Summary: He'd search for a lifetime if it meant he could spend even a moment with her. Post Door 3 Jacopo's story.
Notes: My very first Fata fic. I don't really know how the voices read, I suspect they're not as true to form as I would have hoped.
I'm not exactly the biggest fan of Jacopo, but Michelle is my favorite character in this visual novel. So this is what came out of that. We'll see if I ever find the inspiration to write more for the Fata Moru fandom. I suspect the answer to be yes.
oOo
A Saint's Blessing
Years passed.
Seasons changed.
He grew old.
He couldn't quite pinpoint it. The moment he became old. He had aged gracefully, or at least that's what he told himself.
It was true, he thought. The number of female admirers he had seemed to support this assertion.
Then again, perhaps they were only after his fortune. He preferred to pretend that money had no bearing on their interest.
Not like it mattered anyway, he snorted to himself. He was still a married man.
But even if he couldn't quite figure out when he became old, the signs were there, clear as day.
It was only his hair, at first. The luscious, wavy brown hair that he sported slowly turned silver. He'd eventually taken to wearing a wig, as uncomfortable as it was.
Then, his strength slowly gave way. Long journeys tired him. The Transatlantic boat trips ground him down, so much so that by the time he finally arrived in Europe, it would take him a week, or perhaps even more, before he was recovered enough to resume his search.
There were times he'd felt like giving up. But then he'd remember her face. The way she smiled at him; the way she asked for a moment of his time, her wide eyes earnest and guileless.
And so every year, he would book the tickets.
"Good morning, Master!" The ever-present voice of the Maid greeted him as she opens the door to the master bedroom. She was as elegant and perfect as always, treating him with the same respect and decorum as he had come to expect in her decades of service.
But there was something strange about her. He always knew this, even when he first met her, the day he purchased this mansion nearly half a century ago. The warmth she exuded, that bright welcoming smile on her face, all of it felt fake. An illusion. Something that was brittle, that could be shattered in an instant. There was a coldness to her, something intrinsically inhuman about her, that gave him the creeps.
Three times, he thought to himself. Three times he had tried to fire her. Three times he had attempted to remove her from the mansion. But those attempts never worked. She would always return to the mansion, as the Head Maid. And everybody seemed to think that it was natural, that she simply was.
And now, after all these years, she was only one of two servants left, and the only servant left in the mansion. The rest had moved on to greener pastures, or he had simply let them go when he had no use for them any longer. He'd attempted to let the Maid leave as well; his final attempt to remove her from his life. But she had, as always, stayed with only that smile on her face. And so he'd given up on it and accepted her presence. And if he was honest to himself, having her there could sometimes be a benefit. Like that time… that time when he dreamed of his wife.
"Good morning," he croaked out, his mouth dry and his throat reminding him of the texture of sandpaper.
"I'm surprised to see you still in bed, Master! After all, today's quite the important day!"
"Yes… I was merely thinking about the preparations."
The Maid laughed. It was a high, almost ethereal sound, not unlike that which he could find in a ghost story. Goosebumps arose on his skin, but he ignored them. He was sure that she intended for the laugh to come across warmly. In all the decades of knowing her, he had never caught a hint of malice.
"Don't worry, Master! I've already completed the preparations. The finest rosebush was delivered yesterday evening, and the hearse has been called. You should make haste, though, as the train departs the station at noon."
Jacopo sighed. It really was high time he got out of bed.
The Maid helped him with the preparations. A suitcase, packed with enough clothes and necessities for the journey was handed to him in the foyer. And then, as he headed for the garden, he saw the rosebush; the newest addition to his garden of roses.
The garden had started only a few days after she had left. During those days, he'd still held strong to his faith. His faith that he would find her. It wasn't like how it was now. He still had hopes. Every flash of white, he'd whip his head around so quickly that he nearly injured his neck a half dozen times.
Now? Now he went on his journeys to search for her, without really believing that he'd find her. This was his repentance after all. He promised to never stop looking, and he'd broken far far too many promises with her to break this one as well.
