Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

What does depravity smell like? Back in Delhi, it smelled like a nauseating blend of spices rubbed into damp, sweat-through linen. Traces of it perpetually clogged my sinuses, and permeated through the entirety of the brothel. Even with the doors and windows wide open, no fresh air seemed to circulate. Perhaps it couldn’t pierce the thick cloud of misdirected lust that hung low by the ground, clung to us all like a wet tunic, dulled our senses like a prolonged fever.

The summers were especially excruciating. Despite the blazing heat, I would often not see the sun for days at a time, except for a few broken-up rays that made their way past the dirty windows. Everything appeared moist and sweltered; including my entire body, no matter how desperately I tried to keep up with any remnants of cleanliness. Not that the usual clientele was preoccupied with such trivial matters.

Each hot, inappreciable day left me feeling aimlessly vigilant. As if I was standing on the edge of an abyss, and from the darkness within it, sprouted a forest of hands. Strong hands clawing for me, soft hands reaching to touch me, to stroke me, hit me, wring me dry, shape me to their desire. I stood tip-toed and backed into a corner, an endless chasm stretching half a step away from my tired feet, and there was no other place to go except down into their disjointed arms.

Resistance was futile, or worse yet, it brought nothing but ire upon me. I knew it instinctively, it was a thorn lodged deep under my skin, a persistent reminder of begging for food, love, and attention, only to be starved of all three.

Others came and went. I watched as they struggled and resisted – they kicked, and screamed, and bit the hand that fed them scraps. This never lead them anywhere other than the grimy basement floor and a mottled black-and-blue body. So I learned from others’ mistakes; it was almost peaceful, to let them take, and take, and take. Once the script was set, I could anticipate it; the way they would grab me, the way I was supposed to spread my legs wider, how some liked a smile while others preferred crying. I could do it on command. Smile, on command. Eyes welling up with tears, on command. Pleasure, on command. Like a well-trained puppy, was I? One that didn’t truly understand what pleasure was meant to entail. But I knew how to leave my mouth half-open, take deep, shaky breaths, and say harder.

Whatever happened, happened to me. And yet sometimes, a lot of the times, most times, as they were fucking me, I saw myself drifting above my poor, frail body. Like a ghost. A vengeful spirit, perhaps. Or a guardian angel with tied-up hands and lips threaded shut. The boy with his face pressed into filth-soaked sheets could not be saved. I watched the events unfold, and I felt sorry for him, but I could never intervene.

Clients rarely gave away their names, and their faces blurred together inside my mind. But with time, I grew to recognise them by the tap of their footsteps all over the wooden floorboards as I lay limp on the bed after they were done with me. There was a couple, a man and a woman. The bottoms of her shoes sounded sharp and scratchy against the floor. His; quiet and hollow.

She liked to hit me, he liked to sit and watch. She said I was her favourite, because I was obedient, and I followed without complaint; unlike the others. It felt good, to be better than them, to be wanted. And she was beautiful, beautiful in a way that granted a certain level of power to an otherwise powerless woman. I admired the flicker of pleasure in her gaze every time she swung at me. In the moment, I barely noticed the pain; I was floating above the scene anyway. But once I had to return to the used-up husk of myself, it always came back with full force.

One time she walked in alone, unusually angered, then beat me so hard I pissed blood for weeks and couldn’t straighten my back for even longer. Something upsetting must have happened to her, but it was forbidden to inquire about her life. She called me a gem during, and I wondered what kind of gem I would be. A ruby, perhaps. Red as my blood. Red as the streaks along my back. Red as the burning fury I swallowed down, deeper and deeper, until it travelled all the way through my body, never acted upon, never digested. I liked rubies. I dreamt of holding one.

Sometimes, in strolled a pair of brothers with their flat, raggedy shoes tapping against the floor, almost as if they were dancing around me. You look just like my son, one would often tell me. You really do, assured the other. They called me by the son’s name, but I could never quite remember it. Both of them had huge cocks, and the less I enjoyed myself, the more they did. The sound of them coughing up spit made me sick. Owner didn’t particularly like it when they visited, because they inevitably left me useless for the next few days, so he asked them to pay double. Then triple. They did.

There was another one – his footsteps sounded like my knuckles on wood – that loved to see me kneeling in a puddle of his piss as he fucked my mouth. He smelled of sour milk, but at least I did not have to get undressed for him; merely humiliated. What did humiliation mean, anyway? He loved to slap me around, but the pain never lingered for long. When he did hit me, he said, I like to see the flesh ripple. You should gain some weight, that’d help. I remember smiling at him. Maybe you should bring me food, I wanted to say. But that would be against the rules; so I didn’t.

Most of them were cruel or forgettable; but not Nimit.

When he first came in, I thought he seemed old – old enough to be my father, which, as I soon realised, could have been said about the majority of them. But he was different, more peculiar than the majority. Nimit always carried a small, battered book with him – a journal, he explained, where he wrote down whatever captured his attention. A clever sentence, an unknown name, a moving poem. Some of them he copied from other texts, others he swore to have composed himself. He knew some Latin, although the parts of his writing that used it were more shaky and unclear than the rest. Sometimes the words were accompanied by drawings of flowers and leaves or simply nonsensical scribbles. That journal of his, naturally, fascinated me to no end.

I could not read nor write when we met, so he insisted on teaching me. It presented a unique challenge: letters seemed like increasingly bizarre shapes that Nimit made up just to amuse me, yet expected me to somehow decipher. I reckon I was not a particularly skilled learner, but I overcompensated with dedication. Other than servicing or cleaning, there were not many past-times for me to occupy myself with, and I had enough of both. So the idea of reading and writing excited me. I continued the practice, not only while I was with Nimit, but also when I was alone.

Of course, Nimit did not pay solely for the privilege of teaching me how to spell l-o-v-e.

He usually took me to the expensive accommodation, or as we called it, the bathing room. It smelled of damp, crumpled linen lining the insides of the wooden tubs, and of course, a sharp kind of mould, but he didn’t appear to mind, and I barely noticed it after a while. It was much better than the other washing space we were allowed in, so I followed Nimit and his strange requests with great enthusiasm.

All he ever wanted to do was give me long, elaborate baths, and kiss my feet while I soaked in the water, my legs bent and dangling off the edges of the tub. I'd often be battered and bruised when he saw me, so he’d slide his wet, thoughtful hands over my skin very carefully, almost not touching me at all. He was obviously aroused, and I offered to service him in a variety of ways, but he refused them all. I've never seen him naked; sometimes he touched himself, which always happened in the same exact way; his hand slipped under his clothes, and after a few quick flicks of his wrist with no sound leaving his mouth, he was done. This did not bother me; in fact, I was somewhat disappointed he never let me participate.

I liked him. I enjoyed his company. I complied with anything he wanted. Lift your foot, he’d say or, point your toes, good, now spread them apart as wide as you can. He’d caress my foot, lick my soles, suck on my toes, his tongue tickling the sensitive skin in-between them. It didn’t exactly excite me, but since it was far from painful, I would have chosen Nimit over anyone else. If I closed my eyes and got into the right state of mind, it almost felt like a massage. Like he cared.

Sometimes he sat behind me and washed my hair, other times he rested on a bench opposite the tub and watched me. He told me about his life in the city: the juicy fruits he bought at the market, his mother’s excellent cooking, his sister’s horrible husband. It was in moments like these that he seemed the most real to me; when he laughed or chuckled under his breath or stuttered over a particularly exciting part of the story.

One strange day, as he knelt besides the tub I was soaking in, rubbing my outstretched calf, he suddenly looked up at me and said, “I love you.”

A shiver ran through me at once, and I stared at him, perplexed. He’s never offered such a declaration before, so I blinked, I frowned, I smiled, but I could not comprehend it. Did he… mean it?

“Ah. Do not say anything yet!” he exclaimed, getting up quickly. “I have something for you!”

He rummaged through a large sachet, somehow producing a flower out of the depths of it – a single marigold. It was huge and intensely orange, the colour blurring into red near the petals’ edges, as if they were dipped in blood. He knelt again, and offered it to me.

“Before the marigold wilts, I shall be back to take you away. For good,” he said. The determination in his tone surprised me. I withdrew my leg into the bath, and he reached for my hand instead. “I swear it, Arun. There are still… matters I need to get in order first, but I swear it. You would be happy with me. Happier than you are with this.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. My thoughts were scrambled, my cheeks burning, my heart racing. I accepted the flower, and glared at its orange petals, a pleasant, floral scent raising around me along with the hot steam.

“You’re serious,” I said quietly, focused on the marigold. I chuckled nervously. “Please, you mustn’t joke–”

“I’m serious,” he assured, leaning forward to grab my chin gently. “I love you, and it pains me to see you suffer. I give you my word that it will only be a bit longer now. I’ve made arrangements, I– Say you want it, too. Say yes.”

He seemed genuine, pleading, perhaps slightly worried. I tilted my head to the side, desperate to believe that he meant it. Was this not the best outcome I could have ever hoped for? Was this not my one chance of getting out? Of buying mangoes at the market, of laughing at someone’s bad humour, of never having to hear the tap-tap-tap of the piss-man’s shoes ever again?

“Yes,” I said quickly. “Yes! Of course, I love you too!” Anywhere would be better than here, I thought. Anywhere! At least it’d be him, just him, the man that has never hurt me as long as I’ve known him. I could live with that; with him. I could.

Nimit was beaming. He stood up, then bent down and reached into the bath to hug me. His clothes dipped into the water, soaked through as he closed the space between us; I felt him chuckling into my shoulder as he squeezed me tightly. He’s hugged me before, but never like this, never like a heavy weight has been lifted off of him.

“I will treat you well,” he said, and kissed me on the mouth: just a quick, close-mouthed peck, then he was already pulling away. That was alright; I could live with that, too. “Oh, I will teach you everything. I will cook for you. You will meet my family as your own. I told them all about you!”

It was too good to be true, I feared. And yet, hope has already gripped me, and would not let go. So I believed him.

That day, after he left, I took the marigold, and put it in a clay cup on my bedside table.

The following weeks passed with great anticipation and an even greater uncertainty.

At first, I was sure that my new life was approaching rapidly, so I acted accordingly. I barely noticed the world around me, drifting above my useless body through its usual fate, thinking about Nimit, considering the special way he looked at me. I took it upon myself to write any words I remembered how to spell into the journal he smuggled into the brothel for me. I would be happy soon, I thought, and I wrote it down. H-a-p-p-y.

But he did not return for an unusually long time, and I started to worry; sweet hope turning bitter, dread seeping through the cracks of my daydream. He was making arrangements for us, I reminded myself. Maybe it was taking longer than he anticipated, but surely, he’d come back for me. He gave his word. He loved me.

Weeks later, I lay flat on the bed while a man with no face leaned over me. Both his hands were wrapped around my neck, and I had my head turned to the side, my gaze periodically focusing and unfocusing on the cup with a single, dying marigold that wobbled with his every thrust. I watched a single petal fall off the flower as I fought for breath. My throat was dry and closed up, my lips chapped; I was so thirsty. When was the last time I drank something? I didn’t remember.

“Not much different from a girl-whore,” he grunted, almost as if disappointed with the revelation. “Except you’re even cheaper.”

His hands were dirty, his nails weirdly jagged as he wrestled them inside me. His breath reeked of sour anise when he kissed me. He was an awful kisser, which was, of course, the least of my worries.

Whore.

As I mouthed the word silently, I felt myself tear up, because I could not conjure up any vision of the future in which I was anything but that. But I shouldn’t cry; I was dehydrated. Better to hold onto the fluids.

He grabbed a fistful of my hair, dragged me to the side, and smashed my face into the bedside table. My vision shook and dimmed around the edges. Why would he do that? Perhaps I was too far away to keep his interest. The cup swayed dangerously, then fell and shattered all over the floor; I watched as stagnant, yellowed water spilled everywhere along with my blood. It trickled down the table, onto the floorboards, coated the wilted marigold petals, the shrunk up flower head, the dry stem. He kept fucking me as I blinked away the tears. What happened next was unclear; a veil of coagulated blood and a nauseating smell of over-bloomed flowers covered the rest of the unfortunate night.

The next morning, the man was gone, but the blood remained. I was never able to get it all out of the wood-grain.

Nimit never came back. Days and weeks and months passed, and I have not seen him. I preferred to think that he died tragically while setting out our new life, because the alternative – that he changed his mind and did not love me after all – was unbearable.

The day I met Marius was my monthly rest day, which should not mean actual rest; I was merely forced to clean the rooms instead of being taken inside of them. But not one miserable person cared enough to supervise my work – cleanliness did not make much money, which was surely the reason for the place being so consistently foul.

I sat in a quiet corner of the hallway that branched out into many of our rooms, a small candle illuminating the battered book that rested on my thighs. I was reading; I thought that I was slowly becoming good at it now. Before he stopped coming, Nimit wrote a poem in my journal:

golden petals rise

upon the storm’s teary eye

the blossom holds its fire

against the flooding tide

my heart burns for you

with sorrow that will not dry

I assumed he composed it himself, but I couldn’t be certain. One by one, I copied the words onto the next page. I enjoyed how thoroughly I busied myself with the task, bent over the book, holding it right up to my face. I did it again, and again, and again, until the letters were neat enough. On the fourth page over, I added my own verse:

no no that was a lie

I left you alone to die

I chuckled; I figured that if Nimit were to ever come back, he might find the rhymes impressive. If he wouldn’t, well, then it did not matter what he thought.

There was a sudden, loud gasp across the room, which startled me. When I looked up, I saw a man standing on the other side of the hallway, staring straight at me. I've never seen anyone quite like him; tall, beautiful, white-haired, white-clothed, white-everythinged. All white. White as an ever-dry haṃsa, he must have been. One of the other boys stood next to him, but the man bent over, and spoke to him very quickly and quietly. The boy nodded, glanced down, and ran off. The strange man approached me, his stunning water-eyes fixed on me.

“What are you doing?” he asked in Latin, perhaps in an attempt to test me. He sounded as if he had just encountered a wild animal with a miraculous ability to read, which I reckoned was not far off.

I knew that a man of his kind was something remarkable. Something high up there, cushioned, important, powerful. He must have been rich in that foreign, unfathomable way, I would bet on it; not that I had anything to bet with. My hands sweat, and once more, my mind filled with the one thing I should have known better than to allow in: hope. I saw that he wanted me – desire – right there, plain on his face, and I wanted him back. I did. I had to.

“Reading. Writing,” I said, smiling at him. See? I wanted to ask. See how smart I am? See how special? Please understand how special I am.

“Ah! You are indeed. Fascinating,” he said, bending down to see what I've written. “Who taught you that? What’s your name?”

I didn’t fully understand him, but I kept my smile upright, kept myself from frowning. There was no need to show confusion. If he could only see that I was worth something, that I was worth taking… As the others were taken sometimes, swept up by a strange man with a sack full of coins, and never seen in here again. I liked to envision it as a sort of adoption or domestic employment: they got a life at last, they got parents, structure, and routine, and books, and affection.

I took a few seconds to respond. “Arun. Taught myself,” I said after some hesitation. It was true. In a way.

Are you impressed? Please be impressed. I’m unlike the others. I swear it. I’m better. Do you have a sack full of coins? Do you need a servant?

His eyes were wide, blue like the sky, blue like open water, blue, blue, blue spilling out of him and into me. He was staring at me, so I imagined he could do what gods could; see my entire soul, the entirety of me being all at once, and I imagined that at once, he could also make a judgement over me.

Then he said, “My name is Marius. Come with me,” offering his outstretched arm.

His hand was cold and dry, and he smiled at me as I got up from the floor. I expected to be led towards one of the other rooms; but he brought me downstairs instead, towards the entrance – or perhaps now it was the exit – where Owner was sitting.

“I will take him,” Marius said.

“Right,” Owner scoffed. “I don’t care which one you screw, you’ve already paid.”

But I knew immediately that was not it. Marius gripped my shoulder firmly, sending a cool shiver through my entire body.

“No. I will take him,” he insisted, pulling a leather sachet out of his coat. He threw it onto the table, and it made a rattling sound. I gasped in shock. Yes. Yes, there it was. The sack! The coins! Exactly as I’ve always pictured it, except this time, it was really happening, and it was happening to me!

Owner whistled, taking a peek into the sachet.

“Shit,” he drew out, then said to me, “Which deity did you suck off, little boy?”

He laughed, and Marius frowned, either because he found the joke too crude or because he was not able to understand the foreign language.

“Gather your belongings,” Marius told me, and I held the journal up. “There is nothing else? Very well.”

We both took a step forward, but Owner stopped us.

“Wait,” he said. “There are formalities–”

“No,” Marius said again. This time, he looked Owner straight in the face. And he just… kept looking, and looking, as if he was performing a spell. “He is mine now. All formalities have been fulfilled, and you will allow me to take him.”

And he… did. He just did. He took a step back, nodding compliantly.

Marius held my hand, squeezed tight, and walked me right out of there.

Marius took me to a part of Delhi that I've never seen before. Up to that point, I was only permitted to walk within a few streets of the brothel, never further than the nearest barely-market selling discounted, half-rotten produce.

But Marius led me deeper into the city, and soon we were no longer at its squalid edges. Delhi’s vibrant centre waged an assault against my senses: everything was so unbelievably alive. The humid, sun-scorched streets pulsed with a sea of people dressed in colourful, layered garments, the air smelled of a mix of every delicious spice imaginable. My stomach turned and rumbled loudly as I followed behind Marius, my pinky curled into the back-hem of his waistcoat in an attempt not to lose myself in the crowd. He stopped suddenly, and grabbed me by the chin, searching for something in my face.

“You’re hungry,” he said, evidently deep in thought. “What do you like to eat?”

I stared at him blankly, contemplating my answer. “Um. Roti,” I said. Marius seemed exasperated; as if my preference offended him. “Dal, too,” I added quickly, anxious now, struggling to come up with a more appropriate answer that might please him.

“Heavens,” he sighed, shaking his head. “We will fix this… predicament of yours soon. Come, I will choose for you.”

Marius wrapped a hand around my upper arm, gently guiding me towards one of the wooden stalls. As he briefly conversed with the vendor – a short, plump man with pitch-black hair and big brown eyes – I realised that Marius did, in fact, know my tongue. Quite perfectly, at that.

“Mild,” he emphasised politely when the man reached for a sal leaf. “His stomach is weak.”

Was it? I blushed as the vendor handed me the food, the leaf weighed by a hefty portion of warm curry, pieces of colourful, soft vegetables glistening among the light rice and thick sauce. The plump man gave me a substantial piece of a slightly charred paratha, looked me up and down, then added another one.

“Ah, you’re too skinny,” he told me, smacking his lips disapprovingly. “A growing boy! Eat!”

I smiled sheepishly, accepting the meal. I felt myself salivating at the smell, so I swallowed heavily, glancing towards Marius, still not entirely convinced I could indulge. Was it another test of my character? Marius sighed, tore off a piece of the paratha, dipped it into curry, and fed it to me. I chewed slowly, carefully, and the taste filled my mouth in an instant as: it was salty, spiced, delicious. When I hummed with approval, Marius winked at me, dipping the paratha again.

“Yes, good. Eat,” he said, tapping my cheek lightly with his other hand. “I don’t want you hungry.”

I did as he said. The food was heavenly.

I soon learned that Marius was staying at a luxurious merchant-accommodation at the heart of the city. It was a spacious room with the floor covered in intricate but worn rugs. A large, wooden-framed bed sheeted with colourful pillows and blankets stood in the corner; it was so immaculately made, I couldn’t visualise anyone sleeping in it at all. Like a piece of art, I thought, not to be touched or disturbed in any way. On the opposite side of the room, two massive wardrobes leaned against the wall. The doors to one of them were ajar, and I noticed a piece of thick, dark-blue fabric peeking out.

I hovered at my life’s threshold, both literally and metaphorically. Marius stood in front of me, but I was reluctant to follow. It was not fear but guilt that bubbled in my chest at the thought; I felt undeserving of joining a world of what would surely be barely-comprehensible opulence and beauty by his side. Or at his feet, perhaps; I would still not be worthy if that’s where he’d have me.

Marius took a few steps forward. “Take my hand,” he said. “Please. Arun?”

I winced at the sound of my name; it echoed in my skull. Arun. Arun; distorted, Arun; drawn out, Arun; moaned, Arun; panted, Arun; yelled out, Arun; barely squeezed through the teeth. Arun, Arun, Arun. I repeated it absent-mindedly, mumbled it under my breath, my lips moving without sound, and I pulled at the edge of my tunic, rolling the already fraying fabric between my fingers. Arun. Arun, it’s your lucky day again, Owner would say whenever a patron asked for me. And sometimes, this one’s Arun, stated offhandedly, dismissively, while we were lined up against a wall. Good if you want them obedient. Won’t scream. He was right. Screaming never made it stop, but it did make my throat sore. Arun. A-run. Something in my chest tightened. A dry, silent panic rose within me; no sound left my mouth, no tears fell from my eyes. Nothing.

Inside my head, they were still shouting my name, their filthy hands reaching for me, their nails etching deep, red gashes down my arms, down my thighs. Bruises in the shape of their fingers wrapped around every tender piece of flesh they could get to. Scratched into Arun. Wrapped around Arun. Arun, Arun, Arun… Flashes of disjointed hands and faces contorted into smile-less grins swirled before me. I felt ill; feverish. Burning with the truth of what’s already been done to me. Dizzy from cruelty that I knew would go unpunished. I imagined that their hands, with those same sharp claws that so mercilessly dug into my skin, now gently stroked their wives’ cheeks at the other side of the city. It didn’t matter. I should forget all about it. I could still be happy. The thoughts barely felt mine; I wanted to oppose myself, and I wanted to give into myself.

Two cool, tender hands closed around my trembling fingers. Marius’ touch sent a cold shiver down my spine, the sensation shaking me out of the strange trance. I blinked once, twice, thrice, then focused on Marius and realised he was crouching in front of me.

“How utterly fascinating,” he said. “Your own name troubles you.”

