Chapter 8 : Darkness and Light

Lovino couldn't help but feel slightly more powerful as he left Tommaso's house, bow in hand and a quiver of arrows strapped to his shoulder. The old man had convinced him, out of common sense, to take along a sword and dagger, but the younger Italian doubted he would use them. He was more accustomed to climbing high places and shooting at things from above; but in any case, he felt at ease.

And prepared.

And safe.

Well, as safe as he could be in the face of an impending pirate attack.

Still, he became grateful for the additional weapons when it came time to inspect the village houses. He did it out of a sense of duty—but the deserted homes were lonely, empty, ominous. And every little breath of wind racing through the abandoned structures seemed to whisper of desperate flight and hopelessness. The sounds alone sent chills up his spine, and more than once Lovino found himself drawing his sword in alarm, only to realize the culprit had merely been a noisy wood creature.

Disgusted with his own jumpiness, he had just stormed out of the fifth house on the street when a high-pitched wail reached his ears.

In front of the last house a tiny girl was crying loudly. She had tucked herself behind what remained of dilapidated little fence, rendering her barely visible; Lovino might have overlooked her if it hadn't been for her voice.

Hesitantly he stepped closer. The girl saw him and cried out.

"Who are you?" she squeaked, staring at him with huge, frightened brown eyes.

Lovino noticed how small and alone she was, remembered something, and felt an unknown emotion pass over him.

"I'm Lovino Vargas," he said, and evidently the child recognized the name, for some of the fear had vanished from her expression. "What are you doing here, bambina? It's dangerous. Where are your parents?"

"I-I don't know. I came back and they were gone," the girl babbled. "I'm scared..."

"Don't be. I'm here to help." Lovino hoped his voice was as reassuring as he felt. "I think I know where they are. What's your name?"

"Fia."

"Okay, Fia. I'll take you back, sì? It won't be long."

Fia nodded, clung very tightly to his leg—she was barely taller than his knee—and gazed up at him with that look of ultimate trust that only the very smallest children can give. It was all too easy to see, in those innocent eyes, a younger version of himself. Lovino sighed and lifted her up on his shoulders and went back to see Tommaso.

"The woods aren't that far—go right down the street, keep walking to the west, and you'll find them soon enough. If you need to explain, tell them I sent you. But they'll probably know you anyway." The elderly man didn't seem at all perturbed by his leaving, which probably meant he'd rather pack Lovino into the woods with all the rest.

But of course Lovino wasn't settling for that.

Hurriedly he set off in the direction Tommaso had indicated, stepping quick to avoid gnarled roots on the ground, whacking through branches and spider webs and all manner of obstructions, and making sure Fia didn't get scratched by any of it. Several times he had to whip out his sword at unknown noises, and at last he kept it out, as every little sound from the shadows could spell danger.

Fia, meanwhile, had calmed considerably, and seemed to have grown more relaxed in his presence. Occasionally she would ask how long they were taking, or hum, or sing, to which Lovino would tell her to quiet down.

And then, of course, she had to notice his damn hair.

"Signor Vargas, what's this?" Fia shrilled, poking at a strand of hair in front—the one he could never comb down. Lovino winced uncomfortably.

"Don't touch it. Don't touch my hair, all right?"

"But your hair is manly! It's even manlier than fratello's," she declared in triumph, and Lovino made an exasperated sound.

Of all the things in the world a child could amuse herself with, it had to be this. It always was. And on top of that, Lovino had never been good around children, a fact he wasn't proud of and didn't bother to change because he'd already planned never to have any. Ever.

"Just play with your fratello's hair when we find him," he sighed.

"But I like your hair! Can you cut some off and give it to me, Signor Vargas? Pleeeease?"

Lovino groaned and would have said something to the effect of "No, please get your hands out of my hair before I call your parents, you annoying little thing"—but at that moment they'd arrived at the emergency shelter.

