A/N: Again, another quick shout-out to all the new people who have signed up to following this story. I'm glad you seem to enjoy it! This is the last chapter that mainly involves introspection, I promise. In the next chapter you'll meet the OC and the storyline will start to pick up.

In the meantime please leave some reviews? Just a line would be enough. If there's something that doesn't work for you, I'm open to hear about that as well so I can improve in future. Anyway, on with the story!

Chapter 2: Erik, 1882

The trek across the Alps has driven me and my horse to great exertion and a chill has gripped my bones that no Italian sunshine seems capable of shaking. The snow and ice that glistened atop the peaks when the first ray of light broke through the darkness of night, was certainly a sight to behold and strengthened my will to push on. If the Romans found access to the heart of Europe via this pass, I, too, shall conquer it.

But I am an old man now and my body struggles to cope with the assault of the cold and the wind. There is a weakness in my chest that I can no longer deny. Nadir would, no doubt, be quick to point out that I am also experiencing the lack of my opiates and I daresay he'd be right. My hands have failed to obey me on more than one occasion and even the smallest ache seems to weigh me down. But my journey consists of enough uncertain elements to force me to remain in control of my faculties. I cannot yet abandon myself to my cravings.

Despite all that, however, the first glimpse of an Italian city instantly reconciles me. I can barely contain my desire to explore and almost set off without waiting for nightfall and the safety it provides. Although I did not pass Bergamo on my first visit to Italy, it feels familiar. The wide piazzas, the high spiralling towers of the churches and the rust-coloured rooftops all evoke a sense of peace and home-coming that I had not expected.

In the past, the events surrounding Luciana's death had tainted my memories of the country and made me cynical about all the beauty and kindness I had been shown here. But now upon my return, I find that I have done Italy a great injustice and denied myself this cornucopia of music, art and architecture.

I enjoy the view from the walls of the Città Alta that towers majestically over the Città Bassa to which some final stragglers are now retreating. Soon, I shall have this all to myself to explore as I see fit. And once more I thank my intuition that has guided me away from the hustle and bustle of Milan, filled to the brim with the crème de la crème of Italian society and mechanical monstrosities that would have disturbed the perfect serenity I experience here.

Once the streets have emptied, I begin my exploration, following the walls in one full circle. Then I venture deep into the centre of the city where the heart piece, the Basilica Santa Maria Maggiore, has been erected. From the outside, the washed down white façade of the cathedral with its finely crafted loggia is pleasant enough to look at but from the inside it is an abomination, completely overfilled with colour and golden ornaments. It is not the first cathedral like that I have encountered. It is as if the craftsmen believed the only way to please their God was to adorn their halls of worship with riches. My glance falls on the large crucifix and shaking my head, I exit. Surely a man of such humble beginnings would not need to be appeased in such fashion.

I meander slowly through the deserted city, pass the palazzos one by one and finally return to my camp at the foot of the mountains. For tonight, this shall suffice. The evening air is mild and beneath the stars I still retain my freedom, the very thing I have been forced to compromise throughout this journey when necessity and bad weather pushed me to rent rooms at various inns. As my wealth has grown over recent years, I have come to rely on certain luxuries and I shall waste no time reclaiming some of them again. But first I must find an appropriate spot to stay and while Bergamo was a wonderful reminder of Italian life, I have already exhausted all it has to offer. If I am to settle down somewhere permanently and for the very last time, it must be a place containing enough resources to satisfy my never-ending thirst for knowledge and beauty.

I set off the following night, remaining close to the mountains on an easterly course towards Verona. I know it won't be nothing but another short stop on my inevitable passage south. I am trying to resist Rome's pull, the allure that will, no doubt, carry me to Giovanni's doorstep. I am as frightened as I am fascinated by the reaction I shall suffer upon my return. Every man has a story and every story is plagued by ghosts and mine are particularly frightening.

I have no idea what I fear to discover once I make it there. Perhaps it is the sight of that dreadful balustrade or perhaps it is the essence of him that lingers in every corner. Whatever it is, I am not yet ready to face it and so I tirelessly journey on towards my next destination.

Warmth and humidity envelop me upon my arrival and make both my shirt and my mask cling to my skin. It is an uncomfortable sensation that quickly makes me yearn for the privacy of a bath. For now, I can only afford a quick wash, however, and in order to distract myself, I choose to venture into the city already. More people still frequent these streets and so I am forced to stick to the shadows, lest I draw the attention of some unwanted, intoxicated fool.

My progress is slow and my chest soon starts to ache. My lungs fail to keep up with the demands of my struggling body. I would not be surprised should the climate and withdrawal symptoms force me to produce my first bloodied handkerchief. I have been fortunate so far to avoid the fate that befalls so many stonemasons but I shan't be much longer.

I stagger past many of the magnificent buildings that line the streets like a drowning man, struggling to come up for air and ultimately crash ashore the limestone walls of the arena. I seek shelter beneath one of the many arches until a flickering light catches my attention. I turn clumsily to locate its source and finally perceive faint music, emanating from within the walls of this ancient structure. Mankind, it seems, has found a new purpose for this amphitheatre.

Though the melodies are clumsy and the voices mediocre at best, it is the music itself that pains me. Since Christine's departure, I have not been able to listen to a single note without reliving this terrible, all-consuming ache. Once my salvation, I no longer bask in the glory of music. Instead I recoil from it and flee from the memories that are already welling up. Christine's voice haunts me still and I will continue to find her in every beat, in every harmony I'll ever hear. So I must stay away from it. I have composed my last piece, my desire shall soon fade, too. Now all that's left to do is find something else to occupy my mind with.