But the rose garden had begun in the immediate aftermath of her departure. At the beginning, he'd been selfish. It was just another ploy for her to come back, another desperate plea for forgiveness. He'd made to replant the garden; the roses that she'd loved so much, that he'd torn asunder in his blind jealousy. He wanted to rebuild what they had; wanted to show her that she was the most important thing in the whole world to him. Not his money, not the god-forsaken railroad, and certainly not some crazed childhood friend that had become the most two-faced scheming bitch in the States since Benedict Arnold.
And so, he'd begun to replant the garden. He'd had very little idea of how to replicate the garden; he had never taken so much as a glance at it. So he just ordered rosebushes. Two hundred and eighty-four rose bushes, to be exact. One for each and every word that she wrote. In that last letter of hers. The last time that he had ever felt her love.
Back then, he hadn't known much about roses, if anything at all. She had always been the one tending to the garden. All he knew was that red roses seemed to be her favorite and so he'd nearly gotten two hundred and eighty-four red rosebushes.
The Maid quickly talked him out of the idea.
"Mistress may have liked red roses the best, but she was always fond of a rainbow of hues in the garden, Master." She'd said, a hint of reprimand in her voice.
It had been more than a little upsetting to hear that. The Head Maid, the one who had served him and only him diligently, had known more about his wife than he had. Somehow, the Maid, whose duties of keeping the house running were vast and easily rivaled his business meetings in complexity, had found the time to have conversations with his wife. To talk to her, learn more about her, learn of her whims and desires.
Something that he, her husband, should have been doing but had neglected.
It wasn't just a little upsetting. It was maddening.
In the end, he'd wound up buying all different colors of roses. Red, white, pink, lavender, green, blue… they came in all different colors. And then, he'd gotten to work planting.
He'd wanted to do it all himself. He was ready to set aside everything else in his life for this task. His family attempted to dissuade him, but he couldn't have cared less about their opinion, or the Bearzatti name at that moment. He just wanted her back.
He was somewhere in the fifties when the Maid finally put a stop to it.
"You'll kill yourself cleaning up the place and digging up all those holes before you've even given Mistress a chance to return, Master. And besides, you have zero experience with gardening. Do you really think that Mistress will be pleased with dying rosebushes that have been planted and cared for improperly?"
"I was the reason for the destruction of its previous iteration," he rasped out, leaning against the iron-wrought fence. "She would appreciate it more if I was the one to replace it for her."
"I'm sure that Mistress would appreciate your efforts. But what good will come of it if you die of exhaustion before the work is completed?"
In the end, her logic wore him down and he hired a gardener. But, as a compromise with himself, he asked the man to teach him how to plant the rosebushes properly.
And every year, on the tenth of May, right before he would set off on his trip, on his journey to find her again, he'd find himself out in the gardens. Planting a new rosebush. Whether as an apology, or as a prayer, even he didn't know.
"It's waiting for you, out in the garden, Master." The Maid said as she helped him into his coat.
"Thank you," he replied, taking his hat and slowly making his way out into the garden.
The sun blinded him as he stepped outside and he raised a hand to shade his eyes against the glare. The sweet scent of the roses nearly overwhelmed him; there were so many now that he knew houses two blocks away could still smell their scent on the wind. He slowly made his way towards the back side of the garden, towards the place that he knew the gardener had been making space for the newest addition. It was a deep burgundy, the rosebush that sat in its unassuming orange pot, next to the pre-dug hole. In years past, he would have gotten up early and dug the hole himself.
But he was old now. Even if he arose at the crack of dawn, he would never be able to complete his task before it was time for him to depart for the station. The last time he'd attempted it five years ago, he'd never made the train.
He took up the rosebush and with the help of the gardener, gently lifted the plant from its pot. He gazed at it for a moment, admiring the richness of the color of the petals.
"That's a nice one," the gardener said, awkwardly attempting to make conversation as he stood opposite his master, clutching the bush carefully to avoid the thorns. He was the youngest son of the previous gardener, who'd retired a few years back. Despite the fact that he was one of the only two servants left within the mansion, he didn't see his master much. Nor had he much of a reason to engage his master in conversation on the few occasions when they did interact. Thus, it was natural that he still felt more than a little awkward in his presence.
The gardener shifted his feet back and forth, then asked, "That deep burgundy color, do you know what it means, master?"
Jacopo took a deep breath, closing his eyes, feeling the wind caress his cheek.
"Devotion," he said quietly, doing his very best to keep the bitterness out of his tone.