It wasn't much of a shelter, really—more of a hurriedly built circle of flimsy tents and weak fences. But armed young men stood on duty, just as Tommaso had described, and they were about to halt Lovino when one of them caught sight of Fia on his shoulder.

"Sorella!" he cried happily just as Fia shouted, "Fratello!"

Tumbling down, she ran on thin little legs into her brother's arms and clung to him, relieved enough to endure his many reprimands and angry, worried exclamations. Lovino watched them awkwardly from the sidelines, somewhat reminded of his own sternness with Feliciano. It was a rather melancholy memory for him.

At last Fia's brother stopped fussing over her long enough to look up at Lovino.

"Grazie. Grazie mille," he said sincerely. His eyes were warm and friendly. "You have all my gratitude."

"It was no problem." Lovino felt awkward in the sudden quiet. "She's a good kid," he added after a moment, to a pleased squeal from the child.

He made to leave then, but precisely at that moment the rest of Fia's family arrived on the scene, her sisters and mother and aunts, and Lovino was thoroughly embarrassed. He became even more so when Fia cheerfully introduced him as "The Great Signor Vargas."

All of a sudden gasps reverberated through the camp.

"Vargas? The Vargas?"

"Of course!"

"Lovino Vargas, I hear—"

"The very one? Who disappeared?"

"Yes," Lovino sighed. "I came back. I'm here to help, all right? There are pirates about. Keep quiet, stay safe. I'm going back to the village."

"But they've already asked the city to send help! Don't go, stay with us here," a young girl shouted flirtatiously, to some catcalls and sounds of laughter. Lovino was careful to keep his face expressionless.

"Protecting you all comes first," he said as politely and stiffly as possible, and left without further ado. Distantly he heard the others entreating him to come back, but he refused to answer.

Perhaps they'd remember him, perhaps they wouldn't. News of him might well reach Venice soon, and he could only hope he'd be able to return.

If he survived long enough to do so.

The trees seemed to close behind him as he walked, slowly but surely pushing him back to the village turned battlefield.

And then, ahead of him, someone yelled.

He froze and listened. The shout was quickly followed by the high shrill of metal clashing against metal. His heart gave a little flop and he rushed to the edge of the wood, swinging himself up a nearby tree and parting the branches slightly to look out.

Below him, beyond him, all was chaos.

Down at the village, the pirates had arrived—the fighting had begun. He had not been able to return in time, and for that he was angry.

Lovino cursed under his breath and, with shaking hands, fitted an arrow to his bowstring. A second later he let it fly.

He watched as his arrow impaled a particularly strong pirate who had backed a young man into a corner. The scoundrel roared in pain but did not fall; another arrow did the trick.

Although he hadn't moved from his perch, Lovino felt his breath growing short.

For the first time, he had killed a man—and from the way things were unfolding, there might well be more.

He had some difficulty distinguishing the pirates from the villagers, for they all wore the same type of old cotton cloth, and the sandy ground did not help visibility from afar. At last Lovino gave up shooting.

Throwing one last glance over the village, his eyes latched on a flash of bright fabric and he caught sight of the brown-haired man, sword in right hand, his left hanging almost limply by his side. Only one man was fool enough to fight in such a way.

Carriedo.

Lovino leapt off the tree and dashed forward, drawing his sword. The fighting continued, and from the wood it was as though he were peering from a separate sphere of the universe, but then he was in the fray and surrounded on all sides by angry men.

"You're mad," he heard a man shout, in Italian, to a pirate slowly closing in on him. "Get the fuck out of here, you son of a bitch!"

He had his back to a house, and though he was partly covered in blood, he still stood steady, sword extended, ready to cut if the pirate came any closer. Nevertheless Lovino rushed at the assailant from behind.

"You heard him, bastard! Get the hell out!"

The pirate turned, and upon seeing Lovino he sneered.

"Not until we get what we came for!"

Without hesitation Lovino ran him through, and watched in horror as the man bled on the floor in front of him.