I felt myself flush all over. It was my understanding that I did not say anything out loud; was I mistaken? “N-No,” I barely managed to choke the words out. I was breathing heavily, as if I’d just been running. “Call me whatever pleases you. Whatever pleases you, pleases me. I am not difficult,” I assured, shaking my head, digging my fingers into Marius’ hands.

Difficult was the most undesirable of brands for a boy like me; I would not bear it.

“There is no need to worry about that any longer,” he said, a glimpse of something – perhaps compassion, perhaps annoyance – flashing across his face. “You are safe now. Come.”

He smiled, pulling me forward, and I didn’t resist further. I stepped inside, careful to walk around the rugs. Safe. Was I? The notion felt completely alien; I could hardly begin to comprehend it. My mind slid in quiet, unsure suggestions of peace as I’d have liked to know it: a bright, sun-drenched cottage surrounded by lush, green woods at all sides; my feet sinking into warm, silky sand at the seashore; soft laughter echoing through a cluttered, familiar room.

“Ah. Yes,” I said, although I did not understand what I was confirming. I hesitated. “Can I– I have a question. May I?”

Marius nodded towards me expectantly. “Please.”

“What should I call you?” I looked at my feet. He introduced himself by first name, but surely, he would not have me referring to him as Marius. My supposed role in whatever life I was about to lead hung in the air between us. A servant, I hoped. I was good at keeping things tidy. And I didn’t eat a lot, either. Those were, as I understood it, most desirable qualities.

“You may call me Master,” he said, yet there was a strange pause as he pondered my question further. He tilted his head to the side. “You may call me Marius as well. I shall permit it.”

Surprised and encouraged by the streak of kindness, I spoke faster than I thought. “What about father?”

As soon as the word left my mouth, I felt mortified and wished to take it back, but alas, it was already out there.

Marius blinked slowly, narrowing his eyes. “If that is your wish,” he said. “Then certainly, my sweet child. I will strive to fill any role you are lacking.”

I couldn’t control the grin overtaking my face; a father? Not just a Master, but a father! I’ve never had one, as far as I remembered. “Thank you! Thank you,” I repeated, content.

Naturally, I knew what came next, and I did not mind it; Marius had already proven himself to be much gentler than most. Possibly gentler than all. I took a step back, then started to undress. I managed to pull one layer off, but as I reached for my trousers, Marius’ hand clasped around my wrist painfully.

“What is it that you think you’re doing?” he asked sharply.

I furrowed my brows and pursed my lips, trying to identify my wrongdoings. “I– I apologise,” I said, still unsure what angered him. A disturbing thought occurred to me. “Do you not desire me, Master?”

I feared the worst; that I had offended him somehow, that perhaps it was my negative attitude or pathetic longing for a father that repulsed him, and he would not take me now. A sad, sad whiny little thing, wasn’t I? I simply had to correct myself. There was a script to these events, I could still make it work. To my dismay, Marius still looked… irritated. Scandalised, even.

“Um, I– I washed just the other day. But I shall do it again, of course, on your request, I–” I attempted to assure him, but it only seemed to worsen whatever problem I’ve managed to create.

“You think me some sort of savage?” he hissed, painfully twisting my arm downwards, away from my body. I put up no resistance. Something wild flared inside him; like a strike of lightning warping his handsome features for one terrifying, riveting second. “You think me as crass and barbarous as them? Those men? Do you?!”

I shook my head. “N-no!” I said, trying to smooth it over somehow. My heart jumped up into my throat, my voice trembled; I did not mean to displease him, especially this quickly! I scrambled to gather myself. “No, of course not! I apologise, I so sincerely apologise. Master, please, I will do whatever you wish. I will learn, whatever you want, I will– just don’t take me back there. Please. Don’t take me back. I will learn, I can learn fast. I’ll be good!” Panic rose within my voice with every word I uttered.

Marius sighed deeply, then let go of my hand at last. He stood back up, his back straight, his gaze floating somewhere above my head. “Put your clothes back on,” he said. “Or don’t. Those rags belong on the side of the road, along with the rubbish your people keep leaving in their wake.” His lip curled up slightly at the drawn out your people. “Distasteful.”

My head spun; he did not mean it. Or maybe he did. Maybe he was right; I ought to be ashamed. I bit down on my lower lip and tried to calm myself. Don’t be pathetic, I told myself. This needed to be fixed immediately, I was convinced, or else I might find myself out on the curb again. But how? He didn’t want what I knew how to give. So what did he want? Think. Think, think, think.

Good if you want them obedient. Won’t scream.

I took a shaky, shallow breath, and slowly knelt down. I sat on my calves, legs pressed neatly together, and I put my hands along my thighs, wrists up. With my back perfectly straightened, I glanced at my palms, trying to blink away the tears. They fell anyway: one, two, three droplets splashing against my skin. I held the pose. This is how they liked me, how Owner liked to present us to new clients. It was either against the wall or kneeling exactly like this.

“What… is the meaning of this?” he asked after a while, now more confused than annoyed, which I saw as an improvement.

I didn’t dare to move a muscle, tried not to breathe too deeply. “I am yours,” I said in Latin, enunciating carefully. “I swear it. I am yours. I will be good. I am good. Do whatever you want.” I sniffled and shut my eyes, bracing for impact.

Impact never came. There was silence for a while, a long while, my mind filled with the tremble of my own breath as it left my lungs, an inexplicable, terrible ringing raising inside my ears. Would he leave? Would he throw me out? No, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t! I was so close to something, anything other than what I’ve endured so far. I kept my position; it was an offering. I was the offering, I supposed. To be applied towards whatever pleased him.

Finally, I heard shuffling, then steps. Step, step, step away from me, then step, step, step closer again. Something thumped onto the floor right in front of me; like a weighty sack being dropped. Marius’ hand slid into my hair at the back of my head, and he pulled me forward until my face was pressed into him at what I assumed to be the side of his hip; his clothes smelled like fresh linen and an unfamiliar spice.

“Open your eyes,” he said. I complied, and looked at him with the most hopeful expression I could muster. He seemed calm now; no storm brewing behind his gaze, no anger forming a line in-between his elegant brows. “It was terribly ill-mannered of me to upset you in such a way. Will you forgive me?”

I blinked, stunned. Forgive him? “O-of course,” I said quickly. “Yes. It is forgiven.”

His hand moved from the back of my head to the side of my face, gliding along the line of my jaw. His fingers lingered on my cheek tenderly. I leaned into the touch, but it did not escalate. “Amadeo,” he said proudly. “You are not pleased with your name, so I shall give you a new one. Amadeo. It means love of God. Fitting.”

I gasped. “Oh, I– I don’t deserve–” I got too choked up to continue.

Marius leaned forward and wiped the tears from my face, both of his thumbs circling over my damp cheeks. “Shh,” he murmured. “But of course you do. You are Amadeo now. My Amadeo.”

My vision blurred except for the two bright stars of his eyes shining down on me. Everything else was dark, everything else was insignificant. Only him. Him alone. “Yes. Yes, Amadeo,” I repeated. “A wonderful name. Thank you, Master.”

I did not believe it; the wildest of my dreams came nowhere close to this. The boldest corners of my imagination never led me towards a path of such grace. I kept crying and smiling, and Marius kept wiping my face as if transfixed on the never-ending dampness of it.

“How beautiful you are,” he said. “Even like this. My dark little Eros, reborn. I can show you the world, if you wish to witness it.”

I nodded, swallowing up a sob. “Yes, of course,” I said. “Of course, I do.”

“Splendid.” He smirked. “Put those on, and join me in the next room.” He glanced down, and I remembered the thud from earlier. Indeed, when I followed his gaze, I noticed a bundle of fabric lying right in front of me – it was a gorgeous dark blue with gold-threaded embroidery. “We ought to start with the language. You shall need it most urgently. The ship departs tomorrow morning.”

Master stepped back, and I let my shoulders drop. The ship? I shuddered at the terrible thought. Right before he turned around, I could have sworn that, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him lick his fingers that caressed my teary cheek mere seconds earlier. It did not disturb me. I looked down at the clothes as he left the room. So be it, I thought. I would prove myself. Whatever it took, I would prove myself. Whatever he wanted, would be his.

Chapter Text

I did not want to board that thing; what could be less inviting than a huge, misshapen mass of wood they called a ship? I stood right in front of it, a long, thick plank thrown between the vessel and the shore, and it took every bit of my self-control not to run away. The situation was certainly not improved by the fact that I have only ever travelled once in my life before, and back then, I was ripped from my presumed parents’ embrace, and handed to an unfamiliar man. Soon after, I was at the brothel, and my life did not matter. Perhaps it didn’t matter before that, either. I supposed I used to have a mother; a fragile, pitiful figure with no face, at least none that I remembered. And I supposed I did not have a father for I could not recall any male figure of the sort.

I was terrified that it would happen again; that the very presence of the boat meant Master would deliver me to a cruel man with missing teeth that called me a horrible name I’ve long forgotten, that there would be chains, that there would be nowhere to run, not even the sea, not even if I wanted to. Still, I pushed through the fear; it was Marius, after all. He was different, I told myself, he was better. Most importantly, he was already rich; surely selling me would make no tangible difference to his wealth. It was not a matter of life and death like it was for my maybe-mother.

Despite the terror, I followed Marius to the boat willingly. I stood behind him as he spoke to the captain in a language I did not understand. This did nothing to alleviate my anxiety; I felt that man’s eyes flickering to me, again and again and again, right over Marius’ shoulder. It made me sweat. No, he wouldn’t. Master wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Upon reaching an agreement with the captain, Master urged me to go onto the boat, but I refused to do so unless he boarded first. So he did. As we walked the top deck, we came across a young man rushing forward – I gathered immediately that he knew Marius, because he was walking straight at him. The man had long, brown hair that bounced around his face as he marched ahead; he was scrunching up his freckled, perfectly straight nose in determination, his cheeks flushed, his neck damp with perspiration. He wore a loose, beige shirt and a brown, tight-fitted overcoat thrown over it with all the buttons and clasps undone. An odd combination; it seemed like he didn’t have time to dress himself properly.

He spoke to Marius quickly, his words blurring together in their language. I took a step back in an attempt to give them privacy, but Master grabbed me by the shoulder and kept me close. He gestured vaguely and said something to the man. I guessed it was an introduction, because he called me Amadeo.

“And this is Matteo,” Marius told me, nodding at the young man. “One of the servants at the palazzo. He’s here to keep inventory and liaison with the sailors. I explained you will be joining us.”

I forced myself to smile, but felt too overwhelmed to make any real attempt at conversation. Matteo bowed slightly towards me, a curious tension taking hold of his handsome features. He was older than me, I reckoned, but it couldn’t have been by much. And I found it strange that he was bowing; wasn’t I, too, supposed to be a servant at the palazzo? He said something unclear, then looked at me and tried in Latin, “Hm. Do you speak Latin?”

“Yes.” I hesitated. “Badly.”

Matteo laughed and I felt Master squeeze at my shoulder.

“So be it. Good morning, Amadeo,” said Matteo politely. “Do call for me if you need anything. We’ll leave as soon as I finish amending inventory.”

He turned to Marius and asked him something I couldn’t understand. Marius shook his head with annoyance, and snapped at him with a short, one-word answer, gesturing behind his shoulder. Without further comment, Matteo hurried past us and caught up with one of the crew members.

“What did he ask you, Master?” I inquired. I was curious, though I didn’t expect Marius to answer the question.

He thought for a moment, stared at me as if deciding if I could handle the truth, and said, “He asked wether he should write you into inventory as perishable goods or precious artefacts.”

I blinked. “Oh,” I muttered with a chuckle. “Quite charitable descriptions. I’ve been called worse.” I couldn’t think of anything other than an attempt at humour.

Marius smiled at me. I expected him to be irritated, but he reassured me instead.

“Disregard his words. You needn’t worry about anything now,” he said. “I shall be here with you the whole way home.”

Home.

Master told me that he lived in Venice; a beautiful place which lay far beyond the great waters separating my land from his. Based on the way he spoke of it, I imagined it as a bright city full of infinite riches and sun-warmed cobblestone. That was one of the first Italian words he ever taught me; cobblestone. As soon as I learned it, I included it in any sentence I was able to stitch together; cobblestone. I wanted to walk down a cobblestoned, Venetian street. I wanted to bend down and touch the smooth, hearty cobblestone. I wanted to hear the sound of Venetians’ firm soles clacking against the cobblestone as they rushed to their daily duties.

Master warned me that the travel would be long; but I had no idea what that might have meant until we were already at sea. In no time at all, I could no longer recall the journey’s beginning, and could not imagine its end either.

Everything reminded me of where it started, and although I tried to push the dread away, I couldn’t help but keep regurgitating it back up. There were many things about the ship I could not stand, not even cooped up inside Marius’ cushy cabin below the deck. Like the smell: salty, fishy, mildew blooming on the underside of the boards; and the constant swaying, my insides sliding back and forth within my body, pulling an incessant wave of nausea over me; and the crew, the way their laugh cut through the air, their gaze lingering on me, making every little hair on the back of my neck prickle up in warning.

It was my idea to keep myself busy and not dwell on the past. Master sat with me for hours at a time, teaching me Latin and Venetian alike, guiding my hand as I wrote letters, words and sentences down in a new, thicker, better leather-bound journal, the book Nimit left me with long discarded under my bed. I learned about poetry, I recited verses I didn’t fully understand yet, and pondered the unlikely biblical God as presented to me by Marius. I asked him many questions, and he took pleasure in knowing the answers. One time I wished to know how our boat did not sink despite being so massive. He explained that wood was lighter than water, so it floated on top of it. A stone would sink quickly since it’s heavy all the way through, he said, but the ship had a lot of air inside its wooden hull, and that air fought to keep the ship afloat. He was a patient teacher. Listening to him speak calmed my nerves; his voice was soft and steady, his words fixed to a beautiful sort of rhythm I tried my best to imitate.

I didn’t like leaving the cabin for any reason; I didn’t go to admire the oceanic view from the top deck, in fear I would be forced to keep any sort of company with the crew. I did not think myself above them; I was merely unnerved by their presence.

At the end of each day, Matteo brought me food; it was always too bland or too salty, but I didn’t have it in me to complain. Seasickness took away my appetite anyway. More often than not, Matteo ate with me, but Marius left to have his meals elsewhere. One day, I finally gathered enough confidence within myself to ask Matteo:

“Why does Master never eat in the same room as me?”

When presented with the question, Matteo looked completely perplexed.

“Oh. He’s been teaching you well,” he said, and I realised it was not my words that shocked him, but the fact that I spoke at all, no less in decent Venetian; we ordinarily ate in complete silence. He cleared his throat. “The– the language, I mean, you sound so proper.” He smiled at me, and I smiled back. “As for the food, Marius is rather particular about his. Don’t take it personally. Wealthy men, they all have their… oddities.”

I nodded, reassured by his words. Yes, that had to be right. I never felt that Master left out of malice or disgust, he just… went away, then came back and continued whatever we were engaged in previously. So perhaps it was simply the way he liked it; to eat alone and unobserved. I could appreciate that as I, too, frequently felt the pull to solitude.

“Yes. I understand,” I said, chewing on a piece of stale bread. It was not so bad; not good, I had to admit, but I’ve tasted worse.

I didn’t have anything else to say, so I sat in silence, looking above or next to Matteo’s face as to not disturb him.

“How’s the journey?” he asked after a while. “We won’t reach the palazzo for a while… but the sea is beautiful, is it not? Very calm and clear today.”

“I get sick,” I said slowly. “Seasick. If I look at the waves for too long I– You know.”

He hummed quietly in agreement. “Hm. So that is why you never come out onto the deck? Are you not curious about the view?”

I furrowed my brows, not prepared to engage in a whole conversation with him; my initial question was extensively practised. But now I had to scramble words together to explain something I didn’t fully understand myself. “No,” I said. “I do not wish to be difficult. Take up space from the crew. I am comfortable here.”

Matteo chuckled. “Nonsense!” he said, waving a piece of bread around. Crumbs fell on the table in-between us, but he didn’t seem to notice nor mind. I reached over to swipe the mess off. “Marius is paying them. And besides, it’s dinnertime, they’re busy. We could go if you want, the sun’s setting. You’d like it.”

I didn’t want to go, but found it daunting to decline; I battled with whether it’d be more polite to refuse or to agree and make sure I came back promptly. Ultimately, I decided on the latter.

“I suppose,” I murmured with a sigh. “Yes.”

Matteo offered me a hand. “Excellent,” he said. “No time to waste.”

I let him pull me up. It was as Matteo said, the ship appeared empty, nobody except for the two of us as far as I could see. His grip on my hand lightened, and I understood he was giving me the option to pull away. But I remained nervous, so I squeezed his palm harder and shook my head. It felt like I was not allowed to be there. Like at any given moment, a captain – the captain – might materialise to punish me for wandering around.

Matteo led me to a wooden railing at the boat’s edge, and we stood there side by side, both looking out onto the sea. The sun was setting indeed, taking a slow, careful dive over the horizon. It left the orange-red sky streaked with heavy clouds. The water was endless, all-encompassing, and greyish-blue in the daylight’s last rays.

“And?” he asked. I could tell he was looking at me, but I kept my eyes on the sun. “I told you it’s pretty.”

“It is,” I agreed. “Pretty.”

It was almost unnaturally peaceful. We glided through the waves smoothly, only a slight sway bubbling up the wooden deck.

“You will like Venice,” said Matteo. “It lies by the sea as well. In fact, it’s surrounded by all kinds of water. The canals are beautiful.”

I hummed, not understanding. “The canals?”

“Ah. The canals. They are… imagine a street, but it’s not a street at all, it’s all water. You can take gondolas to get through. Gondolas, little boats. Like the one we are on but much, much smaller,” he explained carefully.

The image in my head was fascinating. A city of hard cobblestone suspended into a sea that carved out watery corridors in-between the stone, lapping up at its foundation. I longed to see it.

“That’s so–” I started to speak, but was swiftly cut off by a loud thump from behind us, followed by a roar of laughter.

I turned around and identified the source of commotion immediately; two men have just emerged from a wooden hatch in the floorboards across from where we were standing. They looked right at us, and spoke loudly, but their words eluded me; a dialect, I guessed, or some sort of sea-jargon I was not acquainted with yet. The sailors were both short and burly, with dark, beady eyes, a blotchy red flush spilling over their cheeks. They were holding cups with dark liquid slushing inside; alcohol, I presumed. I instinctively tried to back away, but the railing was too close behind me to allow for much movement.

I felt Matteo’s hand on my shoulder. He was saying something, but I couldn’t hear it through the thumping of the blood inside my head. The laughter. The laughter sounded exactly as it did back then, the other boat, the other men, the other crew… The sudden, overwhelming noise piercing through the air, the sickening smell of sour alcohol and rotting fish surrounding me in a blight of despair. The clink of their glasses, more shrieks. Chains digging into my wrists, tears streaming down my face as they laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Aw, you want your mammy? asked one of them. Funny, your mammy doesn’t want you. It was the first time; the first time I could remember. Hands. Hands all over me. Sharp nails. And again. And again. And again.

I barely managed to turn around and lean over the railing before a violent wave of nausea shook my entire body, and I vomited overboard. I held onto the rail tightly, my nails sinking into the wooden beam that gave away under my grip, its jagged edges digging into the inside of my palm, forcing me out of the memory and back into reality.

“–so sorry,” Matteo’s voice finally drifted over the ringing in my ears. He had one hand on my shoulder and the other wrapped around my chest, as if he was afraid I might fall over or throw myself into the water. “Deep breath, please? Take a deep breath,” he said, and breathed deeply himself as if to lead by example.

I tried to calm down. Only when I opened my eyes, I realised they were closed at all. My cheeks were wet with tears, and I was sobbing, an ugly blubber caught somewhere in my throat.

“What happened?” asked Matteo. He sounded so worried. “Is it the seasickness? I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise it was such an awful case!”

I shook my head, grimacing at the foul taste in my mouth. He didn’t understand, not in the slightest. It was not the sea, or perhaps the sea was just a conduit to something much worse. I couldn’t bring myself to look back in fear that the men were still there. I knew they were not to blame; they did not hurt me, but others have, but others like them have. I shuddered at the memory once more. The chains. So cold against my skin. I rubbed my wrist to confirm it was bare; it was.

“I’m not–” I started to speak, but my voice trembled.

“What is the meaning of this?” I turned around to see Marius walking to us. Matteo’s hands snapped away from me, and he joined them behind his back pliantly.

Marius looked annoyed as he approached us. “I told you not to drag him out here yet,” he scolded Matteo. “Didn’t I?”

“I apologise, Master, I thought–”

Marius cut him off. “Clearly it does not serve you to think. Leave my sight at once,” he sneered.

Matteo bowed to him, and although he glanced at me with a sad expression, he did not say anything else before walking off.

Marius crouched down next to me, his expression visibly softening. “Tell me,” he said calmly. “What is it that upset you? I shall take care of everything.”

He held my gaze steadily, and I found it impossible to look away. I wanted to speak, yet couldn’t find the right words. I thought about now and I thought about then, I thought about chains, and ships, and captains and their laughter, and the salty smell that made my stomach turn. It was as if there was a thick rope connecting me to him, to Master, as if he could pull on it and consume whatever I was thinking for himself. He understood me even when I did not understand myself, I thought, enchanted.

I swallowed. “I apologise–”

Marius took me by the hand. “Shh,” he said quietly. “They won’t hurt you again.” He brought my hand to his lips and kissed the top of my palm. It felt warm despite the coolness of his mouth. “I shall make sure of it.”

The following evening, Matteo didn’t bring me food as he usually did. Instead, it was Master himself who came into the cabin, carrying a shiny, metal tray with a variety of food on it. There was bread, cheese, and a cooked fish; my stomach rumbled at the smell. The meal appeared significantly more elaborate than what I’ve grown accustomed to on the ship.

“You’ve been displeased lately, so I arranged for fresh fish,” he said, putting the food down on the table. “For you.”

My gaze bounced between him and the tray. “For me?” I questioned. It was too much for me alone, surely. “Will you join me, Master?”

