originally posted to AO3 31/05/2021

the content remains unchanged until chapter 5&6 (due to site rules) - the full/original work remains on AO3


Giorno looked out at the mass of unblinking pock-marked faces, and tried to master his voice.

'We are gathered here today, in this most sacred place of worship, to deliver our praises and to worship Him. For He has conducted each of you here safely, to allow us to sit in solemn prayer and allow his Holy Spirit to move freely amongst us, and to dwell in each of our hearts.' Giorno swept his gaze over the huddled mass of the congregation, unable and unwilling to meet anyone's eyes. He swallowed thickly and tried not to cough. It was stifling, standing at the head of such a swell of bodies at the apex of the summer.

'To comfort us, and to teach us, and allow us to return to our homes and our lives knowing that he watches over us always, which we are ever grateful for.' He paused, hearing nothing but the scuffle of boots on stone. He felt the hairs at his nape prickle at the intensity of a hundredfold gazes. 'And so before we part ways, we shall join in giving you our thanks.'

Giorno lifted his head from his hands, tight against the edges of the pulpit, and stared out over the congregation.

A veritable sea of faces blinked back up at him; vacant and expectant.

Giorno pressed his palms together and watched as his captive audience followed suit. He wedged his eyes shut. 'Amen.'

The word echoed back from a score of mouths and around the high-vaunted hall, their voices ringing in his ears like tens upon hundreds of dumb and tuneless church bells. Descending, he only offered polite bows of his head and a sycophantic smile as they filtered outside, their chatter fading as they ventured out into the afternoon heat. Alone, he collapsed into the nearest pew. He was flush with self-consciousness, his body seeming to run both hot and cold at once—their rapt attention both invigorated and concerned him.

'You are a born natural.'

Giorno huffed out a sigh and scratched at a non-existent itch under the collar of his cassock. 'You flatter me, Signore,' he said—smiling wryly despite himself—and turned his head to look at Jonathan.

The Englishman gave him a polite but strained smile, hunched over his wooden crutch. He hobbled forwards to seat himself next to Giorno, denying his help with a dismissive wave of his hand. He landed in the pew with a sudden drop and a low groan of pain.

'You should still be abed, Signore.'

Jonathan merely smiled. 'And miss your first service? I would not dream of it.'

Giorno tried to return his smile, but found he could not. He stared at his clasped hands and tried to find something worthwhile to say.

'Father Pucci would have been very proud, had he heard you speak.'

'Pride is a sin, Signore,' he said; half to himself.

Jonathan scoffed, though not unkindly, leaning back in the pew and straightening out his lame leg. 'You knew that was not my meaning. Your words give people a purpose, light a candle in the darkness for them.' Jonathan mused a moment, running a hand over his leg. Beneath the woollen leg of his braies, Giorno could see the the plush suggestion of bandages. His smile weak, Jonathan said, 'Pucci would have told you as much, and just as passionately.'

'I still have much to learn, Signore. It would be foolish of me to be pleased with myself. That sort of thinking invites sin and sloth,' Giorno replied, though he felt a ripple of pleasure course its way through him at Jonathan's words. He had certainly come a long way since his wide-eyed and obstinate youth, and he felt he had the makings of a clergyman just as beloved and respected as Pucci.

Perhaps even more.

The thought had seized him, then—unbidden, nebulous—and he dashed it. He met Jonathan's gaze and forced a smile. 'But thank you, for your kindness. You've set my mind at ease.'

Jonathan returned the smile, eyes crinkling as he reached down to press a firm hand over his wounded leg.
Giorno had seen it only a few days before, laid bare in the infirmary. They'd spent the better part of lent inside that sickroom. He could still smell the acrid tang of the poultices. 'I told you, you need to be resting.'

'This is not an argument you can win, Giorno.' Jonathan leant back in the pew, huffing out a difficult breath. 'Let me be foolish. It is one of my only pleasures in life.'
A chuckle rose from the back of the presbytery.

The two of them gave a start, Giorno lurching out of the pew.