"Right! I'm sure that the meaning won't be lost…- er I mean, I'm sure that it will make a beautiful addition to the garden! So why don't we get her all situated and I can take proper care of her."
Jacopo eyed the young man for a few moments, who fidgeted nervously. The gardener remembered the words of his father in relation to his master.
"He's a good man at heart. Never did wrong by any of the servants of the house during my time at the manor and certainly not by me. Only one that there was a problem with… well- that was a special case. Before my time, that was, and all I really know about it was that it had something to do with his wife."
"His wife? I haven't seen a woman around the house or any photographs or anything."
"Yeah well, I wouldn't pry too much into it. Like I was saying, he's a good man, but sometimes, he's got a hair trigger of a temper. And the thing that triggers that temper of his the most? Well that be his wife, and anything to do with her. So if I were you, I'd keep out of it. Unless he brings it up first, just keep your head down and tend to that garden like your life depended on it, and I reckon you'll make out just fine. Coz trust me, you don't want to mess with him when he's mad. When he's mad, he can do the most terrifying things."
The gardener cursed his own mistake. It'd been a few years of the same ritual every May and his curiosity had been growing bit by bit. But he really should've remembered the old man's warning. Now he felt cold, despite the bright rays from the sun beating down on them. Was he about to be fired? Or worse?
The moment passed, however, and suddenly Jacopo had turned and began to lower the rosebush into the ground. The gardener felt the rosebush slip from his grasp, his fingers frozen stiff. Suddenly, he felt the sting of pain; one of the thorns had gashed one of his fingers as it had slid through them.
He made an exclamation of pain. His master didn't even turn around, intent on carefully filling the dirt up around the newly planted rosebush. It was only after he had finished; after he had watered the newly planted rosebush, that he turned to the gardener."
"My apologies." Jacopo said, seeing the gardener pinching his finger closed to stem the bleeding. "Please seek the Maid for some first aid, she'll provide it to you. I must be off."
Without another word, his master slowly set off in the direction of the front gate, where the hearse was waiting. The gardener watched him go; watched that slow, unsteady gait of his master as he set off on his annual search.
"I really wish I knew what kind of a woman the master's wife was," the gardener muttered to himself as he absentmindedly sucked on his finger.
oOo
It had taken him nearly three weeks to arrive in Paris.
During the earlier years, he had kept his searches stateside. His wife was not the strongest of women, and she did not have much in the way of family to help her. When she joined his household it, for all intents and purposes, had become her only home. One which he had ruined through his own arrogance and cowardice.
He didn't think that she would have made it very far. Indeed, he had been almost certain that, with enough effort combing through the neighboring areas, he would find her.
But then the years of fruitless searching began to pile up, and he began to move further and further from his hometown. Soon enough, he'd searched the entire country.
It wasn't long before he began to travel abroad.
The first place he searched was his hometown. Or rather, their hometown. Somehow, some way, they had both come from the same area. It was a connection; a tenuous one to be fair. But with all other connections severed between them, he clung to it as if it were a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.
He'd had no luck. He couldn't even find her parents, not that he would have had much to say to them. It wasn't as if he could approach them and tell them about how he was searching for their daughter after mistreating her so much that she had quite literally run away.
As more and more years passed, he found himself combing through Europe. Mostly Italy still, at least initially. But now, he was moving further and further into Europe proper.
He didn't much like France, and so he'd been putting off this trip. But he couldn't deny that the western European nations were the most likely place for her to be.
There was a light rain blanketing the city when he first arrived. The low hanging fog and general gloominess of the city only added to the moroseness of the atmosphere. Even the majesty of the recently constructed Eiffel Tower did nothing to dissipate the melancholic atmosphere. Although part of that was likely due to the fact that rainclouds obscured much of the tower itself.
He'd hired a local guide to help him get around the city, and for the first few days, they did naught but visit the city's coffeehouses. He had informed his guide, a local art collector who was a friend of a friend, that he was searching for someone. She had been nice enough not to pry, only asking a few basic questions before taking him around the city. He was sure that the woman probably had an inkling of exactly who he was searching for. But she didn't mention it much during their conversations as they wandered the city. He appreciated that.