“No. I just ate,” he said with a smile. “But please, you enjoy it.”

I hesitated, but ultimately felt I had no choice except to indulge. The idea of Marius himself preparing the fish baffled me; he did not seem like the type to dirty his hands with meal preparation. It almost made me ashamed of myself; that he would do something so mundane, so beneath him, just to please me? Or maybe he just saw to the food as it was prepared by one of the crew. That idea baffled me even more.

I sat at the table, and Marius did too, watching me the entire time. It was unnerving; his gaze lingered on my hand when I picked up the bread, darted to my face as I realised the bun was still warm on the inside, then back to my hand as soon as I reached for the fish, to finally settle on my face once I started to chew cautiously.

The fish was delicious; the meat light and soft, the skin crisped up from the outside. I dug into its soft body with my fingers, separated the warm flesh, peeled it carefully from the tiny, sharp bones all the way from the head to the tip of its tail-fin.

“Is it to your liking?” Marius asked.

“Yes!” I said, my mouth full, my fingers dirty. I nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, it's so good!”

Master looked pleased. “Very well. Next time, do remember to cover your mouth if you speak whilst eating.”

I swallowed. “Of course, I apologise,” I said, raising my hand to my mouth to show him I understood. “Thank you, Master.”

I ate in silence for a while, and then Marius said, “Those men will not bother you again.”

I swallowed, trying to understand who he was referencing. The men from the deck? The sailors? I made a face, a ghost of yesterday’s horrible stomach-acid aftertaste rising at the back of my throat.

“I– they didn't bother me. They... reminded me of someone. It is not important.”

I looked at the mostly-eaten fish in front of me, and suddenly couldn't manage another bite.

“It is extremely important,” he pressed, leaning forward, his hands folded neatly on top of the table. “I pay these fools. If they cannot behave appropriately in front of you–”

He never finished the thought, but I saw how tightly he shut his mouth, grinding his teeth in an attempt to stop himself from speaking. I assumed that Master had talked to them, so they would likely avoid me now.

But I simply never saw either of the men again.

Matteo returned to see me some days later, acting unusually. He did not explain why he stopped coming to see me. When I questioned him about it, he claimed to have been busy with inventory, and employed a surprisingly formal attitude towards me.

Even more peculiar events followed.

Marius started insisting that it was crucial for a boy of my complexion to get enough sun. I am merely concerned for your well-being, your colouring is turning to ash, he’d tell me, and he’d lead me up to the top deck and sit me in a chair. I obeyed his wishes, staying close to him, basking in the sun while he half-whispered Venetian to me. I whispered back, my best attempt at keeping up with him, and constantly, I almost succeeded. Whenever I was able to converse with ease, he began to use words I haven’t heard before, then delighted in my confusion. I was never quite good enough, I supposed, but I wanted to be. I fantasised that there would come a day, perhaps months or years into the future, when I could satisfy Master's expectations threefold over, earning his approval at last.

Reality, however, was not exactly as I’d imagined. During one of those sunny days, while I was sitting with Master, a sailor strolled by. As he passed us, he said something I did not understand, and made an inappropriate gesture at me, the implication unmistakably sexual. A chill ran down my spine; clients would gesture in a similar manner when they decided to take me as their companion for the night.

I frowned, my heartbeat picking up its pace dangerously, but I did not comment nor address the man. I stumbled over my words to Marius, my voice hitching as I grabbed onto the end of his sleeve to ensure he would not make me do it. I didn’t want to do it. Master wrapped a hand around my shoulders, gently turning me away from the sailor until I faced the wooden railing and the infinite water beyond it.

“Pay him no mind. Breathe deeply,” he murmured right into my ear. I did as instructed. “Good. Very good.”

We continued our conversation. My palms sweat terribly for the rest of the day. I never saw that rude sailor again.

I did my best to rationalise it. How could it be anything other than an accident? All these men that disappeared after interacting with me were still on the ship, surely. Disembarking in the middle of the ocean was not possible, and any sort of fatal accident was bound to cause a stir aboard. There was no stir, no talk of illness either. So I concluded the most plausible scenario was as follows: due to me not leaving the cabin often and the men presumably avoiding me after whatever talk Marius had with them, we simply didn't cross paths anymore.

And then it happened once more.

Weeks later, as I grew more comfortable with fresh-air leisure, be it with Marius or by myself, I slowly became capable of picking up the crew’s words and matching them to what I knew of the language. As I sat in a wooden chair, my eyes closed, my mind seemingly far, far away, I listened in on them. First, they spoke about food, bread, and, as far as I could tell, teeth. Their teeth hurting? Something like that. Then they switched to the sea and wind with an influx of odd, nautical phrases. Finally, me. They talked about me. Specifically, in no uncertain or polite terms, they wondered whether Marius and I were lovers.

Their speculation bothered me, but not on the account of my presumed sexual relationship with Master. It bothered me, because I’ve tried to accompany him to bed countless times throughout our travel, and he denied my every advance. He’d say, you are so young, Heaven’s help me, so young, and he’d say, you will inevitably grow to resent me, shall I bend to your will. Nothing I said made a difference; he would not be persuaded.

And yet, sometimes when I couldn’t sleep, he let me lay curled up next to his side on the narrow cot in his cabin. I never rested more peacefully than during those nights. So I have offered myself, time and time again. Time and time again, he said no. It wounded me against my better judgement. Did he still think me filthy? Unworthy? Pathetic?

The crew made it so much worse. Their voices, unbelievably loud and crude, hung in the air; their words, increasingly bold and violent, swirled inside my mind. They not only wondered about whether Marius bedded me each night, but they also discussed how he did it. Their stupid, crass words made my blood boil, because I desperately wished they were true; at the same time, I felt dirtied with their brute idea of who I was.

Once I decided I’ve had enough, I stood up and said, admittedly rather impulsively, “It would serve you well to cease assuming I do not enjoy Masters’ company.”

They stopped speaking, all of them turned to face me as if a second, third, fourth head sprouted right from my shoulders.

The men said nothing, and – God knows why – I kept speaking. “You presume violence,” I said, “It is anything but.”

They kept staring at me.

What a lie. Or was it? It wasn’t about truth, I thought, truth did not matter to them. It was about my Master and his good name. I felt protective of him; of his honour, perhaps, of the limitless gentleness and understanding that he’d already extended to me. Marius would not be insulted by their sort if I could help it, and explain how benevolent of a man he truly was.

Except the next morning, one of them was gone again, and I did not know what to make of it. I did my best to observe the situation; the rest of the crew whispered among themselves in hushed voices that came to a halt as soon as I got close. I barely made out scraps of their conversation, words such as family and gone and blood and empty. It was at that moment that I had begrudgingly deduced that something increasingly unusual was happening.

Anxiety rose within me slowly but surely; it foamed along the waves that crashed against the ship more violently with every passing hour. Soon the days of a smooth, peaceful sea were gone, and the uneasy waters reflected the tension among the crew. I could not escape it either. For weeks something – a feeling, a curse, a premonition, a warning – hung in the air wherever I went, prevented me from getting a good night’s sleep.

I’d regularly wake in the middle of the night, slick with sweat, my throat dry and aching as if I’d been screaming. The sea stirred so violently, I’d be awoken by my body sliding off the cot, and I’d need to run out the cabin before an awful nausea took over me. Sunsets became short and insipid, the sun barely visible on the dark, agitated sky. Matteo grew too busy to accompany me during most meals, yet I frequently saw him converse with Marius in low, uneasy tones when they were just out of my sight.

Upon conducing a careful, nightly exploration of the ship, I was quite certain that there were sailors missing from the crew and nobody seemed to notice or care about their disappearance.

That, in itself, was cause for concern, but it was not all. I had a singular, negative interaction with each of them, an interaction after which they were never seen again. It could have been a coincidence. Still, the sea was brutal, I remained plagued with nightmares I didn’t remember, and I could scarcely keep any food down. So I came to the conclusion that either I or the sailors had been terribly cursed, and I urgently needed to find out which one it was. Buri nazar, I remembered all of the sudden, maybe that was it; I would have envied myself, too. The matter clearly warranted a deeper inquiry, so I came up with a plan – I would make sure that another one of the sailors bothered me, and I would follow him closely. Surely, once I observed what exactly was happening to them, the whole matter would become clear.

I spent a few days in my cabin with not much more than a book of Latin from Master and a supply of barely-drinkable water. I supposed my previous living situation was of use on the open sea; I could drown out hunger or thirst very effectively. Although I focused on my studies, I knew Marius would soon urge me to either eat more or come up onto the deck.

Sooner than I expected Master to notice, he was crouching in front of me, his eyebrows furrowed in worry. “It’s been difficult lately,” he said, his voice soft, gentle. “I’ve arranged for some fruit at the previous port. Will you meet me outside?”

A question from Marius, I learned, was never really a question at all; I wouldn’t dare reject his invitation.

“Of course,” I agreed, smiling at him. “I will.”

“Splendid. Do be careful, it’s quite wet out there.”

Master was right; it was wet. It’s been raining heavily; the sky was dull and covered in dense clouds, not a sliver of sunlight to be seen. The air smelled fresh and stale at once; a sharp breeze cut through by the damp scent of soaked wood. I wore a heavy coat, yet still felt the tips of my fingers stiffen with cold as soon as I left the cabin.

Master sat at one of the tables covered by a wide, wooden roofing piece, a bowl of orange fruit in front of him. As I got closer, I saw that they were mangoes, all perfectly ripe and cleanly sliced in half. I took a seat opposite Marius.

“Will you eat with me?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.

Marius shook his head. “You need it more than me,” he said. “They’re healthy for you”

I reached for half a mango. How exactly did Marius get them? I couldn’t remember docking at a port in the last few days, but I might have been mistaken. Time passed strangely on the ship – I’ve grown to accept it as fact. The fruit was good; sweet and juicy, unnaturally bright, especially eaten from the sad little bowl on top of a sad little table on top of a sad little ship.

“How much longer?” I asked.

Marius tilted his head to the side.

I bit into the mango once more, a rivet of juice running down my wrist, sinking into the cuff of my shirt. “How much longer until we are home?” I specified, licking my lips.

“Not long,” he assured. “The weather is most unfortunate, but we shall persevere.”

I was not satisfied with that answer. “Days? Weeks? Months?” I insisted. I threw the bitten-through mango peel back into the bowl, and reached for another piece.

Marius traced my movements; his eyes glided between my hands, my mouth, the fruit, my mouth again. “Weeks, most likely,” he said. He sounded out of breath. “I realise the journey’s challenging. But you handle it most admirably.”

“Thank you, Master.” I smiled, sucking fruit juice off my finger. That was in direct opposition to what Master has taught me; quite rude, in fact. As I did so, I looked up, and above Marius’ shoulder, my eyes met those of a sailor. He stood there, out in the rain, wet hair slicked to his forehead, and he glared at me. Even through the rain, I could see heat creeping up his face. I swallowed, biting down on my bottom lip.

“Amadeo!” Marius grabbed me by the wrist, and I dropped the half-eaten fruit, my eyes snapping right back to him. “What in the world are you doing?”

I tried to appear thoroughly confused. “They’re hungry,” I said, my best attempt at a pitying expression. “The crew. They’re hungry and jealous of my fruit. They stare.”

As soon as Marius looked over his shoulder, the sailor immediately turned around and started walking away.

“It is not the fruit that they–” Master cut himself off, taking a deep breath. “Take the mangoes inside,” he said. “The weather is deteriorating. It would be rather unfortunate if you fell ill.”

I did as he said; took the fruit with me below deck. But I could not miss the pang of something like hatred, like hunger, rolling across Marius’ face. It made my pulse quicken, sent a shiver right down my spine. I did it, I thought. The plan would work. It had to.

That night, I did not fall asleep. I lay in bed, clutching the edges of its wooden frame, my eyes wide open, focused on a single splash of mould at the wooden ceiling. The storm got worse by the hour; heavy rain drummed against the upper deck so harshly I was barely able to think, and everything swayed violently: up, down, right, left, up, down. I felt as if the insides of my body fused into one big clump of meat that now sloshed around within me each time the ship rose and fell. To say I was nauseous would be an understatement; mere hours earlier, I overestimated how not used to the waves I was, and greedily ate all the mangoes that Marius left me with. Now I tasted them again as they crawled back up my throat, sickly sweet, acidic, and rotten.

So the circumstances were widely unfavourable; I felt sick, something was surely decomposing inside me, and it seemed that the ship struggled to stay afloat against a fast-approaching storm. Still, my plan had already been set in motion – there was nothing left for me to do except follow through.

Chapter Text

I waited until I thought the crew have gone to sleep, but as soon as I left the cabin, barefoot and outrageously under-dressed, I saw sailors gathered under the leaky wooden roofing. Despite the weather, they seemed to be in excellent spirits – they talked and laughed loudly, their individual words drowned out by the storm. They were huddled around a few tables, some sitting but most standing, each gripping a massive mug. Try as I might, I could not tell their faces apart.

They were drinking; I was so close to determining whether I was truly cursed, and they were drinking!

I considered retreating back to bed, and maybe it would have been wise to do so. Instead, I took a deep breath, carefully stepped forward – my feet freezing cold, my clothes soaked through – and of course, I kept going.

Even as I crept dangerously close, I couldn't see the man that watched me eat the mango earlier. I tried to count the sailors to determine how many were missing, but realised there were multiple issues with that approach. I didn’t remember how many there were at the start of the journey. How many sailors? Fifteen? Eighteen? I recalled Marius mentioning a number, just not what it was exactly. They also kept moving, and I was pretty sure I got some of them twice. Finally, I regrettably had little faith in my mathematical abilities – the lessons with Master focused so heavily on words, numbers skipped my or perhaps our minds.

I knew the concept of numbers, naturally: that one was the first of them, always, that two came next, that ten was how many fingers I had on both hands, that twenty was twice as much, and that a hundred was quite a lot. Yet I still struggled with the in-between. I knew six as a concept of a number, but did it come right before or right after five? I kept forgetting. If six was a problem, so was sixteen, and so was twenty-six, and… I needed to pay attention to these things. But for now, I re-focused on what was actually important; that man from earlier.

I needed to find him.

Was he already asleep? It was possible, but I had to be sure. The laughter quieted gradually as I walked past the party and towards the pointed foredeck. I knew that sometimes, especially during such rough conditions, some of the crew were stationed there or at the afterdeck to navigate our path through the tempest.

The weather was like nothing I've experienced before: the sky pitch-black, not a sliver of the moon visible overhead, rain pouring down, hitting the floorboards with such momentum that water splashed up from the ground, the droplets almost sharp enough to break skin. Thunder rumbled incessantly; a prolonged purr grew into a roar that tore through the air so brutally, it made my bones shake and my insides coil around themselves.

There was nobody there, and I should have went back. I kept slipping on the slimy floorboards, and I was very cold, but I got so far! Only one turn remained before I made it to the front of the ship, concluding my outside search, so I persevered.

As I turned a corner, I encountered a scene I would be able to conjure up in meticulous detail for centuries to come.

Something moved at the edge of the foredeck; a shadow pulsing against the dark horizon. I didn’t see it clearly at first but then, in a flash of four sudden, repeated lightning strikes, it hit me all at once. There, illuminated by the blinding force of nature, was the sailor I searched for. He lay limp on the ground, his head tilted all the way back, bobbing lifelessly. His eyes were wide open, a puddle of blood forming and forming under him just to be dispersed by the rain. A tall, imposing figure crouched over him. The figure’s face was obscured by damp strands of long, white hair that fell over him and down onto the sailor's chest. Marius. The figure was Marius. He had one hand wrapped around the sailor's back and the other at his jaw, pushing it to the side to grant himself better access to his… throat?

I gasped. Even through the deafening growl of the storm, Master must have heard it, because his head snapped upwards instantly. There I was, drenched and trembling, witnessing the most surreal scene I could have imagined. I looked at Master, and he looked at me, blood smeared on his lips, a wild, inhuman expression overtaking him. Right then, his eyes didn't seem blue anymore, but a deep, stark, bottomless white.

Before I could do or say anything, with yet another rumble of thunder followed by a strike of light, the ship caught upon an angry wave, and dipped harshly to the side. I lost balance, fell to the ground, and slid along the wet floor. I tried to grab onto something, anything to break the fall, but it all slipped out of my panicked grip. I yelped as the ship shook again, left, right, left, so violently that my body flipped forward, and I feared the sheer momentum of it might throw me overboard.

I kept sliding down the deck, my heart thumping in my chest, the mangoes coming up my throat. I couldn’t stop thinking, is this it? Is this how it ends? Is this it? Is it? If so, what was the point of all my suffering, and enduring, and hoping, and… No point at all, I supposed. Fitting, that my end would be exactly what my entire existence has been up to that point – disappointing.

Just as I was about to crash into or through the wooden railing, the last flimsy thing separating me from the open water, I felt a strong arm wrap around me. Marius helped me stand upright, flipping us so that he was the one closer to the railing, his back pressed into the wood. I held onto his shoulders most frantically, half-noting how close I was to his face. I saw it, the blood still running down his chin, smudged by the rain, the dark tint to some strands of his hair. And the fear. The fear in his eyes.

What was he afraid of? Was it losing me or was it losing himself as I knew him?

Run, yelled every scrap of survival instinct I had left. The word rattled inside my head, bounced off the walls of my mind. Run, run, run! Run, Arun! Run, Amadeo! Run!

But I was not able to move, my body frozen in place, my thoughts spinning in circles of danger, then awe, then disgust, then hope, then back to danger. And even if I could move, where was I supposed to go? I was trapped there: inside his grip, inside his gaze, inside this very ship, inside my own stupid mind, and it made me dizzy.

So I wasn't cursed, after all. Or was I?

“Amadeo,” he said slowly. He reached for my face, but hesitated before touching me. “Please. I will explain everything.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. I wanted to jump into the sea. I wanted– But how could I? How could I do anything at all? I couldn’t move!

A killer. He was a killer, then. I glanced over his shoulder, at the sailor laying lifelessly on the deck, a puddle of watery blood gathering under his torn-up neck. My Master was– My Master was looking at me with a worried expression.

“I never wished for you to find out this way,” he said, his words somehow louder than the thunder. The ship swayed again, but he held me still. Marius appeared somehow unaffected by the storm. He stood tall, perfectly balanced, the rain soaked his clothes and hair but rolled right off him otherwise, didn’t seem to obscure his view or make him shiver.

For a brief moment, I forgot all the Venetian he’s taught me. I wouldn’t recall any Latin either, and my tongue painfully lodged in my throat. I swallowed around it, yet the suffocating feeling persisted. I was shaking. Was it the cold, the fear, or both?

I felt dumb and pathetic, like I didn’t understand anything about the world at all. Like this entire time, I was falling in love with–

A monster, I thought, and couldn’t stop myself from chuckling.

A monster! Oh, a monster, but I knew all about those – still felt their hands on me, their breath on my neck, their faces twisted in pleasure, lust spilling out of their mouths, lust filling my lungs like seawater, coming out of my nose as I choked. But he was different! My Master was different; he hasn’t hurt me, not once.

The sailor lay dead and bloodied.

But I stood alive and firmly in Marius’ arms.

It made no sense.

“You killed him,” I said at last. “And the others? The ones– the man that made a gesture at me weeks ago. The sailors that laughed long before that! The– the missing men! You–” I should have been terrified. Instead, I giggled, my voice high and crazed, my thoughts falling behind, unable to keep up with the urgency of the situation. “You killed them!”

Marius swallowed, hesitated. “They harmed you,” he said. “Displeased you.”

I heaved. “So you killed them! I never asked–”

“You do not have to ask! You never have to ask,” he said, his fingers digging into my arms. He held me as if he wanted to shake me awake. “You are disoriented. Allow me to bring you back in–”

Before he could say anything else, I lunged forward, held his face with both of my hands, and kissed him on the mouth. He was cold and wet; I felt more than heard him gasp in surprise, his lips parting slightly, barely enough to allow me to push further and slip my tongue in. He didn’t return the kiss, but he didn’t stop me either, so I persisted. I pressed myself against him, my freezing, soaked body against his freezing, soaked body. I wrapped an arm around his neck, tilted my head to the side, stood on my tiptoes to reach deeper into his mouth. It felt strange: his teeth were completely even, he tasted like rust and rose petals, he was unnervingly still. I sighed, my breath fluttering on its way out of my mouth.

He grabbed me by my upper arms and yanked me away from himself, a pained, sour expression on his face.

“Amadeo,” he said sternly. “No. You do not understand the gravity of your actions!”

Didn’t I?

Run, screamed a crazed voice inside my mind, but I stayed.

Monster, it wept, but I laughed in its face.

Monster.

A monster that would put himself between me and the fall overboard. A monster that would rid me of those who displeased me. And they did displease me, every last one of them. It wasn’t fair, of course. But it wasn’t fair what they did to me in the brothel, either. Where was their punishment?

I looked at Marius, his eyes gleaming in the dark, the faintest blush creeping up his cheeks, the obvious bulge at the front of his trousers. He wanted me, yet he denied me! Still! Or perhaps he denied himself. I didn’t understand why. Surely this was the last missing piece of revelation that he could ever wish me to possess before he possessed me. He could have me now, and I would be his gladly, willingly, passionately. He rejected me, now, before, again, and again, and again, but he wanted me. So I ought to keep trying.

“Will you kill me?” I asked.

Would he? He could, so easily. Yet there we were.

He furrowed his brows. “No,” he said. “Of course not. Please, return to your cabin. The cold– it is most detrimental to your health. You will become ill.”

I looked to the side. “What about him?”

Master glanced at the dead sailor and rubbed his temples as if anticipating a headache. “I shall handle it myself. Go inside.”

I shook my head. “I want to see you handle it.”

I needed to know.

For a moment, it seemed like Master might argue, but he simply sighed. I watched as he walked up to the body, and bent down to touch its neck as if he was wiping something off of it. Then he threw it over his shoulder like it was a weightless sack of nothing. He approached the railing, and hurled the man overboard in one, swift motion. The body must have made a splash, but the storm drowned it out. The rain, another accomplice, was washing all evidence off deck. And then there was me, of course, the only other witness. Is that what happened to all of them? While I was going insane over this feeling of being damned, is that what was truly happening? Marius, crouching over them, his teeth deep in their necks?