He was seated at the back of the hall, clothed in rich greens with flaxen hair almost as bright as Giorno's. His liripipe was laid over his shoulders, embroidered around the edges with delicate golden fauna. He was staring on at them from behind his joined hands, hunched over in a facsimile of prayer. He seemed to assess them for a long moment of silence, and then sunk further forwards still in his seat, head tipped down, shoulders buckling with unvoiced laughter.

'I beg your pardon, Signore,' Giorno began, politely inclining his head, though he keenly felt the needling of his mockery. 'I would not have spoken so freely, had I known we were not alone. Please forgive me for interrupting your time with the Lord.'

The stranger slid out of the pew, his boots ringing down the length of the aisle. Riding boots, Giorno could see. Somehow clean.

As the stranger drew closer his smile became apparent. 'Is conversation a sin now, little godson?' he asked with a pout, adjusting the many gold rings that adorned his fingers.

Foolhardy or arrogant, Giorno decided. Very likely both. He was wearing his station upon his fingers, and he had certainly travelled further than Reggimento or Case Campoli-Panetta to be in attendance—otherwise, Giorno would know him. To think the stranger had travelled so far dressed as he was, and completely unmolested, was preposterous.
'I thought not,' the stranger added, as Giorno continued to stare. 'So, there is nothing to forgive. I'm something of a foolish man myself, and so your companion's words amused me. I'm very sorry to have interrupted you both,' he said, though he sounded quite the contrary.

'You should not debase yourself by apologising to lesser men, Signore,' Giorno said, feigning reverence. He was ever wary of those with gold and felt, all too often, that the beauty of one's dress was often inversely proportional to the possession of a good temperament.

Much to Giorno's surprise, the stranger's smile only grew. 'And in what sense are you lesser? The material or the metaphysical?'

'Certainly not in manner,' Jonathan cut in, reaching for his crutch. His Italian was faltering, and this only served to amuse the stranger further.

'That much I can tell, Signore.' The stranger was attentive as Jonathan staggered to his feet, smile never leaving his lips. 'You are an exemplar of grace. Which is rather rare, for men of your stock.'

Jonathan glowered at him as he turned to leave, gently placing a hand to Giorno's forearm. 'I shall not stand here and be insulted by a cox-comb. You were right to tell me to retire.'

'May you rest well, Signore,' Giorno replied, pressing Jonathan's hand with one of his own. He watched him hobble over the flagstone, bitterly resenting that he would now have to endure this stranger alone.

He had little patience for the self-important, and particularly the nobility. It was all too often that a man mistook his arrogance for acumen; the reluctance of a fool to engage him as proof of his superiority. And a wealthy man ne'er gave alms unless he could be certain it would be to his own benefit. Giorno despised it all.

'And here I had thought winnowing such a tiring task. Hardly a wag of my tongue and the chaff has seen itself out.'

'You had no reason to slight him, Signore.'

'No?' The stranger chuckled; a low and breathy noise of delight. 'Can't a man do things simply because he pleases? Is that not reason enough, little godson?'

Giorno blinked on at him, open-mouthed and unsure of what to say.

'I'll pretend you protested, if that comforts you.'

Giorno clasped his hands behind his back and raised his chin, unable to master the chagrin furrowing his brows. 'I am in no need of comfort, Sig—'

'Fugo.'

Giorno stared at him again, lips pressed together, scowl wavering.

'My name is Fugo. If I cannot comfort you, perhaps that knowledge may… please you?' His smile was salacious.

Giorno opened his mouth to protest but Fugo was turning away, slowly and deliberately—holding Giorno's gaze as he paced backwards over the flagstones. He dragged his hands over the edges of each pew as he passed it. 'Will you be presiding over the service next week?'

'At Vespers, yes.' The tips of Giorno's ears burned at the ease with which he'd replied. There was, he knew, an eagerness flaring in the confines of his chest. A chance to study this bizarre creature again; to know him.

'I do so hate to eat on the road,' Fugo said, and though Giorno thought it a complaint there was no change in his manner; no complexity to his face that Giorno could hope to identify. 'But I suppose I can make an exception.'

And he did.