They'd focused on the coffeehouses, as they were the best place to seek information. He diligently made his way through them, asking everybody that he met if they'd seen any glimpse of her. It was mostly an exercise in futility, a demoralizing stream of rejections combined with the infuriating looks of pity. But he swallowed down his pride and continued his search. If he could find her, then all of the indignities would have been worth it.
Two weeks in, and Jacopo had made little progress. The only silver lining of this whole trip was the fact that now, many of the patrons of the coffeehouses knew him. They knew him as the weird foreigner who's searching for a white-haired girl with ruby eyes. So maybe if she ever passes through Paris in the future, she'd know that he was searching for her. But he'd found no leads otherwise.
Then, on a particularly bright and sunny day with temperatures soaring into the seventies, he'd met up with his guide as was their routine. But instead of turning towards the city, she instead remained still, contemplating him as if he were a complex puzzle that she wished to solve.
"What's with the delay?" He asked, a little impatiently. His time in Paris would soon be ending, he knew, and he didn't want to waste time. He didn't want yet another year of failure added to the ever-expanding list of failures that encompassed his entire life.
"My apologies, Mr. Bearzatti," came her reply. "I was simply wondering if perhaps a break would do you some good. You've come to Paris, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and yet you've done naught to enjoy it."
"I've not got the luxury of time to waste, Ms. Stein. I must find-"
"Your dedication to your search is admirable, Mr. Bearzatti." She interrupted him. "I appreciate the amount of effort and time you have given to it. But there is always such a thing as moderation in life. Take me as an example. I may be an art collector, but art is not all that I do. I dabble in other pursuits, Mr. Bearzatti. Writing, touring, hosting, and all manner of other hobbies."
"I cannot afford to be distracted, Ms. Stein."
"Distractions can be a good thing, Mr. Bearzatti. A break, a hiatus can sometimes go a long way to refresh your mind and body. A previously unsolvable problem may suddenly become almost childlike in its simplicity, if you simply take some time away from the issue and approach it with a fresh mindset."
"I would rather-"
"How about this, then Mr. Bearzatti? It is a couple hours' worth to ride to the closest neighboring town. It's a beautiful place, and it'll be a nice break from the hustle and bustle of Paris. There are less people there; it is a quiet town that is known for its rather insular community, and they will know if any outsiders have passed through that town. You will still be able to ask the locals there if they have seen the person you are searching for."
"But-"
She patted his shoulder kindly, a smile on her portly face.
"France is a fairly big country, Mr. Bearzatti. Who's to say that the person you're searching for settled down in Saint-Michel instead of Paris?"
Jacopo had made to protest again, but stopped short.
"What did you say? Saint… Michelle?"
Pleased that her suggestion seemed to finally be getting through to the visitor, the guide responded, "Why yes, that's the name of the town. I'm sure you'll enjoy a change of scenery, so why don't we make a day trip out of it?"
"... Alright then. Let's be off."
Maybe luck would finally be on his side, after all this time.
oOo
Jacopo had never thought much of France. As an Italian, it was almost natural instinct to disparage and deride anything French-related. Their cuisine was shit, their architecture even worse, and their artwork was an appalling imitation of the great Italian masters.
Once he'd arrived in Paris, he hadn't thought much of the city. Perhaps it was because he was simply too busy to have much time to do any proper sightseeing. That was how it always was on his searches. He never managed to properly explore the area he was searching. There would always be time to properly travel later, he'd told himself. After he found her, he'd take her to see the world.
Everything could wait until he found her.
Of course, in the blink of an eye, a lifetime had slid by. He glanced around as the trees slowly passed by the carriage that his guide had generously called for them. The ambiance was nice; the atmosphere, the fresh air, the sound of the birds chirping and the natural beauty of the nature around him… it was a picturesque scene. He wondered if he missed out on these scenes during his lifetime.
Perhaps… a lot of the things that he always told himself he would get to eventually once he'd found his wife… he'd have to act on them soon or else let them go forever.
It was a sobering thought.
The trees along the path that they had taken began to part, opening up and revealing a small lake.
"Where is this?" He asked his guide.
"I'm… not exactly sure if this lake has a name at all," she replied, brow furrowed as if she were lost in thought.
"I've been out here a few times though. I think there's some fish inside; I've seen the locals hauling fish back. But it's a nice spot of scenery isn't it?"