What was he? Every guess seemed ridiculous; not a human? But what kind of monster would do that? Eat people or drink their blood, throw bodies into the ocean like it was nothing at all? Teach me how to pronounce cobblestone and kiss my hand when I was scared? What was I supposed to do with that? What was I supposed to do, surrounded by nothing but water, and water, and water, reliant on his mercy and wanting, so desperately, to make him proud of me, no matter the cost, no matter the circumstances?

“Amadeo,” he said. “Let us go inside.”

I nodded, and let him take me by the arm, then guide me into the cabin. I went inside, but had no memory of walking there. Was it even still raining? Was the ship swaying? Were the other sailors still out, laughing, drinking? Marius’ hand was on my shoulder, my own hand white-knuckle gripping the bottom hem of my tunic; it was already frayed before I first touched it, perhaps, but now I unravelled it wholly.

Master closed the door behind us. I stood there, in the middle of the room, water dripping off my shaking form, drenched strands of desperate-to-stay-curled hair clinging to my face, my clothes all wet and pitiful.

Marius opened the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, took out some clothes, seemingly the first ones he saw, and offered them to me. “Put these on,” he said. “It pains me to watch you tremble.”

I stared at his outstretched arm, his shirt pulled up to his elbow, his skin still glistening with rain. Has he always looked like that? His skin, has it always been so perfect? Has it always been so smooth and light? I frowned at my own hand reaching towards his. Have I always been so dark? My skin, has it always been so brown, so dull? I struggled to remember what they looked like – all the other people I’ve ever met – my world blurring at its edges, constricting to Marius’s pale hand, tighter, and tighter, and tighter with every frantic beat of my heart.

“The clothes,” he urged me. When I didn’t react, he kept talking. “You are unwell, and I am afraid it is my fault. Please, will you change your clothes?”

I cocked my head to the side, captivated by the change in his eyes. Mere minutes before, I could have sworn they were white, empty. Now they were full, an ocean-deep lapis shining in the sun. “Six,” I said. He looked confused. “Six, does it come before or after five?” I asked. It was important. Crucial to my understanding of the situation.

“After,” he said. “Just after five. I do not understand how that connects–”

I nodded. It was as I suspected. “And how many were there? How many sailors at the start of the journey?”

He sighed. “Eighteen.”

Yes. Eighteen. Eighteen came after sixteen, but not immediately. That’s how many. “How many are there now?”

Looking at him was like looking at the most tranquil of waters. Not like what was happening outside, not like the storm, but like sunshine, like a ship gliding down the waves without a hitch. I blinked, struggling to hold onto my thoughts. The crew. The blood; the blood on his mouth. It was no longer there, but it used to be. I could still taste it on my own tongue.

“Fourteen,” he said slowly.

Focus, I told myself. Fourteen. So between eighteen and fourteen, there was… I flexed my fingers behind my back, counting it down. “Four,” I announced. “You killed four of them.”

He didn’t respond for a while. I felt strangely at peace with the information I’ve gathered. At the same time, it confused me. How has nobody noticed this? Four men, missing, with nowhere to go but down. Four men that hurt me. Or did they?

“It is in my nature,” he said. “To protect my beloved. To eliminate any threat against him. But by my own hand, he shall never suffer.” His voice was quiet, tender. He gently touched my cheek, the top of his palm brushing against me. He was so cold. No, he was burning hot. Which one was it?

“You drink blood.” It was neither a question nor a statement. I bit down on my lower lip, thinking about it. My head was spinning with how desperately I was trying to understand. “Do you have to kill them? Or can you stop? Do they… become like you?”

He took a deep breath, although I grew unsure whether he needed it at all. I was trying to wrap my mind around the undeniable truth of his marvellous existence, but to no avail. Before he answered, he grabbed the bottom of my tunic, and carefully slid it over my head. The soaked fabric was so uncomfortable, I felt warmer once it was off of me. “To become what I am is an infinitely layered and profound endeavour,” he said. The wet material plopped onto the floor at his feet. He pulled my trousers down next, his hand lingering at the bend of my knee, guiding me to step out of the garment. “No mere bite would suffice.”

I considered his words. “Do you want to bite me?” I asked. “Is that why you will not take me to bed, Master?”

It was a most natural conclusion. Maybe that was why my affection seemed to pain him so; there was something about my body that he wasn’t able to separate from the blood. A weakness to my flesh, so easy to break, and yet so perfect to sustain him. I could be useful to him, after all, I reckoned. In an unexpected, bizarre, monstrous, gentle, romantic turn of events, I could be useful.

He hesitated. “You are understandably confused,” he said. “There are ample reasons– And so many matters that I cannot easily explain–”

I scoffed. “So you truly do not desire me? Say you never will.” He attempted to put the dry shirt on me by force, but I crossed my arms, resisting him. “Say it, and I will trouble you no more.”

“Put. The. Clothes. On,” he enunciated, every word strained as it left his lips.

I smiled.

There was a glimmer of something vile inside his gaze: primal, dangerous, hungry. I wanted to know what would happen if he let it surface; but he didn’t. “The clothes.”

How tedious. If only I was bold enough to push– But he needed me to drop the subject now, and it was my role to obey him. There was still time, so much time that we had.

“As you wish.” I took the stupid clothes, and put them on. “The storm makes me sick,” I added promptly when he glanced at the door. “You would not banish me to sleep alone tonight?”

He didn’t. He changed into dry clothes as well, turned away from me the whole time, and I observed his bare, broad back, the muscles under his skin taut with his every move, the dips at his hips, just above his perfectly smooth ass. I recalled seeing a sculpture once, many years earlier: it was a young man, naked, carved out of stone. It was torture; that he wouldn't let me touch him. I longed to grab him by the hips, turn him around, kneel where I belonged and–

“Heavens,” I heard him mumble as he covered himself. “You mustn't think that.”

I chuckled. “What am I thinking?” Was it that obvious?

He gave me a pointed look. “Do not be frightened if I appear… dead in the morning. I assure you the state is temporary.”

Now that I thought about it, I indeed recalled falling asleep next to him many times, but could not remember one morning with him still in bed when I awoke. I never paid it much attention before. But now I would.

“Of course,” I said. “Not dead. I understand.”

I wasn't sure if I really did, but that was irrelevant. Master lay down, and I curled up at his side as I usually did, my outstretched arm reaching across his chest. He held me gently, his touch barely there; not warm but not chilling either. Slightly too cold for comfort – I grew fond of the feeling.

That night, I dreamt of drowning.

I swam in the open sea, the sky black and moonless, the water murky; there was no ship, no land, no anyone or anything. At first I was at peace – it felt like drifting more so than swimming. Then I started to get tired, and the less energy I had to keep myself afloat, the more panicked I became. I flailed my arms around, but the movements made no noise at all.

When I opened my mouth, and couldn’t speak, I realised I was already underwater, my voice choked out by the thick not-water pouring into my mouth, forcing its way down my throat, stinging my eyes. Something was pulling me down, yet the deeper I sank, the lighter I felt.

As soon as I glanced under myself in an attempt to see my feet, my perspective flipped over, and I was swimming up, up, up towards a faint glow of what I assumed to be the surface. The other surface. Just as I reached it, I emerged out of the black sea and into a pool of crimson blood, red as far as I could see, waves of it crashing against one another, an orange-pink foam streaked at their edges. The sky was scarlet, too. And the sun. The world was so empty; except for blood. And me, mute and strangely comforted by its iron smell.

I woke up suddenly, panting, my heart racing.

I looked at Marius laying next to me, and I grappled with three undeniable truths. One, Master had something terribly monstrous inside of him. Two, there was no way out of the situation I've found myself in other than through it. Three, it aroused me to imagine what he might be capable of. Not only towards me, but towards others. People that pleased him, and ones that didn’t. Which of them would get my gentle Master, and which would get the monster from last night?

Monster.

I tried to apply the word to him. I could not. He was right, though, that he would seem dead in the morning. He lay peacefully on his back, his face calm and beautiful, his chest not rising nor falling at all. I have never seen anyone as unmoving; it was fascinating. I hovered my hand over his mouth, but I didn’t feel him breathe. I leaned over to put my ear to the middle of his chest: nothing. Or– or was there the slowest, faintest beat of something within him? I held my own breath, tried to eliminate all distractions, kept listening, but couldn’t tell whether it was my own heart fluttering in my ears, or his.

Monster.

I hardly considered his age before, but as I focused on him now, I could not guess it. He had a strong, sharp jaw; beautiful, shapely lips; long, straight lashes that lay disturbingly still on the tops of his cheeks. His skin was parchment-white and even, not a hint of discolouration, not one blemish upon him. I wanted to kiss him so badly.

Monster.

Blood-drinking monster.

I swallowed, and reached for his face, his skin cool under my touch. He didn’t stir, so I leaned closer, my nose almost touching his.

“Master,” I said, my voice hoarse from sleep.

Nothing. Silence. My own pitched breath.

“Master,” I said louder, my hand sliding onto his neck. “It is morning, Master.”

Still nothing. I reached under his clothes, down his chest, my fingers digging into his sternum.

“Wake up,” I tried once more. “Father.”

His eyes fluttered open, and he gasped, instantly alert. He grabbed me by the wrist, keeping my wandering hand in place, but he did not push me off.

“What is the matter?” he asked quietly.

“I’m waking you. Making sure last night was not merely a dream.”

It seemed like it, didn't it?

His gaze softened, and he let go of me. “It was not,” he said. “Are you quite well? I expected–” He cut himself off.

What did my Master expect? I wondered. Perhaps that I would be scared, and I was. Perhaps that I would deny the situation to myself in order to keep my sanity intact, and I did not.

“I have questions.” I sighed. “But you won't answer them.”

“I will in due time,” he said. “You must be patient.”

I licked my lips, my gaze drifting to his mouth. Another approach, then. “Let me kiss you,” I said. “Bite me or don’t. Kill me or don’t. That is your choice. But why… why don't you want to kiss me? Am I ugly, Master? Am I dirty? Do you hate me?”

He blinked repeatedly, opened his mouth, closed it again. I saw him thinking. Thinking, thinking, thinking. My heart skipped a beat as I imagined it: Marius and me, mouth to mouth, chest to chest. His hips nestled into mine. Oh. It excited me. Carefully, I put my hand on his lower stomach; it felt warmer than his chest or face.

“You are exceptionally beautiful,” he said, his tone resigned, as if admitting a great failure. “It is simply not proper to–”

My hand ventured further down his body, and I brushed over his crotch deliberately. I felt him hardening under the lightest stroke of my palm.

“Is it proper to kill people?” I purred. The corners of his lips twitched upwards. Yes! There it is, I thought, delighted. The last missing piece of information I needed to get it right. “The desire is mine alone. I swear it, Master. I want it. Oh, I’ve been wanting it. Please.”

It appeared that he lost whatever battle he waged against himself. “God help me. God help you, child,” he mumbled. “For I am about to sin.”

He grabbed me by the thigh, and pulled me closer to himself so that I half-lay on top of him, and he squeezed at my bent leg. I let myself be positioned, and I leaned on his chest, my mouth right by the side of his face.

“We,” I whispered to him. “We are about to sin.”

I pushed my leg between his, and felt how hard he was. He took a sharp breath, which was interesting; he did not have to breathe, as I had observed. But perhaps it was an involuntary impulse of the body to do so. Lust looked enticing on him: his lips parted, his eyes half-closed. I would make it good for him, I hoped, so good. I knew exactly how. But I would not think of them, I would not. I would only think of Master, and I would keep myself anchored to him by any means necessary.

I slipped one hand under his clothes, wrapped my fingers around his cock, and put my other hand on his cheek as I leaned in to kiss him. The feeling was not unfamiliar, yet so alien at the same time. My hand moved down, then up, the slightest flick of my wrist at the top of his dick, my thumb dipping into the shallow groove under the head with each stroke. I rocked my whole body against his, my movements fluid and deliberate, any sound I made muffled by his eager mouth on mine.

He kissed me like he loved me, I reckoned, or as close to it as I could ever wrap my head around. Just like I wrapped my hand around his cock. He was good at kissing. I would know, as I’ve done it many times, often with minimal enthusiasm. But he excited me. He was not violent, not even as he pressed against me, and thrust his hips upwards to align himself with the rhythm of my hand.

“God,” he moaned. I felt a shiver run through me in response, raising every fine hair at the back of my neck, goose-skin all over me.

“Yes,” I mumbled, my lips still pressed into his. “Yes, God. Master. Father.”

He groaned again, and I leaned to kiss him deeply, passionately. I was with him, he was right there, his cock in my loving grasp, his tongue in my mouth. He didn’t taste like much. Perhaps the faintest hint of blood, a bit of sweat – which might have been my own taste mixing into his pleasant nothingness.

I tightened my grip on him, and a few extraordinary things happened in quick succession.

Marius gasped loudly, and as he did, I felt two pieces of something thin and sharp slip down his teeth and into my tongue. I did not immediately know they were fangs – all I knew was a hot needle of pain shooting through me as I felt my tongue slice open against the sharp edge. Blood filled my mouth, but it was gone in an instant, and I heard him swallowing under me. Once, twice, thrice, he swallowed, and at the same time, he came.

I felt his dick twitch in my unwavering grip, and I felt him dig his fingers into my thigh. I did not expect just how sharp his nails would be, and so I did not expect them to break through the skin. They did.

With another wave of pain-please at the sensation of being pierced through, I felt it as well. It was highly unexpected; I was not focused on my own body as I mostly did not experience pleasure in the same sense they did. Except now I did. This time, I did. As he gripped my leg, pulling me closer, my hard cock rubbing between our stomachs, the pressure inside my abdomen built, and built, and built, until it finally released. I heard a yelp, and realised it came from my own lips. I couldn’t help it! What was I supposed to do? I didn’t know where to look, what to focus on. The experience was very strange. I wanted to do it again. To see if it was possible to replicate–

Marius was the first one to turn away from the kiss. As he did, I stared at a thin string of bloody saliva stretching from my lips and onto his cheek. I swallowed what was left of it inside my mouth, and I collapsed onto him, the strength in my arms gone completely.

I closed my eyes to flashes of it burned under my lids: the kissing, the moaning, his nails, the pain, the blood, the fangs, the– To my dismay, I felt my dick twitch with renewed interest. No. No, surely not! I was not– like that. I wasn’t. Was I? I should want it to be gentle! Loving! Yet there was blood in my mouth, blood seeping into the sheets, blood–

Oh. Oh, how they’ve ruined me.

“Master,” I said, my voice dripping with worry. “Master, I’m sorry!”

He looked at me, an expression of pure confusion on his face. “You have nothing to apologise for,” he assured. As the corners of his mouth trembled, I finally noticed it – his teeth, too sharp to be real. But they were. They were real and they cut me! “Do you understand what happened?”

I furrowed my brows. “I– bled, but I didn’t mean– and I– I wanted it to be good! Was it good? Was I good?”

“Spectacular. You’ve pleased me greatly,” he assured. “So young, and already you possess such unprecedented skill– You shall be the death of me, Amadeo.”

Oh. So this was how it was supposed to happen. I smiled, and let my body relax.

Monster.

If he was one, he was the most powerful of them all, was he not? It became clear to me that the only place where I could ever find true safety was by his side, shielded under the greatest danger’s wing.

After that, there was not much of the journey left until we arrived at our destination. I asked Master many questions about his, as he called it, predicament, and he answered them so skilfully I lost my thread of thought every time. We went to bed together, but he was careful not to ever draw blood again. The time will come, he told me, and I believed him.

One more sailor disappeared; I knew, because I started to count them each morning. I did not bring it up to Master, and he did not offer an explanation unprompted. The truth was, I didn’t care about those men. The thought of five dead, bloodless bodies floating in the middle of the sea brought me no distress. It would never be my body. I made sure of that, didn’t I?

One morning, Marius woke me in a rush, saying, we will be docking shortly. Gather your belongings. I did just that. Except this time, I actually had belongings to speak of: a chest of clothes, a pile of half-filled journals, a few read-through books with notes on the margins.

When we were almost there, an outline of the promised Venice-land looming faintly in the distance, I walked the outside deck along with Master. His hand rested on my shoulder, and he talked about home. He was looking at the buildings emerging from the horizon, but I was looking at his face.

Chapter Text

Stepping into the palazzo for the first time was like walking into paradise. Everything seemed very light and spacious. The floor was hard and polished, perfectly smooth marble under my feet. At the entrance, the furniture was scarce by design – the massive columns carved out of cold stone and elaborate frescoes crawling right from the edge of the ceiling were more than enough to keep anyone’s attention.

Back in Delhi, I dreamt of something I couldn’t understand. Sometimes, in my wildest visions, it was a feeling of pure, absolute freedom, powerful yet fleeting, some sort of unwavering affection, a love that bloomed without suffering. But most of the time, it was simply the safety of my own room at the back of an agreeable man’s home, a bowl of fruit laid out on the table, a tender hand on my own. Which could have been enough. Except once I got to know Marius, and realised what he was capable of, I wanted more. More than safety, more than a room, more than a hand.

Master was watching me carefully, a playful glimmer in his eyes as I looked around, my mouth agape with awe.

“Welcome home, Amadeo,” he told me. “Is the palazzo to your liking?”

I nodded earnestly. “Yes. It is breathtaking,” I said. “Beyond… my greatest hopes. I remain unworthy of your kindness, yet endlessly grateful for it.”

Each day, I felt that I was getting better at his language. My language, I supposed. I worked tirelessly to please Master, find new ways to display my affection. Most of all, I was eager to solidify my position as his most loyal companion; ready to bow, and kneel, and worship at any time.

As I admired my new home, one thought would not leave me: there was nothing in this world I wouldn’t do to be the favourite. The favourite servant would do. The favourite lover, the favourite disciple, all of them at once, all contained within me. Anything he desired, I would become, and I would give, and I would do so without fail. Because nothing akin to this would ever happen again – I was given a perfect, singular chance at a better existence, and I would use it. My feet would never sink into the brothel’s rotten floorboards again. Never. Never again would I be the poor boy smothered by filthy sheets, and never again would I lament over his poor, desecrated body.

Before I said anything else, Matteo walked up to us and bowed to Marius. Towards me, he smiled, and made a soft, welcoming gesture with his hand.

“The table has been set upon your request, Master,” he said to Marius, then looked at me, and added, with a slight nod, “Amadeo.”

“The table?” I questioned. We just got back from the voyage, no more than half an hour has passed since we walked through the door! How would they–

Marius clapped his hands together, a loud smack echoing through the hall. “Very well!” He was visibly delighted. He turned to Matteo. “Before we proceed, more appropriate garments for Amadeo shall be of great importance. We are not wandering the seas anymore.”

“Certainly,” Matteo said. “Any specific item?”

Marius considered it. “Burgundy brocade will complement his skin just so.”

The way they spoke led me to believe there might have been a person or persons waiting to make my acquaintance in the dining room. Which would be strange, but not surprising. What could truly surprise me after that night on the ship? The image – Master’s hollow, white eyes, teeth flashing through darkness, blood dripping on wet wood – still raised goosebumps all over my skin. He seemed so gentle now, so calm. But I’ve seen the storm underneath.

Matteo brought the clothes, and offered them to Marius, a bundle of deep purple-red material in his outstretched arms. I was both completely irrelevant and the centre of their attention: not allowed to choose directly yet presented with the most ornamental of fabrics.

“Let me aid you.” Master’s hand slid down my shoulder, his fingers curling under the hem of my shirt.

I held my arms out, letting Marius undress me. I stepped out of my trousers happily for him. He took a step back, watched me as I stood there for a moment, bare and unbothered by either his or Matteo’s presence. Master put the new garments on me; a rich, deep material pouring over me, cold and heavy against my skin. I’ve never worn anything like it.

“Brush,” he said, and a slim arm appeared seemingly out of nowhere, handing him a brush. It was Matteo’s hand, I supposed, but I found it most difficult to focus on anything besides Marius.

He brushed my hair lovingly, kissed the top of my head, said, “My Amadeo. My beautiful little dove.”

I had nothing much to say except a choked up, “Thank you.”

He took me to the dining room, which, to my dismay, housed mainly a long, ornate table with more chairs than I could easily count. The table stretched indefinitely towards the other end of the room, and it was set out for a feast. It overflowed with dishes, fruits and vegetables neatly arranged in bowls of silver and blown glass. Some of the fruit were glossy and spiced, some glinting with syrup, some sliced thin and gilded at the edges. There were meats, cheeses, bundles of colourful grapes draped over many of the plates, petals of crystallised flowers scattered along the table – it looked more like a piece of art than something to be eaten. The authenticity of the feast laid in its scent: steam rose from the food, and the room smelled incredible. Like fresh bread, a mix of sweet and tangy spices, something I would not let myself dream of participating in. My stomach twisted in both hunger and disbelief, a loud, embarrassing noise came from my bowels, unsheathing my anticipation.

I half-expected an audience, but the room was empty except for me and Marius. I looked at him uncertainly, a silent question in my eyes. It was clear to me that Master did not enjoy food in the way I did.

“Indeed,” he confirmed. “It’s been prepared with you in mind. Sit beside me.” He directed me to a chair in the middle of the table.

I took my place as instructed, making an effort not to salivate. All this food… he didn’t actually think I could consume it all, did he? I looked at Marius once more, still not sure I was allowed to reach for anything.

“Abundance can be overwhelming,” he said sympathetically. “Permit me to select on your behalf, then. Have I earned your trust?”

“Yes,” I said immediately.

He appeared content. “Shall we play a game?”

I chuckled under my breath. “A game? If you please, Master. Yes.”

“Very well. Name this,” he said, lifting a cluster of purple grapes. He plucked one off and held it between his fingers. “Mind your pronunciation.”

“Grape,” I enunciated, and Marius pressed the fruit to my lips. It was sweet, a burst of sugar filling my mouth as it popped. I swallowed.