Giorno had, despite his reservations, begun to anticipate Fugo's visits. Even when he guided prayers at Matins and Lauds, at times when he knew that the idea of travelling long distances alone was inconceivable, he would glance over the peasantry and hope to find a glimmer of golden hair. Amongst the fervently praying bodies swathed in sheepskin and linen, he longed to discern a slip of blue cambric or a flash of red silk.

Vespers, especially on a Sunday, was the only time Fugo was guaranteed to be in attendance. The establishing of this particular pattern had meant that Jonathan, despite his reluctance to miss the few times Giorno spoke each week, had begun to take his evening prayers alone in his chamber. In this way, Giorno had been able to navigate Jonathan's unerring platitudes and Fugo's needling without also having to endure their pettifogging.

Their habits became as natural to Giorno as the tolling of the abbey's bells; something he could predict and prepare himself for. A natural order to things.

The dull thud of Jonathan's crutch after the peasantry had filed out of the presbytery was by now a signal of the day drawing to a close. A reminder that he was in like-minded company, and could do away with pretence. Even as the days had drawn on, past the sweltering height of the summer, Giorno could not help but notice that Jonathan's gait was still as lumbering and pained as the day he had first crossed the threshold of the abbey.

'I am sorry to say you are late, Signore,' Giorno said as he stepped down from the pulpit. 'If the stairs are that much trouble to you, it would be better for you to stay in bed.'
Jonathan dismissed him with a wave of his hand, eyes wrenched shut as he appeared to fight though a moment of pain. 'If one does not test his spirit every now and again, how can he be sure he has one to begin with?'

'A most interesting proposition, Signore.'

Giorno had not seen Fugo in the congregation, and now it was apparent why. He was cloaked in coarse grey, and was only now removing his hood. In the haze of candlelight, he would have been no more than a shadow amongst the seated mass.

Fugo raked his gaze over the pair of them, scrutinising as always. And, though it was Jonathan he wanted to argue with, his gaze lingered on Giorno as he spoke.

'Do you speak of your spirit as if it were a soul?'

Jonathan's brow creased. And though his smile remained, it wavered. 'Are the semantics important, Signore?'

'Absolutely,' he began, tearing his gaze away from Giorno. 'It is only when one is attentive to the words a man uses that he may discover his true nature. Men rarely mean what they say, or say what they mean. Often his tongue betrays him.'

Jonathan swayed against his crutch, exasperation clear on his face.

'Yet you insist they are one and the same?' Fugo asked, not allowing Jonathan time enough to retort before he continued, 'And you think it prudent of you to test your soul? To judge it, even?'

'I like to know my limitations, Signore, yes.'

Something flashed in Fugo's eyes then, though Giorno was loath to discover what was meant by it. Alone, Fugo was something bordering on enamouring. He was a sharp wit and he observed much of the minutiae of the world and people around him, though he often deemed it inconsequential. Giorno could find merit in the errant conversations of passing strangers, their mannerisms, their dress, if he felt they would eventually be of use to him. People liked to be remembered—to feel seen and valued—and it often it took very little to kindle these fond fires in their hearts and minds.

And though Fugo was attentive, he did not see the world in the same way that Giorno did. He was ignorant of the congregation sat around him, yet could resume conversations with Giorno as though weeks had not passed since their last meeting—attentive to their particulars, able to pretend he had manners. Though whenever he had Jonathan in his sights, Giorno could hardly bear to hear Fugo talk.

He wondered, faintly, if Fugo was like this in private—if his servants were bizarrely spared his ire, and he chose to direct it at his fellows instead. But that line of thought placed him on equal footing with Fugo's manservants, and the very suggestion was intolerable. Giorno did not think himself a proud man, but he certainly did not think of himself as obeisant.

'It would be rather presumptuous of you to pass judgment on your own soul before the Almighty, would it not?' Fugo said, then chuckled under his breath. 'Blasphemous, even?'

'You are twisting my words, Signore. I merely meant to say that I do not like to remain idle.'

'And that is very noble of you, I am sure,' Fugo said, sounding wholly unconvinced, as he unhooked the clasp of his cloak to reveal his doublet and hose beneath the grey wool. The purple sheen of the fabric was almost as bright as his eyes. 'I was merely interested in the practical application of your words.'