Jacopo nodded.
"Hey, could you stop the carriage for a bit?" He asked.
The guide leaned forward to speak with the driver and before long the carriage came to a standstill.
He disembarked, helped by his guide, and before long he stood by the shoreline of the lake, staring out at the tranquil waters that stretched out before him. The water was clear and clean; a rarity in rapidly industrializing Europe. A swan swam gracefully across his line of sight.
"It's beautiful," his guide remarked, coming up to stand next to him. "What wonderful weather too. Aren't you glad you made the trip?"
No. That was what he wanted to say, but he bit back the retort.
He wanted to say that he would have preferred to continue searching for her. But he realized that it would just be pointlessly rude.
He didn't want to be pointlessly rude anymore.
"Can I… walk around for a bit?" He asked in lieu of providing an answer.
"Of course. Would you like me to accompany you?"
"That's alright. I can make do just fine."
Of course, he knew that his guide hadn't asked out of any sort of concern for his physical wellbeing. That she was asking more to see if he wanted the company. But he didn't. He wanted to take some time for himself.
He set off around the lake at what was a brisk pace for him. The recent rains had softened the ground considerably, and he had to take care to not accidentally step into a muddy ditch. Still, it was peaceful. He couldn't help but let his mind wander.
What would it be like, he wondered, if he could take her on a walk around this lake? His wife had never had the best stamina, but even she would have probably been able to manage a couple of laps here.
He knew that she would appreciate the beauty and tranquility here. She had always held an appreciation for nature that he could never match.
He wondered what they would have conversed about. He had never been good with conversation, or at least not the emotional ones. Business conversations were easy, manipulating others for his own gain even more so. Taking charge of a room and making sure that his words were heard over others? That was a piece of cake.
But talking to his wife?
He'd never been good at that.
He'd never been good at understanding people.
He'd never been good at understanding her.
Even now, as his mind focused on the memories of her, he didn't know.
What would she have said about this lake, this scenery?
He didn't know.
After a little more walking, he began to approach what appeared at first glance to be a rectangular shed of some sort. A closer inspection revealed that it was actually a cabin. A log cabin, like the ones that could be found back in his own country, when settlers had first come from the East Coast searching for a better life out West.
He hadn't expected to find a cabin here, in this day and age. Rapid modernization had done away with most of these humble dwellings. But this lake was in a fairly isolated area, perhaps a relic of older days had survived.
The sky darkened as he approached the cabin. The sun had become hidden behind a cloud. The air too grew colder as the rays of the sun no longer bathed the area in its warm glow. He wrapped his traveling cloak a little tighter around himself before he approached the front door of the cabin.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
The sound of his knuckles rapping against the door rang out clearly. He stood there for a time, thinking that he must look quite foolish. After all who's to say that the cabin was even occupied. Before long, however, the door to the cabin opened a crack wide.
He paused, somewhat surprised that the cabin was indeed occupied.
And then… a soft voice rang out.
"Who goes there?"
It startled him a bit at first, his brain struggling to process what he had just heard, because the language was unmistakably English. Was the person that lived here a foreigner?
Then, as he replayed the woman's voice in his head, over and over and over, something began to spread through him.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
His heartbeat is unnaturally loud. It's as if the organ is attempting to drill its way out of his chest.
Because that voice… was so very familiar.
"...Michelle?"
It's said in a whisper, as if he didn't want the world to know. As if she could be torn from his grasp once more in but a moment, if he spoke her name aloud. That voice, it had to be her. The girl that he had been searching for all this time.
"Michelle… it's you right? I… I've searched for you for years… decades… and now I've finally found you!"
There was a moment's pause. He awaited her answer with bated breath. Surely…-
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Traveler. I think you must have mistaken me for someone else."
oOo
He's experienced this feeling once before in his lifetime. This crushing sort of feeling that smothered him, overwhelmed him. It crashed down on him, sweeping him away as he were weightless.
He's not sure how or when it happened, but his legs have lost their strength and he's kneeling now. Kneeling at the front door to that little cabin.
"S-stop lying to me," he chokes out in a low growl. "That voice. It's your voice. It's just like I remember it. It's…- it's…- it has to be you!"
"I apologize, Mr Traveler, but I must ask you to leave in peace. You are disturbing me."