“Excellent. Now this.” He reached for something else, a vegetable, its flesh firm and vibrantly yellow. “A produce of singular elegance… not unlike yourself.”

“Pepper,” I said. “A yellow pepper,” I specified, and again was rewarded with a bite of it. It crunched under my teeth, the taste mild and fresh.

He kept feeding me like this, hand-to-mouth, and as he did, he waited for me to name the food. Radish. Cherry. Plum. I knew many of them, so I thought I was exceptionally good at the game.

But then he tore off a piece of meat from what I assumed to be roasted chicken covered in rich sauce that I couldn’t guess the ingredients of.

“I don’t know. Meat,” I said. By the amused expression on Marius’ face, I knew it was not a good enough answer. “Chicken? Perhaps if you allow me to taste it?”

He fed it to me, and I hummed at the flavour. “Yes. Chicken,” I confirmed proudly.

Marius wiped the corner of my mouth with his thumb, his gaze stuck to my lips. “Almost right,” he said. “It’s capon.”

“Capon?”

“A… specially prepared type of chicken.”

I laughed. “That is quite unfair. We’ve never discussed capon.”

“I suppose not.” He seemed in good spirits, too. “The game has not reach its conclusion yet. Open your mouth.”

I did as he asked. I named what I knew, and he guided me on the rest. There was trout, lamb, almond, although I could hardly keep up with the new vocabulary, completely transfixed by the explosion of flavours, textures, smells. Ripe fruit splitting open on my tongue, juice running down my throat, tender meat, salty, heavenly sauce coating my tongue. Bread so soft it felt like eating a cloud plucked straight from the sky, and tangy cheese melting on my tongue, barely having to be chewed at all.

Marius leaned closer to me, yet another fruit betwixt his fingers – this one small and impossibly red, freckled with light dots, gleaming with juice. I didn’t know what it was, so I just stared, then shook my head.

“Strawberry,” Marius said, already pressing the fruit into my mouth. I moaned as the taste, both sweet and tart, soft flesh giving easily under my teeth.

“Ah.” He sighed, and he picked up another one, dangled it in front of me. “A rare, temperamental fruit, yet it pleased you more than most.”

“It did. Strawberry,” I pronounced, awaiting another bite. Marius gave it to me, his fingers grazing against my tongue. I chewed slowly.

“Quite an expensive taste on you,” he teased. “I shall ensure a consistent supply.”

It was as if God himself lead me into the land of milk and honey, and there he was, sitting next to me, feeding me after years of starvation. I took everything he gave me, and I licked his fingers clean. I was stuffed to the brim, my mouth full, nothing about it very elegant or polite despite Marius’ collected exterior.

“One more. Swallow,” he murmured, brushing through my hair with his hand. His eyes shone with a far-away promise.

His fingers followed the line of my neck, pushed at my throat gently as I swallowed, as if he wanted to feel me consuming the food. “Yes,” he breathed. “Good.”

“Did I win the game?” I asked, licking my lips in an attempt to gather my thoughts. It was no easy feat. I was panting as if I’d just exerted myself, but all I did was open my mouth for his hands, over and over and over again.

Marius smiled as he reached for a carafe of wine. He poured some into a cup, and put it in my hand. “Yes. Your reward shall be granted soon,” he said, his long fingers caressing my jaw as I chewed. “You shall feed me, too.”

I smiled at him, drinking from my cup. The wine was delightfully rich, it left the tip of my tongue numb and my mind hazily satisfied. He didn’t mean food, I supposed. I had to remember the ship.

“Now, one more. Indulge me?” he pleaded, dipping a piece of bread in honey, and he hovered it just above my lips.

I was full; so awfully, completely full, yet I would eat until I burst if that’s what he wished to see. I put my tongue out to catch the next drop of honey. I chewed the bread slowly.

“Perfect. You can take one more,” he coaxed, stroking my cheek. With his other hand, he fed me more bread. Then a few grapes. I named them before chewing, as expected.

“Look at you. You are… radiant, Amadeo. Achingly handsome.” Marius was looking at me with wonder, or at least that’s the only way I knew to describe it. “So alive.”

That night, I went to rest in the room that did not yet feel like my own, and as I lay under the cool, silky sheets, I could not make myself sleep. I felt heavy; an unfamiliar feeling of fullness sank at the pit of my stomach, the mix of all the food I ate from Marius’ hands weighing me down. The palazzo was too quiet, too motionless after the months we spent at sea. Perhaps with a slight sway to the bed, I could have rested easier.

Even still, as I lay there in the dark, I grew hopeful again. Stupidity hopeful that maybe this time, maybe with this man, maybe in this house… It would be different. Better.

Better than the brothel.

Better than whatever came before.

And what did come before? My childhood home, if such a place existed anywhere, remained a painful mystery. But there was a voice buried deep in the back of my mind, a voice from before, a woman calling my name. First it came out a whisper, then a plea, and finally, a scream. Arun. Arun. Arun! She said something else, softer, more desperate. Your soul, perhaps. They cannot touch your soul. I feared they already have. Her face remained obscured, but I recalled a trembling hand waving at me. Not in a greeting, but the opposite of it. Where was it? I tried my hardest to remember. Not a house but a room. With a view of a huge, sprawling tree and a river running outside the window. My window. The other window. A filthy, shallow river, and a woman, still faceless, scrubbing a linen tunic by the bank. Laughter. Children, laughing. Me, laughing. Actually laughing. Scream-laughing. Playing. Picking up a stone, throwing it in the water. My feet sinking into mud, more laughter bubbling in my throat. A smell of something burning, cooking.

Was any of it real memories, or were they just unfortunate visions conjured up by my tired, used-up mind? I wasn’t sure; the images blurred around the edges, the sounds echoed and quavered, my memory strained beyond comprehension. I longed to know the woman’s face, because I felt she was important. But nothing I tried brought me closer to her, and maybe I should not have ventured so far into myself.

Lost in thought, I didn’t pay much attention to my surroundings until something shifted at the foot of the bed, and I stirred myself awake, sitting up in an instant. The room spun as I blinked, trying to orient myself.

That’s when I saw it; a pair of bright eyes shining in the dark. As if a tall, frightening cat gazed at me from the distance. It took me a few more seconds to grow used to the darkness, and slowly, a menacing silhouette emerged around the pair of eyes: long, straight hair framing his shadowed face, the curve of his shoulders dissolving into the background. But the eyes! The eyes. At night, they were grey, so light they seemed completely transparent, frozen in their most raw and natural state with no other colour around to draw from. The hairs at the back of my neck prickled up in warning, and it should have made me uneasy. My heart was beating loudly in my chest, but it was not from fear. Worse; it was devotion. Already, devotion.

“Master,” I whispered, squinting to see better. He didn’t move. No answer, either. “Master, is– is everything–”

He was on the bed before I finished speaking, floating towards me, not really moving otherwise, his body sprawled right on top of me: heavy, cold, crisp, overwhelming. My breath caught in my throat. The bed dipped on both sides of my hips as he straddled me.

“All is perfectly well, Amadeo.” He grabbed me by the chin, forced me to look up at him, and smiled, a flash of white teeth in the dark. “Are you afraid?”

I stared at him, my thoughts racing. Afraid of what exactly? That he would kill me? No, that did not scare me. Afraid that he would hurt me? My body was his to take. My mind and my soul, too, if I had one – my only fear was that he would not want it. Something heavy and unspoken hung in the air between us. It was my assumption that he came into my room to claim me. The body, the blood was what he wanted, was it not? He promised that the time would come when I could be wholly useful to him. Whether it was for fucking, or food, or both, I was prepared to hand myself over. I would enjoy it, of course. If it was with him, I would enjoy it immensely, every time.

“No,” I said quietly. “I’ve been waiting, Master. I’ve been… wanting.”

I lay down on the bed, flat on my back, willing my body to relax. I opened my thighs under him, put my hands on the pillow on both sides of my head, and looked at him through half-closed eyelids. Do you want me? I wanted to ask, but I said nothing. They always wanted me. Anything else would be devastating.

He leaned over me and put his hands on mine, his fingers wrapping around my wrists tightly, holding me in place. Not that I had anywhere to go. “Close your eyes,” he said, his face so close to mine I felt his breath on my cheek.

I did as instructed, and waited for him to kiss me on the mouth, but he didn’t. His lips grazed lightly along my jaw, then down the side of my throat. I stretched my neck out, exposing myself to him, expecting him to finally take what was his.

It did. At last, he bit me. As his teeth sank into my neck, the pain anticipated but so sharp that it drew a yelp from me anyway, my whole body jerking against my will, my eyes opening back up, wide and startled. I couldn’t see much besides the ceiling and the top of Marius’ head as he sucked. And sucked. And sucked. I felt his tongue sliding against my skin, lapping up the blood, and he pushed against me, his body holding me down. I heard him swallowing, gulping, and I made no attempt to stop him.

After the wave of dread has settled within me, it was promptly replaced by desire. An involuntary but welcome bodily reaction; I could use it. The feeling rose low in my gut, and spread up, up, up until it poured over my face in a warm flash of lust.

“Master,” I murmured. “Yes. Yes.”

I arched my back, bit my bottom lip with a low groan. Yes, I enjoy it, might have been what I meant to say. Or perhaps it was yes, you are allowed to do whatever you please.

He tore himself away from my neck with great effort, and when his eyes met mine, he looked wild. Blood, seemingly pitch black in the darkness of the room, stained the bottom half of his face. It dripped down his chin, onto me, onto the sheets. Marius was panting, his eyebrows furrowed and strained.

“You taste–” he murmured.

“Yes?” I reached for his face, and ran two fingers along his chin, scooping up my own blood off his skin. “How do I taste, Master? Good?”

I watched his eyes widen as I put the fingers into my mouth, and licked them clean. It simply tasted like blood to me, metallic and salty, but I knew it’d entice Master.

“Good?” He sounded exasperated. “Good does you a grave injustice. You are a feast, beloved.”

Beloved. Beloved. Yes. I hoped it was as he said.

“I am,” I confirmed. “So take me.”

I spread my legs further, but he hesitated again. Why? Why was he hesitating? How much more appealing could I make myself to satisfy his desires, how much more passionate– Or was that it? Would he prefer some resistance? He gave no indication of it, but perhaps–

“Amadeo. Look at me.” He grabbed my face with both hands, pulling me out of my worry. “Your blood– I overindulged. You will be weak in the morning.”

I giggled. Ah, was that the issue? The experience was nowhere close to exhausting. I knew exactly what to say.

“You spoiled me with a feast. It is only fair that you have yours, too. I am not afraid, I am–” I lowered my voice. “–not yet satisfied. Neither are you. Please.” He was so close to giving in; it was right there, plainly on his face. Oh, how he adored my pleas. I took a deep, shaky breath. “Satisfy me, Master.”

His lips crashed against mine, and I grew very proud of myself. It wasn’t so difficult, I thought, when it was just him, and when I loved him. I could do this so easily, for the rest of my life. I didn’t even need to float above myself – I wanted to be there, with him. Marius was not like them. He cared about me, he wanted my pleasure as well as his own, and that was what I clung to.

He didn’t bite yet, but he licked and sucked at the open wound at my throat, his tongue on my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.

He shifted his body downwards and he kept at it; his lips against my neck, lingering on my collarbone, in the middle of my sternum, down my stomach. I saw dark smudges of blood-prints that he left on me as he moved towards my groin. It should have made me anxious, his fangs so close to my dick. But all it did was arouse me.

He picked his head up to look at me. “You’ve done so well,” he told me. “You were perfect. You are perfect. Let me take care of you.”

Perfect. “Anything for y-you, Ma-master. Ah,” I stuttered, because halfway through the sentence, Marius’ mouth was firmly closed around my cock, and he was already sucking.

Master was exceptionally persistent in his desire to please me, I reckoned, and he was spectacular at it. He minded his teeth – the fangs, too – and I suspected the fact that he didn’t have to breathe was of much use to him at the moment. The wet, firm press of his tongue on me, the smoothness of the inside of his cheeks gliding against the tip of my cock, tangled up inside my abdomen.

I fought with myself not to close my eyes. It was tempting to let my other senses take charge of the situation, but the view of Master’s head raising and falling between my legs, his once-more-ocean eyes locked into mine, was far superior. He was not silent, but the sounds he made, a low, drawn-out hum that made me shiver, a deep sight of elation, I would describe as nothing short of elegant. It was not crude, nor was it rough.

As he kept sucking, he wrapped one hand around the base of my dick, and with his other hand, he reached along the inside of my thigh, then into my groin, and finally I felt his fingertips at the soft stripe of flesh between my dick and my ass. The razor-sharp points of his nails gave me pause, and it almost alarmed me; but I was certain he wouldn’t hurt me now, not like that. He did not push inside of me. Instead, he stroked the skin just in front of my entrance with the tips of his fingers, back and forth, gently but diligently, until he arrived at a spot he was looking for. As soon as he found it, he pressed at it hard, once, twice, and–

The feeling that ignited inside me was exactly what I imagined getting struck by lightning to be like: an immediate, all-encompassing flash of bright-white pleasure scorching its way from the bottom of my stomach to both the top of my head and the tips of my toes. I squirmed, half-cried, half-moaned as the sensation hauled me over the climax of satisfaction very suddenly. What… what did he just do to me? I’ve never felt–

“Oh! I– I–” Desperately, I tried to say something eloquent, but to no avail. My thighs trembled. “I don’t– Oh…”

I watched as Marius swallowed down around me, a man on a mission, the mission being, as far as I could tell, to rid me of my sanity.

After my orgasm, I became acutely aware of the blood within my body; blood rushing through my veins, blood spilling embarrassment across my cheeks, blood flushing my neck and chest, blood pounding inside my head, blood, blood, blood… As Master’s gaze slipped from mine to trace the line of my neck, lingered at the inside of my wrist, his palm at inner thigh, something curious became clear to me: that’s where the blood was. He craved it, still.

“Do it,” I murmured once I found it within myself to speak again. I raised my still-shaking hand and smacked my leg, slid it down my thigh. “Bite again. Bite here. I want it.”

I could take it, I thought. I needed to be so, so much more useful to him still. So useful I could never, ever be discarded or replaced. When he looked up at me and slowly let me out of his mouth, the air felt cold on my sweat-damp skin.

“Are you–”

“Bite me,” I insisted. “Until you are satisfied. Bite.”

He grabbed my thigh with both hands, his nails almost piercing through my taunt skin, and as he held me still, he bent down to sink his teeth into my flesh. It was much like the neck bite – a sharp pang of pain that simmered down and boiled over into a pulsing kind of pleasure.

When he started sucking, the blood this time, I let my head fall back onto the pillow; I couldn’t force my body into any other position that complete surrender. Perhaps the weakness came from the gradual blood loss, but I felt safe within the heaviness of it.

I wanted to reciprocate, but he would not allow it.

“Do not be ludicrous,” he told me. “You have satisfied me completely. Rest now.”

I had no choice but to obey.

The next morning, I woke up to a sound of something metal being loudly placed on a table beside my bed. I opened my eyes, then immediately squinted at the sun, but I could tell that it was Matteo standing by my bed.

He was looking at something on the pillow, right next to my face. “Good morning, Amadeo,” he said. “How fare you?”

How indeed? Slightly weakened, perhaps, a hint of dizziness buzzing at the back of my skull, exactly as Master warned it would be. Other than that, I felt remarkable.

Matteo still wasn’t looking at me, so I glanced to the side, following his gaze to a deep, dark stain on my pillow. The sheets were already red, but alas, they were not so perfectly blood-coloured as to not show any traces of it.

I sat up, and carefully touched the side of my neck. My fingertips grazed against a small patch of dried blood, but when I pressed harder, there was nothing but smooth, unharmed skin underneath. Ah. That was a most interesting turn of events. In one, swift movement, I tore the cover off myself, curious as to what I’d find – and there it was, a dark smudge on the sheet between my legs, blood hardened over the perfectly unpunctured flesh on the inside of my thighs.

Matteo looked over my shoulder and gasped loudly, clearly not as amused as I was. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him crossing himself. A man of God, was he? Well, so was I. God’s beloved.

“He fed,” Matteo said. “I hoped he– You didn’t drink his, did you?”

I furrowed my brows. “Drink his what?”

“His blood!”

I tilted my head to the side, still confused. “No? Why would I drink his–” I started, and suddenly it hit me. “Oh.”

So that was how it happened, then? Was that what it would take for me to share Marius’ monstrous gift? Or perhaps it was only one of the requirements. The matter is complex, he told me whenever I tried to broach the subject. How did Matteo know this? When I asked him about Master’s eating habits on the ship, did he already know? He must have.

“Shit,” Matteo muttered under his breath, and as soon as he did, he looked appalled at himself for the profanity. He sighed heavily. “I assumed– But he doesn’t want you to– Oh, he cannot know I disclosed that.”

I didn’t like being put into a situation that required hiding anything from Marius. But Matteo was so panicked, and I wanted to soothe his nerves… Surely I could simply not bring it up to Marius, which would not be a lie either way.

“Do not worry. I won’t mention it,” I said. “But I don’t appreciate being put into a position where I must–”

“Not mentioning it is not enough,” he cut me off. “You cannot think about it, not even in passing. If you do, he will know.” His breathing quickened, his face became flushed-pink; looking at him, I thought my understanding of Marius’ condition deepened. To display so much emotion was indisputably endearing of Matteo. It seemed like he would be warm to touch, were I to reach out to him.

What was he talking about? I tried my best to focus.

“I don’t– What does that mean?” I laughed, because were his words not highly amusing? Yes, I felt that Master knew me on a deep, intimate level that no other ever has… but that was no magical mind-reading. That was love!

Matteo turned pale – sickly pale, almost green in the face – and for a moment I thought he might actually vomit. But he just took a deep, painfully slow breath, and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he looked like he might cry instead.

“He will drain me dry,” he whispered in horror. “God. My family, they are waiting for– I swore–”

I got off the bed, and walked up to him. “Breathe. I want to understand,” I said. “I want to help.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” He shook his head. “You might not even be able to– But what choice do I have? You’re clever, you’ve made it this far. Across an entire ocean! So I could–”

“Matteo…” Despite his gaze consistently fixed on my face, it seemed that he was talking to himself more than he was talking to me, and I needed him to be clearer.

He took a deep breath. “Marius can see into your mind. Not just yours, everyone’s. And if you think about what I’ve revealed to you today, he will know,” he said, and he nodded solemnly. “It is part of his… gift.”

I was not convinced, but I didn’t dare laugh anymore. If it were true, then… “I– I would not wish to cause you any trouble,” I said gingerly, and paused before I spoke again. “But I’m not sure if I can stop myself from thinking.”

Even now, I was thinking about not thinking; how could I keep this, or anything else, a secret? Maybe Matteo was exaggerating. Maybe he could simply not grasp Master’s condition, and he filled in the gaps with the impossible.

Still, a seed of doubt was planted inside me. What if it was true?

“You can!" he said. “You could, I think. You just need to– You need to close it off.”

“Close it off?”

He nodded again, and took a step back. “There should be no distractions while I explain.”

I just stood there, wondering what in the world I got myself involved with. Was he out of his mind? Was I out of my mind? Was Marius out of his mind? Were we all out of our minds?

“Close your eyes,” he told me. I did as he said, but not without delay. “Think of a place. One that you know well.”

A place I knew well? I continued to struggle with the idea. “Um... A building? A house?” I questioned, scrunching up my nose in an attempt to focus.

“Could be. Just a place you know well. A route you would never be lost at.”

I scoffed. What place would that be? I scarcely remembered my childhood home. The brothel, I knew too painfully well. And the palazzo, I hardly explored at all.

But there was something else. Not a physical place, but one within my thoughts, the very same one that I retreated to whenever I was not particularly interested in what was happening to my body. That place was a huge wooden hut where the sun was always just warm enough and birds always sang overhead. I reckoned it could be of use now. For the sole purpose of whatever Matteo was trying to teach me.

“Can you see it?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Now think about me.”

I chuckled. “I am.”

“Take this morning, take our conversation, what I’ve told you about Master, including this moment. And pack in all into an item.”

“An item?”

“Yes. One that would stand out to you. Or one that– that reminds you of me. A huge red book or a bright blue plate. Something unusual.”

I could imagine a blue plate well enough, so I tried to somehow stuff the entire morning and the knowledge that it brought into it. “And now?” I said, even though I was quite sure I was making a complete fool of myself.

“Take the item and put it away. Shove it into a drawer. Leave the room and close the door.”

The fact that I could follow what he was saying unnerved me. This should be nonsensical, shouldn’t it? Yet I visualised it, clear as day, my own hands putting the plate away, pushing the drawer closed, my feet moving as I walked back out of the room and slammed the door shut.

The uncomfortable truth dawned on me steadily. My hut was beautiful, of course, but deep inside it, up a flight of wooden stairs, it contained a maze of long, winding hallways that led to various rooms. Most of them were locked and ought to never be opened; for a good reason. A chill ran down my spine at the thought of retrieving the keys. I knew what was inside anyway: me. Every time, it was me laying on the bed. Me once, me twice, me thrice, me a hundred different times. A hundred different men with a fistful of my hair in their closed fist, one for each room.

I forced my eyes open again, too shaken by the strange realisation to concentrate on Matteo’s little game. I stretched my arms out and looked at my hands, my real hands, my real hands hovering over the real, marble flooring inside my real room inside the real, beautiful palazzo. That was better. I blinked quickly to stop myself from tearing up.

“What happened?” asked Matteo. He looked worried. “Was it too difficult? I apologise, I just… Perhaps this is the only way–”

“I did it,” I assured him. “Now tell me why I did it.”

“When you talk to Master, lock it away. The room, the drawer, all of it. Bury it. He cannot enter if you won’t let him. With time, it will become easier.”

“Ah.” I supposed that made sense. I supposed I have, devastatingly, done this before. “I shall try.” It was the best I could promise, and he must have known it.

When he started to turn around, I called after him. “Wait! Where did you learn this?”

It couldn’t have been from Marius, could it?