'That being?' Jonathan asked with a sneer, turning away from Fugo and lumbering over to the nearest pew to sit himself down.

'Well, namely, the limitations of one's soul. And a metric for testing it.' He glanced briefly at Giorno, the flicker of a smile upon his lips, and then back to Jonathan. 'Surpassing it, even.'

'That sounds like blasphemy to me, Signore,' Giorno cut in.

Fugo laughed, sitting himself down across from Jonathan and slinging his arm over the back of the pew. He gazed levelly at Giorno. 'I suppose it is, my godson.'

'And how might you plan to go about surpassing your soul?' Jonathan asked, the word a mockery.

'As many ways as the imagination can conjure up. We could propose that a pious life favours the needs of the spirit before those of the body, but there is always so little to show for it.' Fugo shook his head, pursed his lips. 'To really test the limitation of his spirit, man needs to expunge the comforts in his life, to embrace the unimaginable. Ritual sacrifice, flagellation, fasting, partaking of poisons, even—'

'I will not tolerate this sort of talk, Signore.'

'Fugo,' he insisted.

Giorno gaze was cold as he pulled him from the pew and snatched up his cloak. 'Signore, I do not care if you are the most beloved and powerful nobleman in the country. I will not have you speak so thoughtlessly of dark magic and heresy under this roof. You are not welcome here, if you are taken by such fancies.'

Fugo twisted out of his grip as Giorno herded him along towards the large oaken doors, jabbing an accusatory finger at him. 'My fancies would not be so offensive to you if there were not a grain of truth in them.'

Giorno bundled up Fugo's cloak and thrust it into his chest, pressing a second time to try and force him over the threshold. Fugo clasped his hands over Giorno's, holding them fast to his chest. 'I am right, am I not? There is truth in that, else you would deny it.'

Giorno wrenched his hands free. He pressed his lips together for a long, quiet moment, his brow clouded. 'It was not a question of truth, Signore, but of decency.'
Fugo bundled his cloak up in his arms, unruffled once more. 'I would like to you ponder it all the same.'

'What is there to ponder? The depths to which you will venture for a jest?' Giorno asked, scoffing.

Fugo held his gaze.

'Surely you are not serious, Signore?'

Fugo only stared at him, a perverse amalgam of shadow and light: the rich purples of his doublet drawing Giorno's eye to the rings glittering on his fingers, the golden hair that seemed to steal the burning heart of the candlelight, the dark eyes set in a pale face.

'You will not win yourself many friends, allowing your tongue to have such mastery over you,' Giorno said at last, and quietly.

'I've never been much of a one for friends,' Fugo admitted, slipping his cloak over the crook of his arm and delving into the little satchel slung over his shoulder. He pulled out a small ceramic box, held shut with a strap of leather, and pressed it into Giorno's hands.

He gave it a cursory and suspicious glance, and then dragged his gaze up to meet Fugo's. 'I thought you were not interested in friends.'

Fugo gave him nothing more than a little shrug and a jerk of his head. He set about throwing his cloak over his shoulders and fastening the pin. 'I am not. And, if I were, I certainly would not have to buy them with trinkets. Think of it as an apology, if that pleases you.'

'Your apology is misplaced,' Giorno said, glancing over his shoulder. Jonathan watched them from the end of the long hall, swaying where he stood against his crutch. The wounded sentinel; his shadow writ large on the walls behind him. 'And besides,' Giorno continued, offering the box back to him, 'I am not in the habit of doing things which please me, Signore.'

'That much I can tell,' Fugo said with a smile. He pushed the box away and shook his head. 'It is a very unsightly way to live, if you ask me, godson.'

Giorno gazed down at the little ceramic box in his hands. 'I didn't.'

It was a strange, fickle gesture, and in that moment Giorno did not quite know what to make of it. Somewhere behind him and far, far away, he heard Jonathan strike the floor with his crutch. Call his name. Then once more; impatiently. He closed his hands around the little box, drew it close, and raised his head to speak.

Fugo had disappeared into the night.