The other Italian stared at Lovino in alarm.

"You weren't supposed to come back!" he cried. "Tommaso wanted you to stay with them—"

He, too, fell to the ground, clutching his side. Lovino ran to him.

"Are you all right?" he shouted. But the large wound he saw told Lovino there wasn't much hope.

"I—I'm fine," gasped the man. He was young; perhaps even younger than Lovino himself, and his eyes were dark and deep and desperate. He seemed to know his life was draining away before his eyes. "Tell—tell my family—tell my Bianca it'll be—okay..."

His eyes closed and he fell limp in Lovino's arms.

Lovino was still for what seemed like a long time, staring at the nameless man's face. It was pale, pale as snow, and looked even younger in death. He couldn't have been more than twenty.

Slowly Lovino stood and pulled the body to the safety of an old house. There he dragged a blanket over it, watching as the fabric immediately dampened with blood. Finally he covered the man's face; it was the least he could do as a bystander.

But he couldn't bring himself to leave.

"Rest in peace," he whispered at last, and then stepped back out into the fighting and the killing.

He didn't know why a lump rose in his throat, or why the emotion threatened to overwhelm him. It wasn't as though he could have helped. Nothing he did could have saved the young man. And yet he felt despondent and useless.

Lovino paused at the doorway, taking in everything before him.

This was what the pirates had done.

This was what Carriedo had ordered them to do.

It was terrible, horrible—and unforgivable.

He threw himself back into the fray, fighting with a vengeance he did not know he had in him. Wounds were secondary; his first thought was revenge. Revenge for the unknown young man who had died, for the villagers who would have to make themselves new homes, for all the people who had suffered at the hands of the invading scoundrels.

So the pirates bore the brunt of Lovino's wrath. For they gave no mercy—why should he be any different?

Several more men met their ends at his hands, and Lovino thought nothing of it.

Then, in the midst of the scuffling and shouting and the groans of the wounded and dying, a familiar voice rang out, cool and clear.

"I order you all to surrender, now. Give up what you have, give us the prisoner Lovino Vargas, and you will be spared."

Miraculously, the fighting seemed to stop, even if it was only for a second. Men turned to the source of the voice, the brightly-clothed figure standing in the center of the village square.

Lovino did too.

For a moment there was silence, and then someone shouted:

"Never!"

It sounded like Tommaso, but Lovino couldn't be sure. At first Carriedo gave no reply, and then he spoke.

"This is the second time I have warned you. There will not be a third."

He had to put an end to all this, right now. Before any more blood was shed, before anything worse could happen.

It all depended on him.

Ignoring the other Italians' shouts of outrage, he elbowed his way to the square and strode out to face the pirate captain.

"No!" the same voice bellowed again, and this time Lovino recognized it as the old man's. But there was nothing he could say.

Instead, Lovino balled his fist and smashed it into Carriedo's face.

Instantly the entire crowd rose in an uproar. Lovino felt strong arms grabbing him and blows landing on him from behind—of course pirates were bound to defend their captains, no matter how fucking wicked they were—but he didn't give a shit. He could hear Carriedo shouting for them to let go of him, and after a few painful moments his order was finally carried out.

A slightly bloodier Lovino watched him with narrowed eyes and to his satisfaction beheld a rather large bruise spreading across the pirate captain's jaw.

The Italian let out a sneer.

"You're the lowest, most good-for-nothing little motherfucker I've ever seen," he spat angrily. "And the only reason I go with you is because of them." He gestured to the Italians beyond, ignoring their looks of horror. "I will go with you—as long as you and your fellow sons of bitches leave and never set one fucking toe on this place ever again. Or I'll raise the whole of Italy against you, and when Lovino Vargas makes a fucking promise he fucking keeps it."

Remarkably, Carriedo was silent.

"UNDERSTAND!?"