He smiled fondly. “From my father,” he said. “When he was still…”

“Alive?” I proposed sheepishly.

He chuckled. “Sane.”

“Oh.”

After that, he was gone.

It was only when he left the room that I finally looked at the table next to the bed and realised that the sound that woke me up – metal clinking against wood – was a silver tray full of strawberries.

I shall ensure a consistent supply.

I sat down to eat, and I thought about Marius lovingly sending me fruit I enjoyed most, but I also thought of locked doors and forever-looping hallways.

Upon Master’s return, I did my best to follow Matteo’s instructions. I briefly considered confessing to everything, but then I remembered his words. He will drain me dry. I was unsure whether Marius was capable of that towards Matteo, but I could not rule it out, and I did not wish to have his blood on my hands. Him, I liked.

Marius seemed unbothered or oblivious to what I was doing, which meant that I was either succeeding spectacularly or Matteo was simply insane.

But not much later, Master revealed his mind-seeing abilities to me by himself, and he gave no indication of being aware that I possessed any prior knowledge of the fact. Was a flimsy thought-door enough to keep him out of that part of my head or did he simply chose to let me believe so, because he realised he could use it to his own advantage?

Chapter Text

It was not long before Master introduced me into Venetian society.

The first time I accompanied Marius to one of the gatherings, he dressed me in red. It was a deep, dark red that saturated the fabric of my embroidered hose and as well as the thick, sturdy vest. He fixed a wide, stylish hat onto my head, too; my curls laid perfectly once it was placed, to make me look as stylish or perhaps as Venetian as possible.

As soon as we entered the lavishly decorated room, everyone turned to me. Indeed, it must have been peculiar to see me by Marius’ side: a brown, wide-eyed boy dressed in his Master’s best, holding onto Master's sleeve not to lose him in the crowd. Not that Marius was easy to lose: taller and whiter than most, he usually pulled everyone’s gaze straight to himself… Usually, just not that time. That time, the first time they saw me with him, they wouldn’t stop leering at me.

Their stares lingered on my mouth, slid down my neck, clung to my hands, mapped out the shape of my body. It was a different kind of desire, not immediate, and wholly not sexual, either. Admiration that soured into superiority before it even reached my eyes. They evaluated me in a few short seconds, and I realised that anything I said or did might improve their idea of me, but never form it.

When they spoke to me, their words could be contained within a few distinct topics, which meant I knew how to respond. Master prepared me for my role well: he took care of me, we've practised, he made sure I knew the lines.

Thank you, that is most kind of you to say. I do enjoy Venice tremendously. Especially the food, naturally. Nowhere else have I ever tasted such splendour.

Your home is extraordinarily beautiful, Mister This and That. It evokes the feeling of tasteful opulence, if I may say so.

Who is the author of this painting? It has truly captured my attention.

It has always been a deep, unspoken desire of mine to visit Italia, and Master has granted it most handsomely. I cannot fathom a place more breathtaking nor a man more generous.

The phrasing was precise and predetermined, the pronunciation of each word subjected to Marius’ scrutiny until the syllables flowed perfectly. The simple truth of the matter was that learning Venetian made me a person capable of conversation, and once I gained a voice, I wished to use it frequently. So I never approached the learning with anything less than great enthusiasm.

After a few predictable exchanges with women in beautiful dresses and men that offered me alcohol I didn’t dare accept, I was met with some rather unforeseeable conversational circumstances.

“It is apparent that Marius spared no expense on civilising you,” said an ageing but graceful-looking man with a head full of white-brown hair and a handsome if carved by time face. “That he would waste his resources on a heathen is, of course, beyond me. But he did succeed, I suppose.”

I smiled politely. Heathen, was it? The man’s name was Antonio de Benetto, I recalled from Master’s quiet introduction at the beginning of the party. A highly regarded musician of sorts, and a member of the city’s governing council, so a man of importance. Alas, it appeared that his mind was already made up.

“Thank you, Mister de Benetto,” I said with a slight bow. The corners of his mouth twitched in disgust. Did he think one insult would unravel me? I could have laughed, but I attempted to hold onto the script instead. “That is most kind of you to say,” I added. “I do enjoy Venice tremendously. Especially the–”

“Please,” he cut me off with a contemptuous chuckle. “Pretty words, but do you understand even one of them? I reckon you are merely repeating what you've been taught. An entertaining trick, were you not so obvious about it.”

I considered what to say. “I understand every word I speak,” I told him. “And I do not take your compliments on my disposition lightly, I assure you. I worked tirelessly to improve myself, and I continue to do so. There is no trick.”

He sneered. “Is that so? And what is the difference, pray tell, between the exotic parrot bird he brought back last time and you?”

He does not fuck the parrot, I thought. Otherwise, I would leave it up to your colourful imagination. But it would be indecorous of me to say.

I shrugged. “No difference, I suppose.” I did not wish to argue with him. Maybe I was the new, exotic bird on Master’s shoulder. And maybe that suited me just fine. De Benetto had no idea just how awful the alternative was.

An ugly vein pulsed at the side of Antonio’s temple. His face grew red, and redder, and redder by the minute. I looked around and managed to lock eyes with Marius from across the room. Help, I mouthed at him, hoping that he’d intervene.

De Benetto grabbed me by the wrist, his hot, clammy fingers digging into my skin. I winced but did not attempt to free myself.

“Such a pathetic display,” he murmured. “You think you are clever, don’t you? You think you can bat your infidel little eyes and have them convinced you are not just another filthy, cow-fucking–”

Marius cleared his throat loudly. “Gentlemen. Is there an issue?” he asked.

Antonio let go of my wrist, and as I rubbed it with my other hand, I realised they were both looking at me expectantly.

“There is not,” I said. “Mister de Benetto was just complimenting my vocabulary. I do hope that one day, it can be as… extravagant as his.”

It seemed that Antonio was about to speak, but before he could, Master whispered something very quietly to him. De Benetto’s red face paled instantly. He closed his mouth, and walked away without a word.

“What did you tell him?” I asked, even though I knew Marius wouldn’t disclose it.

“Irrelevant.” He put his hand on my shoulder, and the physical contact made me jump; I was on edge.

I scoffed under my breath. “He called me a heathen,” I said with a grimace. “An infidel. A filthy cow-fucker. He… hates me. I just don’t know why. I did everything as you taught me.”

I knew that I shouldn’t let it disturb me. One man that wished ill will on me shouldn’t matter, because there were many other men that welcomed me warmly. But as I repeated what he said about me, I fell into pointless self-pity. I’ve been called worse, yes, but I’ve naively hoped to gather the approval of not most but all of them. Anything else was disappointing.

“Amadeo.” Suddenly, Marius was leaning over me. “Amadeo, you’re crying.”

I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand, and found it wet.

“I apologise,” I said, my voice weirdly choked up, drifting somewhere far away. Why was my voice drifting far away?

“It was not your fault. Sometimes it is best to disregard the impolite.”

I heard him say the words; but he was far, too. I saw him touch me, saw him take my hand, but physically, I felt nothing. Was I still crying? Oh, I was so stupid. Don’t be pathetic, I needed to remind myself. The rule was clear and simple, and I failed to follow it.

“Let us take in some fresh air now.” Master spoke again, a hint of care in his voice. “Amadeo?”

I nodded. Yes. That sounded nice.

As he guided me out of the building, the entire hall contracted to a blur of dreary faces and colourful clothes, a fog of polite laughter and strong perfume. What if they all despised me, and Antonio de Benetto was the only one honest enough to speak it? How could Master bear it with such grace, I wondered? How could he bear knowing the unspoken, ugliest truths of their minds laid wide open in front of him?

You are just another filthy–

Was I? I looked down at my hands to check, and noticed a patch of dark grass under me – we were already outside. The hum of the party quietened to almost nothing. Half-drowned light bounced off the white walls to my left. To my right, there was no light and an emerald field of tall grass.

Marius turned me around so that I stood with my back to the building, then crouched down in front of me. He shouldn't be doing that, for it was an unnecessary strain for the clothes. He would ruin his garments this way. I remembered him reprimanding me about it earlier.

I watched his mouth move, but no words reached me. I squinted at him, trying to understand. It was late evening, and I should have felt a cool breeze, at the very least, but I felt nothing. How strange.

Focus.

This time, I did hear his voice, clear and loud in my head, but his lips did not move. I blinked, perplexed.

You are out, Amadeo. I need you to return to me. Can you do that?

His mouth remained closed, but he was speaking. He was speaking right into my mind! Out? What did being out mean?

Focus.

Focus how? Focus on what?

Amadeo! Focus!

I shut my eyes, and took a deep breath. Right, I thought, focus, focus, focus. Focus on what was real and tangible, I presumed. The air couldn’t be warm, that was wrong, that was a lie and a distraction. It ought to be chilly. I should feel it, I should force myself to feel it. As soon as I did, the cold crisped at my cheeks. Perhaps it was not very windy, but the air did not stand still; it moved against me, caressed the exposed skin of my neck, dried the sweat off my forehead.

I sat down on the grass – it was damp with dew and soft under me. I dug my fingers into the wet soil, felt it imbed itself under my nails. Good. That was something real to hold onto, something real to focus on. The ground was real.

I opened my eyes back up, and saw the terrible blur lifting. Master became clear, his eyes huge and fixed on me. So Marius was real, too. Intimidated by the intensity of his stare, I looked down at my soil-covered hands.

“Now I'm filthy,” I said absentmindedly. “But I wasn’t before.”

“Heavens.” Marius exhaled slowly. He seemed relieved. “Perhaps it was too soon.”

“I have never been to a party before,” I said. “I'm sorry, Master. I– Yes, I'm well now. I did not mean to be difficult.”

Marius stood up and held out a hand to me. “You are anything but difficult, dearest. Let me offer a distraction. Take my hand.”

I did, and he pulled me up from the ground, then wrapped his other hand around my back before I had time to balance myself properly. I leaned on him, chest to chest, and stepped on his foot as I tried to reorient myself.

“I'm so–”

“Shh.” He muttered, clearly unbothered.

He held me firmly, one hand on my waist, the other joined with my own outstretched arm, and he spun us around. The quick movement drew a gasp out of me, and I stepped on his toes again, still nothing but an amused smile on his face.

When he began to sway us to the sides, it really dawned me: we were dancing, weren't we? We were really doing it! He was really allowing me the honour of–

“You are very loud,” he said. I tilted my head, confused. “Your thoughts. Is your fascinating little mind ever not occupied with worry, beloved?”

He held me tighter, then dipped me low to the ground as I scrambled to comprehend what he was talking about. The spinning was not helping; or maybe it was, because I struggled to hold onto the depressing musings that held my attention me just a few moments earlier.

“Is anyone’s?” I asked. I believed one had to be born into exceptionally charitable circumstances to afford peace of mind. It would never be granted to me, I suspected.

“Ah. If the world were to end tomorrow, would dancing without worry not be an optimal use of your time?”

He was right; I concerned myself with the most inconsequential of things. I dug into affairs that offered no satisfying answer or ending, and I cared about the opinion of those who should not matter. He offered what I truly needed at the time – a moment of care-free joy. I took it. And I kept taking it.

Quite predictably, the world did not end the next day. Nor the day after that.

In the following months, I kept attending the gatherings with Marius, and each time I went, I became more comfortable among the crowd. Upon familiarising myself with Master’s extensive collection of literature and art, I acquired a rather impressive ability to discuss both Latin and Italian works with any willing person. Master forbade me from sharing my interpretation of any lyric unprompted; I was to wait, and mould my view to each conversation. I did so without complaint.

Yes, that is such an astute observation, and it is a pleasure to expand my understanding of the matter with you.

I have never considered this truth, yet you have touched the very heart of the issue, Mister This and That.

It surely is as you say, and I have yet to hear a more brilliant interpretation of the verse.

It was absurd just how much power words held; how accepted I could become among the same people that terrified me at first glance. They loved the flattery, they blushed at the compliments, they patted the top of my hand affectionately, they praised my manners. I smiled, and each evening, I purposefully butchered one Italian phrase just to give someone an opportunity to correct me, then bask in my enthusiastic gratitude.

Everyone is quite fond of you, Marius told me, and I believed him, because I’ve grown fond of many Venetians as well. It was on account of his guidance and encouragement that I managed myself so well.

De Benetto did not utter one word in my direction for a long time – he was not always there alongside the others, and when he was, he didn’t acknowledge my presence.

Life with Master was heaven. Under his patient eye, I learned and I perfected myself: I read, wrote, and sometimes even painted or sang. Marius was a great patron of the arts, and so I partook in whatever he wished to see me engage in. He took me to bed often, yet I always craved for more. Whenever he fed on me, I’d always find a tray of strawberries by my bedside the next morning. He loved me, I concluded, because he thought of me and my well-being. With time, his tastes became quite obvious to me, and I did my best to fulfil them.

Naturally, there were days or weeks that he needed to spend away from me – taking care of urgent matters elsewhere, he explained – but he always came back to me, and while he was gone, I bettered myself further.

He spared no expense when it came to me. I could have any garment I wanted, any piece of jewellery I liked would be gifted to me, there was not a meal that Master would not arrange to be prepared for my enjoyment.

One memorable evening, Marius chose quite an incongruous set of clothing for me to wear to a party. Once I had put on the rich, deep-purple set of a textured, gold-threaded dublet with elaborate panning on the sleeves as well as cannions and hose to match, Master presented me with a curious piece he must have purchased back in Delhi: an abrawan-fine Jama.

Once put on top of the Venetian set, the bizarre gossamer quality of the Jama allowed for the purple and gold to shine through it. The Jama cinched at my waist, long, delicate material gathering at my hips and falling downwards with every step I took.

I felt uneasy in it. I’d never seen a version of it that was so thin and transparent. Did Marius have it custom-made or was my comprehension of the foreign fashion limited to the more well-worn and simpler Jamas on the brothel’s clientele? Wearing it more than a year after my foot has last touched Delhi soil felt like draping myself in a lie everyone could see through. The attention I knew the garment would invite filled me with dread, but of course, to please Master, I’d wear anything of his choosing. Did he think my appearance was becoming dull an uninteresting among the Venetians, and this could remedy the matter?

If so, he was correct. At the party, all eyes turned to me once more, and all anyone wanted to discuss was the Jama. Or the coat, as they called it. For a while, Marius stayed by my side, and he graciously answered questions about exotic Hindustan fabrics I was not familiar with. Perhaps he was making sure I understood what kind of conversation I was to keep for the rest of the evening.

When he did leave, he came back with wine. He handed me one glass, then another, and I kept drinking, because it came from his hands. The alcohol did not help – it made me dizzy and restless, but Marius continued to offer more.

“So that is the formalwear of your homeland? Fascinating,” some man said to me, and when I looked at him, I could hardly make out his features.

Was I drunk? Why was Marius handing me another glass? Why did I drink it immediately?

I forced a smile. Focus. What was this man talking about? My homeland? The cobblestoned streets of Venice never felt as alien as I anticipated them to; I drew them up in my mind long before seeing them from the ship, and they became a constant that I feared losing. If my home lied with Marius, and it did, then Venice had to be my homeland.

Master taught me about Italy’s greatest poets and artists; I knew Petrarch and I discussed Dante, and I admired Duccio’s skill. But I, and this was quite distressing to admit, especially in a moment that had so many people interrogating me about my heritage, knew nothing of Hindustan’s art. How could I when the only paintings I recalled were long, thick streaks of paint on the side of the shabby houses down the street? And the only poetry I was afforded to read was Nimit’s slanted, disjointed letters put into that silly little journal. Among them, the verse I was to never be rid of.

golden petals rise

upon the storm’s teary eye

Nimit was no master of poetry, I supposed, but there were none before him that wrote anything for me, and that had to count for something. If he was alive, did he think about me, too? Did he regret the hope he gave me? I wondered what he'd think of me now, so perfectly civilised, well-fed and precious-threaded. Would he find the attire beautiful or appalling? Would he find this version of me just as enticing as the barefoot boy soaking in the dirty tub? Would it bother me if he did not?

I saw golden petals opening, a bud of pure gold in the middle, a gilded stem rising from the ground. I felt the soil crunching under my nails.

“Amadeo?”

I was doing it again: drifting through conversations, lost in my own thoughts.

“Yes,” I said, blinking rapidly. I had no idea what I was agreeing with. “Yes. Certainly. Yes.”

The man seemed confused.

Soon after, Marius took me to an empty corner of the hall.

“Are you well?” he asked, his gaze soft and inquiring.

Did he genuinely not know? Didn’t he care enough to see for himself? My mind felt heavy and swollen inside my skull; maybe that’s why. Maybe it was too difficult to see into me at this disconnected state.

“Could we… get some fresh air, please? Just as we did the first time?” I asked. “I feel… faint.”

Marius was not as accommodating as I hoped. Understandably so – I should have learned by now.

“That will not be necessary,” he said. “Drink.” And just like that, he was handing me more wine. Where did it even come from?

I didn’t take the glass. “Thank you, Master.” I hesitated. The idea of more alcohol didn’t seem like a particularly good one. “But I think– Perhaps I've had enough. Too much, even, my thoughts are all tangled and I feel–”

“Drink,” he insisted. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

I obeyed. As I drank, attempting to down the liquid in as few gulps as possible, I was struck by the aftertaste. There was something unusual about it, sweet but metallic, as if somebody dropped a coin into the liquid. I swished the wine around, but nothing clicked against the glass. No coin, then.

“Good.” Marius brushed a loose curl behind my ear. “You must understand something important, Amadeo. Are you listening?” I nodded; his face came in and out of focus as I did, but I said nothing about it. “You cannot make a habit of leaving the scene whenever you feel overwhelmed. It’s been long enough, you mustn't rely on me for comfort.”

I felt myself grow embarrassed. “Of course,” I said quickly. “Yes, of course. I apologise. I– I feel better now. Let us re-join the party.”

That was a lie, but I did my best to believe it. I grit my teeth and held onto the hem of the Jama, the delicate fabric stretching between my fingers. That helped, compelled me to focus onwhat was real.

“Come with me,” said Marius. At first I thought he might have taken pity on me and we would soon be dancing outside, but that was not the case.

He guided me out of the room, past the talking and laughing, and up a broad staircase. I didn’t know where we were heading or why we left the main area of the gathering after he made his point about me facing whatever discomfort I experienced, but I followed without question.

We walked along a cold, marbled corridor; not unlike home, I reckoned. Candelabras lined the walls – their light faded into one long, continuous glow before my swaying vision. It seemed that we walked for a very long time, or that the steps I was taking were much too short. At one point, I realised that Master was holding me upright, his hand on my chest, the side of his hip pressed into the side of mine. I couldn’t remember ever being so light-headed before.

“I'm sorry, Master,” I repeated. My voice sounded as if it was coming from underwater. “It must be the wine. I just feel so–” I tried to explain, but Marius shushed me.

“I know,” he said. “I know, yes. Everything is exactly as it ought to be.”

What did that mean? Where were we going? Incoherent, half-flustered thoughts buzzed inside my head. I let him guide me forward, unsure what else to do.

Finally, after an eternity of walking, we stood before a hefty, two-winged door. When Marius pushed them open, they revealed a large, dimly-lit room. Without a doubt, the centrepiece was a massive bed; cream-and-gold sheets draped over a strong, intricately sculpted frame. I hardly registered the rest of the decor over the irrefutable fact that on the edge of that bed, sat Antonio de Benetto.

I furrowed my brows, trying to make sense of the situation. Was that de Benetto’s bedroom? Was that de Benetto’s party we were attending? Why would Marius being me here? I attempted to take a step back, but Master didn’t let me. He gently nudged me forward, but since I was looking straight ahead instead of down at my feet, I tripped over the threshold and would have fallen if it wasn't for Marius.

“Ah, careful,” he said lightly.

Always catching me, wasn’t he? He wouldn’t hurt me, and he wouldn’t let me be hurt, I told myself.

He closed the door behind us. My head was spinning. Why were we there?

“Antonio wishes to speak with you,” announced Marius. “To apologise.”

I let myself relax at his words. Of course, Master remembered that de Benetto spoke rudely upon our first meeting, and so he sought justice in my name. That sounded right. I remembered the ship, the bleeding-out sailor limp on the deck. I glanced at Marius knowingly. Would Antonio meet the same fate? Would I be allowed to watch as it happened? Did he offer so much wine, because he suspected I could not handle it otherwise?

“It is as Marius says,” confirmed de Benetto. He bent forward, as if reaching for me from the bed, but I stayed in place. “You’ve been nothing but polite, and in turn, I acted most egregiously towards you. My behaviour, I am ashamed to admit, has been dictated by desire.”

I paused. “Desire?”

“I am afraid so. I shall tell you all about it. Come closer.”

I looked at Marius, but he appeared indifferent to the suggestion. I didn’t want to come closer. Why wasn’t Master stepping in?

“No need to dwell on it,” I said after a moment of silence. “A simple misunderstanding. All is forgiven.”

I laughed uncomfortably, and tried to take a step back again. Again, I found that Master lingered motionlessly behind me, and he did not flinch even when I stepped over his feet in an attempt to retreat from the room.

Marius sighed heavily. “No.” He sounded irritated. “You cannot simply accept any and all apologies,” he said. “Without proper explanation, without retribution, you forgive?!”

I grew tense once more. So this was some sort of test, then, and I was failing miserably. In that case, what was the correct response? As I’ve come to learn, politeness was crucial; yet being too polite meant showing weakness. I struggled to arrive at what Master expected of me.

I swallowed. What on Earth was going on? “Um. Forgiveness implies an offense,” I tried, glancing at Marius; the corners of his mouth turned upwards. Encouraged, I continued, “your words… did not occupy enough of my attention to cause one.”

Master chuckled, and Antonio frowned. Did I do well? Was I succeeding now? Could I pass the test after all?

“The whelp mouthing off is not what we agreed upon!” scoffed de Benetto.

I was perfectly disoriented. Was it a test or not? Was I supposed to forgive or not?

Marius crouched in front of me.

You did well, Amadeo, he said without moving his lips. He was thinking into my mind again. But the matter is delicate. You ought to do what he says now. Do you understand?

