both wrapped in one. He had smooth, pale skin, as soft as any woman. Perhaps softer, even. Yet almost inhumanely cold to the touch. Not a creature of this Earth, not like any angel I could have ever imagined. I am unashamed to admit I desperately lusted after such an incredibly mysterious, ethereal beauty, for I have found few since of either gender who has moved me in such a manner.

His companion F. K—, in contrast, was a mystery of quite another sort. A gentle soul, loyal and charming, possessing a quite ribald wit and zest for sensation and Earthly delights that D— could not match. A man, truly human as you or I, from his calloused hands to the stubble on his cheeks. Yet touched by the grace of an angel to become something far more than I could ever aspire to be. I loved him, truly, as much as I have ever loved another soul, and yet underneath it all I am ashamed to admit my bitter envy. For here was a man who had seduced an angel from the heavens, and could with his passionate touch reduce him to a whimpering harlot, begging for more.

That evening we shared, the three of us lost in lust, exploring each other, they taught me more about the art of making love than any others before or since. For D— had powers beyond any mystic I have yet to encounter, the ability to share pleasure, as one would a piece of music, so that the sensations F. K— and I enjoyed would be spread all around, entangled in his vast, unearthly mind until the three of us were as one.

We spent our passions until the first rays of sunlight crept through the window, and I realized F. K— had fallen into a deep sleep, a tiny smile playing across his lips. And to my shame, despite everything F. K— had so generously shared with me, I felt again that bitter stab of envy. Because beside him D— lay watching him fondly, and I knew they had spent many, many nights in such a manner. Theirs was a rare love, and even I, who have made a cuckold of countless husbands and wives, felt loathe to break their spell.

Yet I did attempt it. As blameless, trusting F. K— slept on peacefully, I seduced D— as I had so many others before him, with sly words, tender caresses, even pleading whispers in his ear. Because I wanted to make him mine, even if only for a few brief moments. I wanted to drive all thoughts of dear F. K— from his mind. And when he finally lay under me, held down by my hands at his narrow wrists, eyes closed, muttering my name into the bed sheets again and again as I took him from behind, I knew I had succeeded.

Often afterward I wondered to myself why God had punished them for my sins, instead of myself. But then I look upon my own long life, and all that has befallen me, to my own incarceration and exile, to all that I have lost, and perhaps I think the punishment was spread to all three...

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...the most preposterous occurrence. Even now, I can hardly believe it actually happened. As I return to writing these endless memoirs that have taken up my life in these final years, I am shaken beyond words, beyond description.
The great sound was like nothing I've ever heard, a strange roaring, moaning, accompanied by a gust of wind that blew my papers all about despite the windows tightly sealed against the bitter winter chill.

And there it was. The blue box that had once haunted my dreams. For decades afterward I searched for it, expecting to see it out of the corner of my eye at any time. Once or twice I thought I had, but always it had gone before I could reach it. I had begun to think the impossible home shared by D— and F. K— had been but a fantasy, a delusion. My manservant, God rest his poor, loyal soul, had forever afterwards refused to discuss it with me, being half-convinced D— and F. K— were not angels at all, but demons with ungodly powers.

Perhaps he was right. Because from within that familiar blue box came nothing less than a ghost of myself.
I gasped, frightened beyond all measure at seeing myself as a young man step out of that mystical place. He wore an expression of weary resignation, one I had become so accustomed to seeing in my own mirror since I passed middle age.

Lost, and tired.

"Hello, Giac," he said, stepping further into the study.

"Did you steal my spirit?" I asked breathlessly, backing away. "Have you come to replace me?"

He laughed, then winced at the effort, hissing in pain.

"D—?"

He gave me a weak smile, and tucked his hands in the pocket of his strange, tight, striped suit.

"What..." I began, then I noticed his eyes. Brown, instead of blue, but just as wide and expressive. As romantic as mine have always been, even now as a broken recluse living off the kindness borne from a memory of the charm I once possessed. Yet they reminded me of my own eyes when I looked upon the mirror now, so very old, full of regret, and loss, and near the end.

All my questions died on my lips.

"You're not well," I told him instead.

"No, not really," he agreed...

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...back upon the history of my misdeeds. He read them long ago, for him, he had claimed. How could I but believe him? One who can change faces, who has knowledge of future and past yet seems untouched by the passage of time, in the physical if not in the spiritual? One so close to death, unsure whether to allow himself to be reborn, or to finally end it all? What had he sacrificed? What punishments had the universe laid upon his thin shoulders? I do not know, for I was too afraid to ask.

Reading my own words, I grow ashamed for my own motivations, on so many levels, on too many countless occasions. A weak, if clever, pervert, as I'll be remembered, if at all. Their opinions matter little to me by now.

Except his does. I stare at the crackling fireplace...

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The inspiration for this writing style comes directly from Histoire de Ma Vie (Story of my Life) by Giacoma Casanova, a 12 volume series of memoirs he wrote towards the end of his life. It's absolutely lovely, and charming, and you honestly can't help but fall in love with him just a little bit.

For some reason it made me incredibly happy to write this epilogue in this historical sort of writing style.

Next story in the Fitzverse takes place much later in the adventures of Eight and Fitz, a short, introspective tale in the aftermath of the first Time War, which would forever change the dynamic of their relationship. But after that, we start a whole new arc with Fitz, the Eleventh Doctor, River Song, and Captain Jack! Stay tuned.