"No," he panted, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the wooden door. "No, no, no ,no NO! It's you Michelle. Stop… stop running away from me. I've changed. Please. I promise I've changed. Please… return home with me."
"Please leave this place, Mr. Traveler. I can assure you, I'm not the one you seek! I have never seen you before in my life."
He threw his head back and laughed. He hadn't laughed in years. He wasn't sure if his vocal cords even remembered how to laugh. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he sounded deranged. Unhinged. On the cusp of madness.
And maybe he was already there. Maybe he had already lost his mind. Maybe somewhere along the way of this journey, this near half century odyssey of searching… he had already become something else. He was no longer Jacopo Bearzatti.
Michelle was beyond this door. He was sure of it. But maybe she was right. Maybe she really had never seen him before.
His head fell forward, and he slumped against the door.
"...please… at least let me see you, one more time."
There was a long, pregnant pause. He could hear nothing on the other side of the door. Perhaps she was simply ignoring him now?
Just as he was about to give up… just as he was truly about to give up on his search, he hears the sound of a bar being drawn across the other side of the door. There is a click and suddenly, the door upon which he had been leaning opens.
Naturally, he's left sprawled on the floor and his first glimpse of the woman behind the door; the first thing he saw were her feet.
His eyes traveled upwards, towards the hem of her dress. It was a long brown dress, almost like a cloak, reaching to her ankles.
His eyes continued to slide upward, past the sash that was tied around her waist to her slender arms crossed beneath her chest until they finally settled on her face.
He recoiled in shock.
The girl hadn't been lying. This was not Michelle. This was not his wife. For one, her hair was not that gorgeous, perfect white that he had known. Her eyes were not the color of rubies, and they held none of the affection that he had once remembered. They were wary, narrowed orbs of yellow that gazed at him with equal parts suspicion and… was that hurt in her eyes?
The other feature that made it very, very clear that this girl was not, could not be his wife, was her face. Michelle was gorgeous; it was not an understatement when he used to brag, at the start of it all, that he'd married the most beautiful woman in the world. Her delicate features, the demure expression that she always wore on her face, and her bright smile, like a… a perfect rose blooming in the springtime, it all conjured up an image of perfection.
The girl that stood before him, this girl with her voice, was perhaps the opposite.
Her face was scarred… heavily so. It was revolting to look at, the way that patches of skin had seemed to be torn away from her face. Her arms, now that he had noticed the injuries to her face, also bore the marks of old wounds. It was as if this girl had been subjected to the most gruesome of torture.
Even though this girl was clearly not his wife, even though he should have had nothing to do with her, he couldn't help the feeling that spread through his chest. What was this feeling? It had been a very long time since he'd felt this way.
Pity?
Anger?
Or was it…?
"Are you satisfied now, Mr. Traveler?" The girl hissed. "Now that you have seen me, are you content to leave me in peace?"
"What… what happened to you?" He asked, his voice oddly hushed.
"My appearance is none of your concern. Now answer my question. Are you satisfied?"
"I… I…-"
He was struggling to find the words.
"Pathetic. After all that begging, you can't even muster up a single sentence? I should have left you outside."
The girl turned away from him, as if she'd lost all interest.
"I'm sorry," he apologized. Jacopo Bearzatti was never one to apologize, and yet he found himself apologizing to this girl for the second time today. It was strange; almost as if he felt compelled to apologize.
"I've been searching for someone for a long time. And I thought… your voices sounded very familiar. But it was just a coincidence after all."
"Why?"
He started at her question.
"Pardon?"
"Why? Who was this person to you, that made you search for them?"
"She… she was someone that was very dear to me. But I never got the chance to tell her everything that I wanted to say. I never got to tell her that I loved her. That's why I've been searching for all this time. Because I… I want to convey my true feelings to her."
The girl before him didn't speak. For a moment, Jacopo wondered if she had already lost all interest in him. Was he so unworthy of her attention that she didn't even deign to give him a response? For some reason, that thought filled him with a deep moroseness.
"How long?" Once more, Jacopo was startled by the sound of her voice. He'd begun readying himself to leave the little cabin.
"How…long?"
"Yes. How long have you been searching for this woman?"
"Decades."
"And you never gave up?"
"I couldn't forgive myself if I did."