The pirate captain's green eyes, greener than the forest on a quiet night, met Lovino's. Within them was an indefinable emotion.

"... Sì, Romano, I understand," he said quietly.

And Lovino froze.

None of his plans had ever involved being out at sea again; he'd believed that after Gallipoli he would remain in Italy, safe from violence and violent thoughts of pirates. But of course nothing ever turned out the way he expected it to.

It turned out that a nice little armed force from the city had arrived just in time, as reinforcements. Along with the villagers, they would have outnumbered the pirates fairly well. And so, like the cowards they were, the invaders had seen them coming from afar, hurriedly taken what they could, and fled to the ship like a bunch of sissies.

Lovino had been with them. Perhaps, if he'd been able to stall for time, the others could have rescued him.

But it was just as well that he was here.

Because in front of him, there stood the one man he thought he hated, the one man who could possibly arouse so much conflict in him—and that man was Carriedo.

Or was he?

Lovino had to find out, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

The pirate captain's back was still turned to him; he was watching the Italian coast fade behind the waves yet again, from the safety of his cabin window. Lovino had invited himself inside and was waiting—had been waiting—for him to turn his fucking head and face him so that they could talk, as reasonable men were supposed to do. At last the Italian lost his patience.

"Carriedo," he said loudly.

And the damn man stopped him.

"I think there's been enough formality," he said in that same quiet voice from earlier, positively calculated to piss off Lovino. "Just call me Antonio."

But Lovino didn't give one shit whether he was Carriedo or Antonio or Signor Asshole of the Seas. He was angry, and he wanted answers.

"So then, Antonio,"he snarled. "Tell me. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Carr—no, Antonio—turned around at last and raised a brow.

"You're asking me?"

"No shit, and you just so happen to be my long-lost friend." Lovino was having a hard time keeping his voice under control. "What in hell were you hiding from me all this time? Was this another of your little pirate captain games? 'Let's All Trick the Italian Prisoner and See If He Finds Out'? Is that it?"

He thought he saw something flash in Antonio's eyes. Something akin to anger and—almost imperceptibly—disbelief.

Oh, but what a surprise.

Had he really thought Lovino would be happy to see him... like this?

A pirate captain? A hardened killer? Someone who kidnapped people and practiced robbery as a pastime?

How could he possibly be the same bright, happy, innocent Spanish boy Lovino had known from childhood?

"I wasn't hiding anything," said Antonio at last, evenly, his smile rather tight and artificial. "To tell the truth, I thought you were."

Without warning he thrust out his hand, and from it something golden dangled.

Lovino's necklace.

The Italian stared at it, still and silent.

Antonio chuckled bitterly and withdrew the golden chain.

"Remember when I asked you about yourself?" he went on. "You never answered. But you had an idea who I was, too, didn't you? It sure seemed like you did... and yet you never said a damn thing."

Accusation shot from his eyes in angry waves. They seemed to pierce right into Lovino's heart, and he remembered. It was true, he realized. He had had his suspicions all along—and yet he had never confronted Antonio, never tried to come to terms with what had been right in front of him from the very beginning.

He faltered. "I-if you were me, do you think you would!?"

"I might. Just so someone who's been thinking about me for the past... oh, thirteen years could have some peace of mind."

Lovino's mouth fell open of its own accord, and he found he couldn't speak for several moments. But Antonio's expression didn't change.

It was still the same solemn, grave, sad face one would wear to a funeral.

And it didn't look right on him, not him, the normally cheerful man that he was. Lovino found himself missing the smile, the laugh, the flirtatious looks. Sadness was never meant to dwell on his face.

"Y-you..."

"Yes, I." The captain shrugged a shoulder. "Even pirates have memories, don't they? But let's talk about you. Surely you, Lovino, would at least try to remember someone who meant something to you?"

His voice was horrible to hear—low and flat and resigned. It was as though he'd accepted that the past was the past, that there was nothing else between them. But it couldn't be. It must be someone else speaking through him, some wicked ventriloquist.