So I had to go and listen to whatever apology that man had prepared? Why did it matter? Why couldn’t we just leave?

“Amadeo,” Master said out loud. It sounded like a warning.

“Very well.” I turned around and walked to the bed with the sole intention of ending this ridiculous conversation. “What is it that you wish to tell me?”

De Benetto thought for a moment, then said, “Take off your clothes.”

I stared at him, unsure whether this was some form of jest, and I was meant to laugh, or he was serious. No. Surely not– I looked at Master, quite convinced he would interfere at any second now. He wouldn’t let me be treated in this way, would he? He cared about me! He’s killed for less!

Yet Marius did not seem surprised by the turn of events. Perhaps it was yet another evaluation of my character? Master said to obey… But I didn’t want to. I felt sick; like I might wine-vomit all over the floor.

“I don’t think I understand–”

“Dear Lord!” Antonio took me by the wrist. “You’ve made yourself clear, boy. Repentance is of no use to you. Take off your clothes.”

He grabbed the edge of my dublet, and pulled at it roughly. I took a step back, stumbling over my own feet, but he held me so tightly I wasn’t able to free my wrist from his grasp. I looked at Marius. Why is this happening, I thought desperately, the sailors, they became dinner for way less. For looking at me wrong. For speaking to me wrong! Master stared right back at me, but he did not move, and his face was completely blank.

Was I going insane?

It is in my nature to protect my beloved. To eliminate any threat against him. Were these not his own words? I screamed them back at him in my head.

Protect me, then! Protect me! Why aren’t you doing anything?

“Master!” I shouted, out loud this time. Marius did not even blink. “I want to go home! Take me home!”

Where is your nature now?! Protect me!

Using all the strength I had left, I yanked my hand away from de Benetto. My heart was in my throat, and I worried I may throw it up if I was not careful. I turned around, ready to run, but inexplicably found myself unable to move.

Do as he says, Master’s voice echoed inside my panicked mind. I tried to shake my head, but couldn’t. Stop embarrassing me, and I shall return your body to you.

What? Marius was doing that, keeping me immobile? But why?

Keep it, I thought wryly. Keep my body. I don’t want it.

Instantly, an invisible hand wrapped around my throat, making it impossible to take a breath. I struggled against it, choking on nothing, my knees buckling under me, but I was not allowed to fall over, either.

Would he kill me? Would he really suffocate me right there? Me, his beautiful little dove? His perfect pupil? His– His– His– Tears stung the corners of my eyes.

Letting it happen would be a tragedy. After everything I’ve endured to earn his love– No, I thought, I would not die!

No other way than through, was there? I always knew, deep down, that there was a price to paradise. So be it.

So be it, so be it, so be it. Grit your teeth, make it through.

I will do it, I thought. I will fuck him for you, Master.

My senses returned to me at once. I could move, I could breathe, and so I looked away from Marius and to Antonio. You’ve survived worse, I told myself. He’s not even that ugly.

Antonio started to get up from the bed, so I gestured for him to sit back down, my hand trembling as I did so. How much did he know of what he could not hear? Likely not much; it did not seem that he was aware of Master’s abilities. So he wanted to take me, then, scared, crying, drunk? Pathetic.

“Sit,” I murmured. “I like these clothes, let us not ruin them,” I said flatly, my best attempt at drowning out the reality of what I was doing.

I shrugged off the Jama. I unbuttoned my dublet. Then the shirt underneath. Then… well, I discarded everything except for the jewellery. I kept glancing towards Marius, expecting him to put a stop to everything, and rip de Benetto’s throat out, but he said nothing, did nothing. He was looking at me, yes; but nothing else. I began to wonder if I hallucinated his presence in the room, because Antonio did not seem to notice him at all.

“Put the coat back on,” said Antonio. “Only the coat.”

I did as he said, the thin muslin caressing my skin. Nothing felt real; not the fabric on my body, not the plush rug under my feet, not Antonio’s too-warm, clumsy hands grabbing at my hip, not the feeling of the sheets rubbing against me as he lied me down and got on top of me.

If I learned one crucial, indisputable thing from my time at the brothel, it was that struggling took way too much effort. Letting it happen was easier: my limbs falling at my sides, my lips relaxed and half-open, my muscles limp in the way that kept me whole. He was kissing me, touching me, but I felt myself drifting above the scene, standing next to the bed. It did look pitiful from the side, I reckoned, the way he was holding onto me, squeezing at my flesh. He was going bald, too, I noticed as I stared at the back of his stupid head; it wouldn’t be long now. It wouldn’t be long until he’s much uglier than right now, and I would still be beautiful once that day came. I grinned at my own fucked body, looked myself right in the absent eye.

I thought about the long, narrow corridor back at the brothel; it smelled of damp wood and old sweat, my bare feet slipping on the rotten floorboards as I walked to meet my fate. And that very evening, my heeled shoes clicking against the marbled corridor, the smell of wine and fresh linen surrounding me. Perhaps the journey was different, but the destination? Me on my back, me on the bed, unwelcome hands on my body, unwelcome hands inside my body… Unwelcome but permitted, were they not? Antonio was speaking, his lips moving, but I didn’t hear a word over the hum of my own blood. I forced out a moan, even though I felt nothing: no pleasure and no pain, either. I was suspended in a black cloud of nothingness, emptiness caressing me from every side.

My eyes were fixed on the rich canopy draped over the bed, then on the cracked, deteriorating wooden beams of the familiar, out-of-place ceiling. Where was I? Right here? Back there? Every time he thrust into me, my vision shook, yet my body registered no physical sensation from it. I remembered to groan again, and it sounded so empty. He tried to kiss me, but ended up unable to do two things at the same time. His breath smelled like alcohol; or maybe that was my breath?

A drop of sweat ran down his face and splashed onto my cheek. The feeling of it dripping down my own neck nauseated me more than the fucking itself.

Why wasn’t he done yet? I was starting to come back down, and that was quite an uncomfortable feeling. I let it go on for long enough, surely. To remedy the situation, I wrapped my legs tightly around his hips, and my arms around his back, pushing him closer, deeper into me. I forced myself to tense every muscle all at once. Which meant I felt the pressure at once, too – his cock trapped inside my suddenly resisting body. A long groan escaped out his lips, and then, just as I hoped, barely three uncomfortable thrusts later, a feeling of warmth spilled within me as he came. Finally. It stung when he pulled out. My own semi-hard dick lay against my stomach; I hoped he would not wish to return the favour.

“God. I thought he was exaggerating,” Antonio mumbled into my shoulder, his whole sticky form collapsed onto me. He wasn’t that heavy; and he smelled better than what I was used to, I supposed. I made no attempt to push him off. “When he said you’ve got a skill, oh I could have never guessed just how extraordinary–”

I hummed in agreement, but I did not care to listen to whatever he had to say. Was I not a heathen anymore, I wondered? Or was I more of a heathen for what I’ve allowed to happen? It still didn’t hurt.

“Get out,” said Marius abruptly. I forgot he was even in the room; I figured it might have been my imagination. But Antonio’s head snapped to the side as well, so he must have heard it too. “Get out of the room.”

De Benetto giggled, his body shaking against mine. “You get out,” he said. “This is my room, and we are not yet done–”

I frowned. I wanted to be done.

“You are.” Master sounded calm; not irritated, not angry, not mad. Calm. “You are done, and you shall leave the room promptly. We will discuss our agreement at a later date.”

Their agreement?

With that, Antonio picked himself off of me, and off the bed. Then there was a quiet shuffling of clothes as he presumably put his own back on. No other words were exchanged or I did not notice if they were.

I lay on the bed, my body limp and heavy. I shut my eyes and counted my breaths. One. Two. Three. Steps. The door opened. Four. The door closed. Five. Five– Panic bubbled inside me. What came after five? Six. And then? Seven. Very well.

The room fell silent, and a fresh wave of nausea and dizziness hit me, but I didn’t dare move. I lay there, naked, fucked, filled, defiled, and that was not new. That would never be new, I thought, and it would also never be old.

Why? Why?

W-h-y?

I couldn’t figure it out. I knew why Owner did what he did – money. I was sold, for money, and that was easy to grasp. But why would Master allow this to happen? He was already wealthy. Already powerful. And I was already compliant. It was entirely nonsensical! And he was there, the whole time! Watching!

I did not hear him walking, but suddenly Marius was on the bed, leaning over me, his face right in front of mine. I looked at him, and he seemed curious. Not worried. Not even a little bit worried.

Was he serious?

Out of nowhere, I started to laugh.

“You hand me over. You supervise the transaction.” I was startled by the tone of my own voice; it was low, accusatory, coming from the back of my throat. I chuckled. “Why? Are you all-powerful, Master? You are! Then why?”

Were the sailors always destined to be nothing more than an answer to a midnight craving? Was it ever even about me? Did I fail his test? Did I pass? I certainly did not feel very victorious.

“There are many things you cannot yet know nor understand,” he said, and so he might have as well said nothing at all.

Of course! Oh, I was too stupid to possibly understand! So stupid, perhaps, that my only skill worth considering was how well I fucked.

“What I do thou knowest not now; but thou shalt understand hereafter,” I mumbled with mock-grandeur. It was just days earlier that I studied that passage in the Bible. On his explicit wish, no less. “Mhm. As thou knowest not what is the way of the wind. Nor–

“Enough!”

I laughed, and spoke louder. “–nor how the bones do grow in the womb of her that is with child! Even so thou knowest not the work of God who doeth all!”

“Amadeo!”

I kept laughing; my voice loud and shrill, an uncontrollable sob breaking through it, and then I was crying; wailing, wailing, wailing, my body rocking with the force of it.

I didn’t see much through the tears, but I felt his gaze burning into me. “Amadeo…”

I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t calm myself. Ridiculous, wasn’t it? Ridiculous that I was starting to think of myself as better than the servants at the palazzo. Not one of them was doing this for Master, were they? Not one of them was lying there and letting themselves get ravaged by the same man that called them– what was it? Filthy? Cow-fucker? Heathen?

“Did I do well?” I asked, my voice breaking, each strained breath I took making me sicker. “My Master, oh my God who doeth and knoweth all including what is the way of the wind, did I do well? It was most worth it to be debased for you! I love you!”

Marius grabbed me by the shoulders. “Look at me!”

I didn’t want to look at him! I wanted to laugh! I wanted to cry! I wanted to puke my guts out! And Antonio was so deep inside me just a moment ago, I thought, that when I do puke, the vomit would be wine-red and swirled with a thick streak of his milky seed. In my ass, out my mouth, yes! That sounded right.

“You don’t love me!” I sobbed. The inevitable truth of it made me dry-retch, but not much more than a faint aftertase of bile filled my mouth. “You– you are the only one, and you d-don’t even lo-love me!”

I tried to sit up, move, throw him off of me, all to no avail – Master was a beautiful raven perched upon me, his talons dug into me so deeply I could not force him off.

“Calm down,” he said, and he shushed me, both his hands cradling my wet face. “Rest.” Calm, calm, calm, rest, rest, rest, he kept saying, out loud and inside my mind, and the commanding yet monotone tone of his voice left me no choice but to do as he said.

“Take it away.” I looked at him pleadingly. “Make me forget! Oh, make me forget everything, Master. My past, the– whatever life I’ve had, the brothel, that place, this party! I don’t need any of it. I just need you! I will do whatever you say.”

I was ready for it; I would permit it immediately. Why should I have to suffer? If it were to happen again, I didn’t need to know or remember. And as long as I didn’t remember, I could still be happy. There would be no chill running down my spine whenever somebody spoke too loudly, there would be no nausea clamping up my throat at the sight of Antonio or Antonio Two or Antonio Three.

I could stuff them into my hut, yes, but that would never be perfect, and they’d always slip through the cracks somehow. Master could make it perfect. I’d only ever need to know that he saved me from a terrible fate, and that we’d be together infinitely. That would be enough.

But he would not grant my wish. He shook his head. “No.”

“Why?” I pursed my lips. “Please! I beg of you!”

He did not respond for a long while. Ah yes, there were many things I couldn’t yet know nor understand, which required me to suffer in this specific manner.

“It would be a monumental feat to perform, near impossible. The risk is too great,” he finally said. “Especially for a mind as remarkable as yours, you– you are perfect exactly as you are, beloved. I could not bear to lose any part of you.”

Master was looking at me with an indescribable softness – like he truly meant it. It made me feel torn asunder: I longed to be rid of every horrible, disgusting event of my past and present, and I wanted to be perfect for him. But what he deemed perfect was the filth.

The realisation was devastating. What was I supposed to do with that?

Not only would I not die, but I would be loved, I decided. None of my efforts would go to waste. I would be needed. I would be irreplaceable to a degree I did not even imagine to be possible.

I took a deep, shaky breath, and said, “at least fuck me now.”

He blinked, his eyes widening.

I smiled widely. “You won’t take the pain away, so eclipse it. You won’t erase what he did, so do it better. Fuck me better. Do you love me or not? Am I still perfect? Still beautiful? Still remarkable?”

Something shifted in his gaze; perhaps he saw that I was serious. That I meant it.

He hesitated. “You’re hurt, and your mind is not clear–”

“If you love me, you will prove it to me,” I insisted, holding his stare. “Right now.”

He did.

It was different with him; my mind did not drift, my attention did not falter. When he slid his hand in-between my legs, the shock of being dropped right back into my weak, quivering self was excruciating; not because he was rough, but because he felt real. Antonio was not real, he was but a clump of body ghost-fucking me while I floated above myself. But Master was right there, his touch charged with something otherworldly, his fingers leaving a trail of fire burning through me.

He did not sweat; his skin was cool and smooth, devoid of any mortal imperfection, fine silk gliding across my body as he grabbed me. He was still dressed, his own erection pressed to the inside of my naked thigh. The fabric of his clothes, hard-edged detailing, material-engulfed buttons, stiff edges of his overshirt rubbing against me as he rocked slightly, intently. The feeling was odd but not unpleasant. I could not envision an unpleasant experience if it were to be delivered by his loving hand.

“Your mind,” he purred into my ear. “Oh, your mind, Amadeo.” The tremble in his voice sent a hot shiver through me.

My mind indeed. I wished he’d disclose what was so amazing about it, but he never did. I was certainly pleased to be special to my Master, but the possibility of losing whatever it was that captivated him loomed over me constantly.

He gripped me harder, his hand moved faster. “Master,” I moaned, attempting to arch my back off the bed, but all it did was push my body harder into his.

“You were so far away,” he said with a strange intensity. “Yet you are here now. You are fully here.”

“Mm,” I mumbled. “Yes. Because–” I groaned, biting down on my lower lip. “Because I love you, Master. Because I want you. Only you.”

He inhaled sharply, air whistling through his teeth, and he retracted his hand. At first I feared I did something wrong, but it soon turned out not to be the case. I watched Master tug at his clothes, a staggeringly ordinary struggle to witness. He reached under the layers of his garments and pulled his cock out without undressing completely. I only knew that, because I saw him shuffle, and then felt the tip of his erection pressed against me – he was lying on top of me, covering me, and I didn’t see much of what was going on between our bodies. I liked looking at his beautiful face, so that was fine with me.

I gasped when he slipped into me; there was no unpleasant friction to worry about since Antonio left me slick enough. I might have been sore and over-exerted, yet I did my best to not let it show. Master enjoyed a little bit of a performance. But not too much.

“My Amadeo,” he said. His Amadeo. God, yes, that was me. I shuddered as he pulled away and pushed right back into me, his hips slamming into my groin. “You are always perfect. Always beautiful. Always remarkable. I have never met another like you, and perhaps I never will again.”

Oh, how I hoped it to be true! I hooked my legs over his hips and clung to him with all I had: my mouth against his, our lips brushing against each other, his hips pounding into me in a steady, deep rhythm. Master was not one to be careless about such things. He moved with precision, each thrust somehow calculated, each twist of his hips deliciously pointed, targeting a deep, hungry knot within me that longed to come undone.

“Yes,” I panted. “Yes, there. There! You will never need… anyone else, Master. I will do anything. Anything.” I smirked through the sensation; a momentary discomfort pierced through with a wave of hot pleasure. Goosebumps rose all over me, and I closed my eyes, focusing on the satisfying stir inside me. “Harder!”

He did as I asked, and my moan was swiftly cut off by another push of his hips; I felt the impact of it all the way down to my toes. This, I thought, was what lust was meant to be. For my Master, I did my very best – I relaxed just to tighten my muscles again, not with all my strength like when I was impatient, but just enough to sway my hips along with his, to match his movements, to feel this was exactly what was supposed to be happening. Because it was exactly what was supposed to be happening.

“Perfect,” he whispered. “You take it perfectly. My perfect little Amadeo.”

I whimpered, holding onto him tighter, my nails digging into his shoulder. “I’m– Ah–” I cut myself off, my breath uneven and hitched. “Kiss me, please.”

He crashed his lips into mine at once, his tongue meeting mine. It was messier than usual, because of how vigorously he was fucking me, but I didn’t mind. When he kissed me, I believed that he loved me.

I felt it building in my abdomen. “I–” I sounded all choked up; like I was about to sob.

Marius hummed into my mouth. “Yes,” he purred. “I know. And I do, Amadeo. I do love you. You did so well.” And with that, he went back to kissing me, one of his hands slipping in-between our bodies.

I did not realise just how on edge I was until he wrapped his fingers around my dick and drew a sharp, surprised yelp out of me as I came. It lasted for quite a while; the feeling began at the bottom of my stomach, and rushed towards both my head and my legs, my muscles twitching frantically. My own body was out of my control: the tension, the tension, the tension followed by a sweet, almost-painful release. I saw bright, star-shaped spots on the underside of my eyelids, my body interchangeably tensing up and going limp in Master’s embrace.

His movements became more erratic and forceful, he stilled for a moment, and came inside of me with a low, pained groan. That was always a funny feeling: his come was barely lukewarm compared to my overheated insides, but it adapted quickly.

He rested his head against my neck but did not lay completely on top of me; I sensed his restraint.

What followed was a blur; Marius saying something I didn’t understand, Marius fixing his own clothes, Marius slowly, painstakingly peeling the Jama off me, then putting my other clothes back on, closing every button with his long, graceful fingers. I lay limply on top of the crumpled sheets, my vision pulsing with hot-white spots over the carved ceiling until Marius grabbed me by both hands and pulled me up. I sat on the bed, blinking away tears. Why was I crying?

“I want to go home,” I said.

“Yes.” He nodded. “Of course.”

Marius helped me stand up, and I held onto his arm for support. I felt… I didn’t know what I felt. Prove it, I said, and he did.

“Do you wish to put on your–” He glanced at the Jama discarded on the bed, wrinkled and stained with… I would rather not know.

Now that it was over, I wondered if Antonio had somehow requested for me to wear it. “Let him keep it,” I said. “He can pleasure himself with it until it rots.”

Marius gasped. “Amadeo!”

But he was smiling, so I smiled too, and I leaned on him. “Just take me home.”

I loved him, I concluded once more. Whatever was to happen, it was crucial to remember that.

Chapter Text

A few weeks later, Marius was away again, and I sat in the kitchen while Matteo prepared food. He was not actually much of a cook – other servants were hired for their expertise on the subject, but I felt lost at the complexities of their dishes, especially when Master was not there to advise me. So I often asked Matteo to just make me spiced lentils with whatever vegetables we had on hand, and he did. It never tasted quite like what I imagined I missed, but it was the one thing that ever came close. I probably cared more for his company than I did for the meals; most servants treated me closer to how they treated Marius. But Matteo was my friend, or at least I hoped so. There were not many friendship opportunities available to me otherwise.

“Have you heard the news on trade?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at me. He was cutting something up.

“Hm.” I wasn’t sure what he was referring to. “What about trade?”

“So you haven’t.” I could hear the smirk in his voice. “Oh, it’s great news! There’s been this ongoing… debate within the council. For close to a year, de Benetto’s been on this ridiculous crusade to close our ports to ‘unnecessary luxurious imports’, because ‘foreign influence is a plague on our republic,’” he mocked. “Ludicrous! I mean, the tax on those ‘unnecessarily luxurious’ textiles pretty much funds our navy! But then–”

“Wait,” I cut him off, grateful that Matteo was too focused on the food to notice my bewildered expression. I felt my hands grow cold at once. He couldn’t have been talking about… “De Benetto? Antonio de Benetto?” I tried to make it sound casual.

“Yes,” he confirmed, his back still turned to me. “You know him? I suppose he must be attending some of those parties. Quite a strange man, wouldn’t you agree? He’s been a thorn in the council’s side. The majority would obviously never back him, but his family’s important, and he had the church reluctantly on his side, preaching about ‘needless displays of wealth’ that lead to ‘deepening the public debt’. But then he changed his mind! Out of nowhere, he announced that he re-considered the situation, and his previous stance was misinformed. I don’t know who bribed him to shut up, but they did us all a huge fucking favour!”

My heart sank deeper into my chest with every word out of Matteo’s mouth. I said nothing, because I was convinced he didn’t realise what he was telling me, that he had no idea how I knew de Benetto. He wouldn’t be so cruel if he did.

Until then, attempting to comprehend the true reason behind my meeting with Antonio – and I was convinced there had to be one – was like trying to fix a shattered plate, except no matter what I did, none of the pieces fit together and they kept slicing through my clumsy fingers. But suddenly, they fit, and I could position them into a rather terrifying epiphany: if de Benetto had been bribed out of his anti-foreign-influence stance, I was the bribe.

Of course. Of course! As I’ve come to learn, Master did not like to involve himself in council politics directly, but he evidently revelled in having influence over those who did. De Benetto’s long-standing, vocal opposition to luxury imports was most inconvenient for Marius. I was a luxury import, for one, and far from the only one he’d enjoyed.

The plate came together on its own. The party. Master insisting on me wearing the Jama. The wine that kept coming. Antonio despising me, but wanting me. Him saying desire, wanting nothing but the Jama on me as he fucked me. Their agreement.