"..."
The girl was quiet. Perhaps a little too quiet. He couldn't see her face. What was she thinking?
Her shoulders began to shake. Was she laughing at him? At how stupid and naive his devotion was? That was fine. He didn't need her approval anyways. It wasn't something he coveted.
It was time to leave. He should leave. Michelle wasn't here, and he still needed to find her.
But he remained on the floor. He couldn't move.
Hic!
Hic!
The girl… was she crying?
This, Jacopo did not expect. Why was she crying? This was his story. His tragedy to bear. Was she really so compassionate as to shed tears for his misfortune? Or was there something else? Something that he had said that had touched her heart in some way?
"Hey… are you alright?"
"Don't… don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Don't concern yourself over me. I'm beyond your concern, or your ability to help."
"What? What are you saying? If it's something I said or did, then I should-"
"You can't comfort me. You can't assist me. There's nobody in this world that can help me. Even if you were the kindest, most compassionate person in the world, you would still be unable to help me. I'm… the only one that could save me… they would have to be inhuman to be able to understand me."
"But-"
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Traveler, that I could not be the person that you so desperately sought to find. But I hope that you do manage to reunite one day, in this boundless sphere of fate. I think that… I think that you would make her very happy. One day, I pray that you'll be able to tell her everything you wish you could have said."
"That's where you'd be wrong, Miss. I've done naught but make her miserable. Your prayers would be better used for your own happiness."
She shook her head.
"I've no need for prayers. Someone like me… I should pray only for the happiness of others."
She turned around then, and all Jacopo could see were her tears.
"I give you my blessing, Mr. Traveler. Someday, you'll be reunited with the one you cherish."
The girl reached out, and there's a featherlight touch on his cheek.
He gasped, although even he wasn't sure if it was from the warmth of her palm or the gleam in her eyes.
Who was this girl? He wondered to himself.
She was… in that moment she seemed so achingly familiar to him. This feeling, it was like a dream that he once had, something that he reached for with outstretched fingers, always a hair's breadth away from his grasp. It was like chasing after something… something inexplicable that couldn't be explained. It was something deeply rooted within him.
"W-what's your name?" He asks, his voice little more than a rasp.
"You may call me Morgana."
oOo
He felt happier, lighter, once he leaves the mansion. It's as if a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders, one that he wasn't even aware existed until it disappeared. Even if… even if he couldn't find Michelle, this trip to Paris, it would be the first trip that he'd be satisfied with.
All because of a singular girl, in the middle of nowhere, living in a humble and nondescript cabin.
Jacopo sighed as he made his way back to the carriage.
"I'm sorry, Michelle," he whispered, although he was not entirely sure what he was apologizing for.
It didn't feel as if he had done anything wrong.
Once he arrived back at the carriage, he's surprised to find his guide rush up to him in a panic.
"Mr. Bearzatti! You're back! Oh my goodness, thank the Lord. I thought something terrible had befallen you."
He was more than a little befuddled by that.
"What do you mean?"
"You didn't come back for over an hour, so I went to search for you. But I couldn't find you at all! I ran around that lake three times and there was no trace of you. I thought you'd fallen into the lake or something."
"Huh? What are you talking about? You ran around the lake? But if you had, you must have seen me."
Jacopo looked down for a moment, a little embarrassed. If his guide had seen him while he'd been speaking to Morgana…
But she shook her head emphatically. "I couldn't find you. It was as if you disappeared without a trace! Where did you go?"
Jacopo frowned. "What are you talking about? I was just talking with someone in the cabin."
"Cabin, what cabin?"
"There was this quaint little cabin, situated just around the bend. You can't have missed it. I was there, talking to someone."
His guide stared at him, a little worried and more than a little nonplussed.
"Mr. Bearzatti… are you sure you're alright?"
"Yeah I'm fine. Why?"
"Well… there is no cabin anywhere near this lake, Mr. Bearzatti. There's nothing like that at all."
"That's impossible! Here look! You'll be able to see if we just…-"
Jacopo turned to gaze out over the lake, finger outstretched in the direction that he knew lay the cabin that Morgana resided in.
But no matter how hard he looked, he couldn't find it. The cabin was gone.
"Wha-"
It was as if everything had been naught but a simple fata morgana.
oOo