Lovino wanted to say something. One word hung on his tongue, begging, burning to slip out—and finally it did.

"Toni."

A small shudder ran through Antonio, and something flickered through his eyes. The terrible mask of emotionlessness quivered, cracked; then, slowly, it faded away before Lovino. A shred of feeling had come back to him.

Slowly Antonio came closer and put his hands on Lovino's shoulders.

"Roma," he said haltingly, as though he were still learning to speak. His voice stumbled over the two familiar syllables, and the Spaniard closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them again. "... Romano."

Lovino said nothing.

"You remember, don't you?" Antonio whispered, almost desperately. "You remember... me?"

Of course he did. How couldn't he? The boy had been in his thoughts day and night, and, to some extent, the man as well. But oh, how difficult they were to reconcile.

The two stood on opposite ends of a spectrum. One a playful child, the other a ruthless pirate.

Where, along this line, did the real Antonio come in?

"I... thought you were dead," he said at last, and Antonio's eyes clouded over.

"... I thought I was, too."

They had somehow managed to find their way down to the beach, that sunny day in June. The water was clear and cold, and the little Italian boy enjoyed himself immensely, having never been to such a beautiful place. Toni watched him, quietly content.

Romano looked so angelic when he smiled.

"You don't like swimming?" he shouted suddenly from the water.

"Can't," Toni yelled back, and Roma laughed at him before tumbling back onto the sand.

"Let's do something you can do, then!"

Toni grabbed his hand then, and they raced happily across the beach, Roma occasionally tripping and falling. At last Toni carried him piggyback and began walking slowly back the way they came.

"Are we going already?" Romano whined.

"The sun's going to set soon. And you need to change your clothes." But for Toni it was more from personal reasons than otherwise. Darkness on the beach bothered him now; for it was on one such occasion, not too long ago, that his father had left on his small ship and never returned.

There had been a lot of bad business involved; some men had come and threatened him for something Toni didn't understand, and the next evening his father had gone. It had all been at night.

He sensed that somehow it wasn't a good omen.

Romano was still complaining, but at least he was listening.

"Let's come here again soon," he pleaded.

"All right." But Toni's heart wasn't in it. He thought he could hear the sound of footsteps in the distance, that weren't theirs.

"What's with you?"

"Wait. Be quiet—"

The footsteps—for indeed they were footsteps—were getting louder. And faster.

To his shock he discerned some of the same men who had accosted his father, the ones who had threatened to make him pay.

Suddenly a bad feeling came over him.

"Go hide over there," he said to Roma, and pushed him toward a small cluster of bushes nearby. "Don't come out unless I tell you to."

"What?" Roma's eyes were wide and scared.

"Don't ask. Just listen to me, all right? Be quiet. Don't come out. If something happens, run back and find whoever owns this place, and tell them to take you home. Do you understand?"

Romano nodded fearfully.

There wasn't enough space for the two of them, and Toni could already see the men approaching. As there was nothing else to do, he walked straight toward them. At least Roma would be safe...

Hopefully.

"Little boy, where's your father?" one of them asked. His voice made Toni want to throw up.

"I don't know," he said as loudly and clearly as he could manage, even though he had trouble keeping his voice steady. "What do you want?"

"We only need a little something from your father," the man said. "Payment. He has not returned everything he's promised."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"He entrusted you with some of his secrets. Kindly tell us."

"I don't know."

"Your sister said the same, and that did not go very well, I am afraid."

His breath caught in his throat.

No, no, no.

Not her, not her, anyone but her—

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER!?"

"Nothing," smiled the man.

"IF YOU—IF YOU LAID EVEN ONE FINGER ON HER I'M—I'M GOING TO—"

"Going to what, little boy?" They were laughing at him. Laughing. "You don't have to worry about her, she's in a better place now. She won't have to worry anymore about her irresponsible father and his problems."

Toni stopped.

His heart also seemed to stop.

"You—you—" He could barely speak through the tears that obscured his vision. "You BASTARDS! You're going to PAY!"

He rushed at them, not caring that they were all several times bigger than him, that they outnumbered him five to one, that they were armed and evil and dangerous—he wanted to hurt them. Hurt them, make them bleed, make them beg for mercy. Anything to make them regret what they had done. Anything to reverse time and save her and save everyone else.

But the first man simply picked him up like he was a small bag of sand and laughed as Toni wriggled in the strong grasp. He walked forward, so far out that Toni could hear crumbling beneath his feet. They were on the edge of a cliff, and the sea spread out before him, a threatening blanket of blue-black.

He let go. Toni screamed and fell and by some miracle his hands caught onto the rock. He hung on for dear life as the men watched him from above.

"What... what do you..." he tried to say, but his words were being blown away by the wind. One man bent down and smiled, an evil mocking smile.

"Any last words, little boy?"

"I—I hate you! All of you! And I will haunt you forever! Forever—"

The man stepped back and kicked him. There was a scream—his or Roma's, he couldn't tell—and then he was falling, falling, falling...

The ocean with its wide, dark, gaping mouth met him, and then he felt himself being sucked down, down into the everlasting blackness.

"But I didn't die," Antonio said tiredly. "Some fisherman saw me fall, and saved me. I lost my memory for a while. I didn't even remember you until they showed me the necklace."

Lovino could only listen, silent.

"I remembered after a while, of course. Then I asked around and I learned—my father was a pirate. He had a lot of children by many different women; my sister and I were his last. He kept us with him and went into hiding, but of course they found him. Who knows where he is now... he's probably died. Everyone died except me."

He sighed. He looked worn out, more exhausted than Lovino had ever seen him. His once-shining eyes looked strained, his mouth struggled to smile, but it could not.

"Why... why did you become a pirate, then?"

Antonio chuckled halfheartedly. "The same reason all young men do when they lose their loved ones. Revenge. What else?"

"You could have stopped..."

"Perhaps, if I hadn't had my father as an example." Antonio shrugged. "Anyway, these were the men who took me in. They promised money and adventure and, well, what could a poor vengeful boy like me have done? So I sailed with them. I found the men who murdered my sister, killed them, and thought it wise to stay with the pirates after that. It's been about thirteen years since then."

"Thirteen."

"Sí... I'm twenty-six now. What a waste of a life, don't you agree?" He passed a hand over his forehead, and seemed to want to change the subject. "But what about you, Lovi? Why aren't you Romano anymore?"

"I changed my name," said Lovino quietly. "No one minded. And I didn't like being called Roma... after..."

After you were gone.

Antonio must have sensed what he'd left unsaid, because he smiled. It was a small, sad smile.

"Well, I'm back now. And I think I still need to return something."

He held up the golden chain with its little charm, and Lovino laughed weakly as Antonio stepped forward and reached both arms around his neck. It seemed to take forever for him to put it on, but Lovino found he didn't mind. Up close he saw Antonio clearly for the first time—saw the way his eyes shone, brighter than gems in the sunlight; the way his face glowed even in the dimness of the cabin, reminding him of the little Toni from long ago. And just visible beneath Antonio's collar was the flash of gold that had drawn them both together.

At last the Spaniard finished, but he did not move away. Green eyes locked with hazel, and neither broke the gaze.

"I missed you," Antonio whispered, but it was only a feeble explanation for the way he was looking at Lovino.

For a long time they stood there, so close together their faces were almost touching. Immediately some impulse raced through the Italian, a sudden urge to perhaps reach up around Antonio's neck and pull and close the distance and make up for all the years they had lost. And then he might just be able to forget and fix things so that they were all right again.

But he didn't.

x X x

Translations

Bambina (Italian) – Little girl

Grazie mille (Italian) – A thousand thanks (or many thanks)