Foreign influence is a plague on our republic. Was that what he thought? And was it not a more sophisticated way of conveying Marius wasted his resources on a heathen and what is the difference between the exotic parrot bird he brought back last time and you? It was all right there in front of me. It did not happen for money, but for power. I feared Master would never have enough of it.

Perhaps I should have been glad. It was better to contribute my skill towards something beneficial for Marius than to be used for no reason at all. I could live with that if it truly had to be so. I only wished he would have told me. That he would have explained.

“Amadeo? Are you still with me?” Matteo turned around to face me, waving at me with a half-sliced leek. “Master did warn me not to bore you with politics, so this is entirely my fault. It’s been interfering with our business outside Venice, though, so it’s quite exciting… Ah, I see that you did not need the details.”

Yes, Marius would graciously save me from the tedious politics of it, wouldn’t he? I did my best to keep my expression blank, which must have been why I seemed bored to Matteo. Correcting him would be futile – I didn’t wish to discuss it any further, and as bitter as it made me to keep another secret, I decided not to put the weight of the truth onto Matteo.

I swallowed around the ever-growing lump in my throat, and forced myself to smile. “I apologise for my lack of focus,” I said. “I’m afraid I am spent for the day.”

“Spent! But it is barely noon!” Matteo furrowed his brows, and abandoned the meal preparation to walk up to me instead. “Do you feel ill?” He held the top of his hand to my cheek. “No fever, I think. Perhaps it is just that you spend too much time with him. Is it not draining on your health?”

I chuckled against my better judgement. I shouldn’t find that amusing, should I? Draining. “Or perhaps it is simply that I miss Master terribly when he is away. It pains me to be without him, and so the longer I sleep, the quicker the days pass.”

Matteo scrunched up his nose and pursed his lips; clearly, he wanted to disagree with what I’ve said, but couldn’t find the right words.

His attitude towards Marius consistently perplexed me. It was apparent that he did not love Master in the way I did, but beyond that, sometimes it appeared that he did not respect him as the other servants did, either. I supposed it was equally surprising to me that Matteo wouldn’t attempt to leave as it was that Marius wouldn’t want him to leave.

“Why are you here?” I asked him on a whim.

“Well, I was trying to cook, but–”

“You misunderstand. You fear Master, I think, but you do not love him nor admire him. Yet you remain by his side.”

I was unsure how to approach the subject without sounding impolite. I had trouble believing that the only education Matteo’s ever had was with Marius; he must have been brought up around wealth, and some unfavourable circumstance had to have occurred that forced him into this position.

He took a deep breath. “You are tired enough,” he said. “To keep it brief, my family used to own a palazzo just like this one. Perhaps even grander.” He frowned. “But my father wasted the family fortune quite spectacularly, and now I must shoulder the debt.”

“Is that your place that you imagine, where you would never be lost at?” I asked curiously. “Your family palazzo?”

He shook his head. “No. That one’s a little farmhouse up north. It used to belong to my family, too. Now nothing belongs to us anymore.”

I considered his words. So it was about money, then. That seemed plausible enough. “Ah. And so you are indebted to Master?”

“The matter is layered, but– Yes, effectively, I am.”

“Does he compensate you fairly? Can you ever get the house back? Either of the houses?”

Matteo laughed out loud. “If I cannot, will you negotiate in my name? I would have you know that others have tried and failed.”

I felt myself blush. “Oh. I didn’t m-mean–” I stuttered. Did I offend him? I certainly did not wish to. But there was something else, too. “Others? Other servants or others… like me? Were there others like me?”

He raised both eyebrows. “If I answer, will you keep it locked?”

“Yes! I swear it.”

He hesitated, but spoke eventually. “He’s had other… pupils. Boys, girls, around your age, younger. One at a time, many at a time. But your circumstance is extraordinary indeed. I suppose it used to be over as soon as they started to–” He cut himself off, looking at me with uncertainty. “Um. Forgive me, I get carried away.”

But I was curious! Oh I was so, so curious. “As soon as they started to what?”

He sighed. “How old are you?”

What an odd question, I thought. So young, only fifteen, I recalled Master saying to me on the ship. He must have been correct, I assumed, and so fifteen I was. I took it as a slight to my maturity at the time, an obstacle to the love and affection I craved. If I was fifteen then, and more than a year has since passed…

“Sixteen,” I said slowly.

“Are you certain?”

Why would he ask that?

“Yes.” I paused. “Well, Master said–”

“Ah!” he snickered. “He would know. Leave it to Master to assign you a name, an age, a–”

I crossed my arms on my chest, and leaned back in the chair. “You’re mocking me?” I snapped, admittedly more harshly than I intended. “I won’t entertain it.”

Matteo looked regretful. Was he suggesting I was too young or too old? Either way, he knew nothing about the bond between me and Marius. I did encourage him to elaborate, and maybe I shouldn’t have, because he was wrong! Even if there used to be others, and even if there would be others in the future, I was still special. Nobody else could ever have what I had with Master. Nobody could do what I did for him, and what I still would lovingly do.

“I… apologise,” he said, but he did not seem apologetic at all. At least it was apparent that he did not wish to upset me. “Truly. Let us drop the matter, I’ll shut up. Stay for your lentils, please?”

I shook my head. “You continue to confuse me, Matteo.”

Would I ever be capable of refusing anything to someone that I cared about? I pondered it as I ate the lentils. They didn’t taste quite right; but they were close enough. And I supposed I never could refuse.

Over as soon as they started to grow up, was that what he wanted to say? If so, I feared my downfall would come to be the one thing I couldn’t control. Or could I? To become what I am is an infinitely layered and profound endeavour, Master told me once. Which meant it was possible to become like him. Perhaps it would be in my best interest to work towards it sooner rather than later.

I sat atop a tall, wooden stool and twisted my upper body to the painter’s liking: my back straightened, one of my arms raised slightly. A sheet of light fabric pooled around my bent elbows as if it just slid down my bare shoulders, but it was placed very deliberately. My left calf cramped, and I felt my leg muscles spasming, yet I barely moved at the sensation, holding the pose with a mild, uninterested smile.

“He truly is a sight to behold, your Amadeo,” said Giotto, his gaze fixed on the canvas. “He would not look out of place among the frescoes of Pompeii.”

I enjoyed it when they called me that. His Amadeo.

“Indeed,” said Marius. He was standing next to Giotto, but looking right at me. “He is but my sole joy in the recent trying times.” He glanced down at the painting, then at me again. “The elegant line of his neck, is it not exquisite? Let us ensure is it captured. Could you lift your chin, Amadeo?” I did as instructed.

I couldn’t gauge how long the whole ordeal lasted. I rarely sat for paintings that required more than a few hours of my presence at a time for anyone other than Marius, but Giotto was a dear friend of his and apparently had a vision that couldn’t be postponed any longer. As soon as Giotto revealed the portrait was to be influenced by Roman masters, I knew it would come to fruition.

And there I was, posed and poised despite the overwhelming stiffness of my muscles. Two heavy, golden necklaces with rubies embedded in-between thick chains – borrowed from Marius’ personal collection – laid thoughtfully displayed around my neck. The jewellery was ancient and priceless, history itself wrapped around my throat, weighing on my shoulders, digging into my collarbones. A stylised wreath of gold-dipped laurel nestled in-between my oiled curls. My hair grew long quickly; it cascaded down my back, and Marius forbade me from shortening it.

“Such delicate features on him, yet the strong set of the jaw suggests endurance,” said Giotto. “A vernal Caesar reborn, wouldn’t you say?”

I saw Marius smiling out of the corner of my eye. “May it be eternalised by your hand.”

I’d have favoured being eternalised by Marius’ hand, or mouth, but I could not speak it. I was nineteen already, and I dreaded the inevitable. I was perfect: perfectly polite, perfectly obedient, perfectly willing, perfectly understanding, and Marius remained perfectly generous to me. Through every embarrassing crack in my voice, through each unwelcome blemish, he loved me, and he did not discard me. Yet.

You are still so young, he told me, over, and over, and over. So young, so young, so young. But was I?

My body fought to betray me, but I fought harder to silence its protests. A spasm, short but sharp, shot through my leg again, and I dug my nails into the palm of my hand to distract from the dull ache that followed. I pressed my tongue hard against my teeth, keeping myself in check, my expression frozen. Excellence was within reach, and I would hold onto it, no matter the physical strain. Any pain was inconsequential if I was adored while it happened.

“And the jewels,” mumbled Giotto, his face very close to the canvas. He looked at me for what felt like the first time in hours. His eyes were dark and deep; unreadable. “Lend him such gravitas. He could be an heir to centuries of fortune; certainly looks it.”

I could have sworn Master said, “He is.” But Giotto didn’t seem to catch it.

I was not allowed to speak whilst I posed; that would disrupt the process. So I sat, and barely blinked, and looked attractive, while Giotto mumbled something under his breath and Marius chuckled in response. The low sound of their drifting voices, brushstrokes sliding across canvas, and the scrape of palette knives, all turned into a pleasant background hum as I stared at a fixed point on the wall behind them.

My lips got progressively drier and drier; thirst tugged at my senses, but I ignored it. I observed the light shifting from a consistent noon-glow into a muted afternoon haze. It spilled through the large windows I was positioned in front of. Latin occupied my thoughts near the tail-end of the day; declinations and accents laid out in front of me on a imagined table to silently repeat, repeat, repeat.

It was only when the sun was almost wholly gone, and long, trembling shadows fell all over me, that Giotto declared the day’s work to be finished. I unclenched my jaw, attempting to bring my tightened muscles back to life. It worked, but it also induced an unpleasant tingling that spread throughout my body, making me grimace as I got off the stool. I squeezed my eyes shut and wiped at them with my palm, trying to scratch an impossible itch hidden somewhere behind my eyelids.

Giotto cleared his throat. “The piece is not yet finished, but you may appraise the progress.”

I stretched, holding my arms up until something popped at my lower back. Then I walked over to the painting, and stood right behind Giotto to view the art exactly as he was perceiving it.

The boy on the canvas was beautiful, of course – Giotto was a talented artist, and I was a handsome muse. Yet something was not quite right. The eyes were mine, obviously so: big, dark, oddly tranquil in their intensity. The lips belonged to me, too, narrow but shapely and proportional. But where my nose raised into the slightest of bumps, his was entirely straight. Entirely Roman, I supposed, or what he presumed the Roman ideal to be. I touched my own face as if in a trance, traced the line of my nose with my fingertip to check. Yes, there it was.

The painted boy was considerably lighter than me as well. It made his otherwise dark features – hair, eyes, wine-stained mouth – stand out in stark contrast with the half-finished, bleeding red sunset he was put against. Not quite as gorgeous as the art, was I? Not quite as clean. I grinned anyway.

“The painting is exceptional,” I said, putting as much awe as I could muster into the words. Giotto nodded in agreement. “You are blessed with the most astonishing talent, and I am most grateful to witness it,” I added. He wanted praise, so praise I gave. To my surprise, when I looked at the portrait again, the boy appeared much sadder than before. It must have been the lighting, I thought; the day was ending, the sun just set, the room darkening by the minute.

“Marius said you were a remarkable young man, and he was right,” said Giotto. He looked up at me, then put his hand on top of mine that rested on his shoulder. Strange – I didn’t remember touching him, but I must have. “Ah, I believe there is still time to show you around my home, if that is something that would please you. If I may be so bold and assume you do not have any other engagements for the evening?”

The corners of my mouth twitched, but I kept smiling. It definitely was not something that would please me. I looked at Marius. “Master?” I posed the question softly, carefully; I did not entertain such invitations unless at Marius’ explicit request.

Tell him I have other engagements. I could have other engagements, I said inside my mind. With you.

It was never enough to convince him, but I tried it every time. I gathered he liked to know that I would choose his company over anyone else’s.

“Of course, we will stay,” Master said, nodding towards me. “Where shall we start the tour, Giotto? You must show Amadeo your earlier work, the still lifes. He’s got a particular fondness for the flora. One of his most endearing qualities.”

I would do it, then.

“Ah, excellent!” Giotto clapped his hands, and stood up abruptly. “Please, follow me.”

His home was light, airy, and golden. I could hardly keep up with how many living spaces he had, each wall lined with intricately-framed paintings, luxurious couches in front of ornate wooden tables, wines curved into their legs. Art was ever-present and overwhelming; portraits, landscapes, still lifes. But none of that was what Giotto truly wanted to show me. I figured as much by the speed with which he brought me around the house, dismissed my questions about the paintings, and proceeded to usher me into one of the bedrooms. Marius followed right after, as he always did.

The bedroom was beige-and-blue. A peculiar choice, I thought as my attention drifted to the large bed. It looked never-slept-in, the sheets were arranged neatly, thick, heavy. There was not one speck of dust on any visible surface.

Marius closed the door behind us, and sat on the creme-coloured armchair that leaned against one of the walls, facing the bed. My heartbeat picked up, my insides knotting over themselves. Run. I didn’t know where that thought kept coming from, but I was no stranger to it. I pushed it down. There was no need to run. I rolled my right shoulder, still sore from the hours spent on the hard, uncomfortable stool.

I have come to accept my role, which did not mean I took much pleasure in the act. It was necessary, though, for a variety of other reasons, some of which I was aware of, some of which I would come to understand soon, some of which wouldn’t ever be revealed.

Giotto’s eyes flickered between me and the bed. Me and the bed. Me. The bed. Me. He seemed anxious, which in turn irritated me; I had no sympathy for inexperience, and I would certainly not mentor him through it. Most of all, I hoped he would not ask foolish questions such as, does that feel good? Each time, I wanted to scream-laugh at the top of my lungs in response. It doesn’t, I longed to say, to him, to all of them. It feels wrong and boring! There were times when I wished they were more like the men from the brothel. I wished to never know their names, I wished to never meet their wives, I wished to never see them eating dinner with Marius. I missed lying down to play the docile little lamb, made to give, and give, and give until there was nothing but bare bone left of it.

With a sigh, I walked over to the bed, and sat at the edge of it. I turned to Giotto to offer him my superior – right – profile as I let the white sheet I was wrapped in slide off my shoulders. At least this time, it was art. At the end of the day, I preferred to fuck for art rather than for politics.

Does he know what he wants? I asked Marius silently. I’m in no mood to explain.

He knows, he assured me.

“Do you wish to take me?” I asked, looking down, then up at Giotto as if embarrassed. I noticed a mean, red blush creeping up his neck, and spilling onto his cheeks. Very well. Perhaps all he needed was a nudge. “Tell me your desire, Giotto. Is it soft? Rough? Do I speak or keep my mouth shut?”

I kept staring at him. He stared back.

“Soft,” he said quietly, licking his lips. “No need to say anything.”

That was encouraging; I wasn’t fond of the talking, either. Maybe he was not a lost cause, and it was Marius in the corner that unnerved him – I kept forgetting it was not the norm. They got to fuck the others one on one, then. But not me. I smiled widely and made a key-turning gesture in front of my lips, and lay down flat on my back.

“Turn around,” he said.

Even better, I thought as I obeyed him, flipping myself onto my stomach. I raised my hips up, and gently laid my head on my crossed arms, looking to the side – the side I knew Marius was at.

Alas, he doesn’t want to talk. Shall we go to the meadow? I thought, my gazed fixed on Marius. He was looking at me too, his motionless form shadowed in the armchair. I winked at him, and he nodded at me briefly.

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, they were still closed, and I was standing next to myself.

I, or we, have been working on this for quite a while. It did not always align perfectly, but I tried my best.

Giotto was doing as he pleased, but I didn’t have to be present for it. My body might have been in the bedroom, and it had to stay there, but my mind could be free – sometimes. If I focused enough. If I did everything right. Marius helped me make sense of it, of course. A rare skill is what he called it when I first showed the full extent of it to him a long time ago.

Amadeo was rocking rhythmically on the bed, but I was not there, not really. I didn’t bother glancing back at whatever was happening. Marius’ eyes gleamed as I approached him, extending a hand towards him.

He took it, and mere seconds later, we were laying on the meadow. It was not a real meadow, of course, most likely it did not exist anywhere in the world, but it was tangible enough inside my mind: a huge, infinite field of soft grass speckled with white flowers. Daisies, I supposed, and some others I could not name. There were no buildings and no trees in sight. The sky was vibrant blue, partly cloudy, so that when we were on our backs, we would see the clouds gliding slowly above us. There were birds up there, too. Doves, maybe. Possibly. They were too far up to be sure. The day was warm but not stuffy; the air smelled of fresh rain, but it wasn’t raining, and the grass wasn’t wet.

I floated weightlessly above the ground; no part of my body felt as if it was actually touching it, but I saw it all clearly inside my head. And Marius was there, too: right next to me, his head turned towards me, the sun shining down on his face. I presumed all Master had to do was read my wide-open mind, and indulge my imagination. I might have been the one visualising the scene, but he was there.

Sometimes, when they were very rough or very loud, they ruined my carefully-crafted grassy field, and they snapped me back into my body, which upset me. Not this time.

Am I beautiful, Master? I thought, smiling at him.

You are beautiful beyond words, he responded. All others pale in comparison.

I took a deep breath. And you love me?

He reached for my face, and touched my cheek. I felt nothing, but I appreciated the gesture all the same. Perhaps with time, I thought, I’d learn to make myself feel it as well as see it.

And I love you, he confirmed.

It could be forever, I thought, covering his hand with mine, squeezing his phantom palm. I could be this beautiful forever. You could love me forever.

It was another thing I’ve been trying lately: convincing Master I was worthy of becoming his eternal beloved. So far it’s been wildly unsuccessful.

Marius shifted uncomfortably. But I already do. I love you, and you do not realise what you demand of me, he thought. You are seeking to discard the most marvellous part of yourself. Dearest, it would be a slaughter upon your very soul to allow it!

I sighed, and let go of his hand, then turned my face to the sky. Why should I care about my soul?

I would do anything for you, Father, I thought, not looking at him. Hold time, too. But that lies in your hands entirely.

Can you not see where we are right now, beloved? he thought. Do you truly wish to squander it? To live in darkness and blood-hunger?

There is nothing I would not endure, I pleaded. The darkness is not eternal, you walk in the sun each day! But even if it was, I would rather live without the sun than without you.

He wanted me appealing and obedient, and I dreaded the day when I’d become only the latter. Come tomorrow, I would not be as young as the boy from the painting. Eternity was granted to him but not to me.

Any attempt to improve upon perfection would be perverse, he insisted.

I was unhappy with that sentiment.

Seconds later, he added, he’s done. It is time to return.

I did not want to go back, but I knew it was necessary – that was the sole condition of the meadow. We always had to go back.

I opened my eyes, and opened them once more, and saw that I was still on the bed. I was breathing heavily, still on all fours, my head still turned to Marius, my body sticky and weak. The room smelled of sweat and spilled olive oil; he was being kind, then. He was making it good for me, except I couldn’t care less. That was always the worst part: to come into myself and experience the sudden cramp of an overworked muscle or feel the heat of whatever liquid was running down my thigh.

At least it was over.

“Was it as you desired?” I asked, peering over my shoulder, my voice hoarse.

“Very much so.” Giotto put his hand on my hips, gently pushing me down. I took it as permission to let myself lay flat on my stomach. “Was it as you desired?”

I buried my face in his fancy pillow in an effort to suffocate my amused expression. Or perhaps in an effort to suffocate myself, because what did he think this was?

“Yes,” I mumbled into the sheets. I had my fantasy, he had his.

They never do it right, I complained to Master. Don’t you get tired of finishing the job?

I saw him smiling as he got up from the chair. Such a pretty little head, and such dirty, dirty mind inside it.

I chuckled as I rolled over, and stood up as well.

“Will my further presence be required? For the painting?” I asked, putting both hands on my lower back, and pushing my hips forward until something popped at the bottom of my spine. The posing took a toll on me. Or was it the fucking? I could tell I would be sore the next day.

“Not for the painting,” said Giotto. “But you are certainly welcome to visit at any time.”

“Certainly,” I repeated. But I’d rather not do that.

Once we left, I persuaded Master to take the longer path home, and soon we were walking along the shore, the sea uneasy and cold, tiny boats swaying in the distance. I took great pleasure in observing them – one time, I even saw a ship sink not long after leaving the port, and the sailors spilled out of it like ants. But most of the time, the vessels floated somewhere beyond the horizon.

Marius liked to take me to the same spot where the descent into sea was sharp and uncomfortable. It was also far from the main hub, which meant not many people visited it, especially after dark. He sat down on the sand, I sat in front of him, leaning against his chest, and we watched the foaming waves. It was already past sunset, but the sky was clear, and the moon was bright; its soft, silver glow illuminated the area. What I didn’t see, I heard – the constant hum of flowing, crashing water, birds calling, the wind picking up stray leaves.

“Where do you go when you’re not here?” I asked. It was not the first time I posed the question, and I knew he would not answer in any way that’d satisfy me. “All I do when you’re gone is await your return. Sometimes I worry… that if something terrible was to happen, I would not know where to search for you,” I admitted sadly.

He wrapped both arms around my chest, and I relaxed into him. “You needn’t worry about me, beloved,” he said. “There are certain matters I need to care for that do not concern you. I can assure you that everything is proceeding as expected.”

I put my arms on top of his, intertwining our fingers. Why was I still trying?

“Do you not trust me, Master? Have I ever disappointed you? Have I ever violated my word or promise?”

I haven’t. I knew I haven’t, and he must have known it, too.

“It is not a matter of trust, although I do trust you,” he said. “Regardless of how noble your intentions may be, your mind remains fragile, breakable. I would not burden you with the knowledge that may as well be your undoing.”

So he thought I was too weak to handle the truth? Or perhaps he thought that if I knew the truth, others may be able to extract it from me easier than they could extract it from him. Which might have been correct. But in that case, who were those others? His world remained closed to me.

“Will you ever take me with you?”

“No,” he said, as I knew he would.

Let it go.

We stayed silent for a while.

“How many times have you been in love?” I asked, and felt him stir behind me. “Not just any love. True love.”

He considered it for a long time. I focused on a dark shadow of a ship gliding through the sea in the meantime. “Four,” he finally said.

I hummed in response. “And I’m one of them?”

“Yes.”

“And the others are dead?”

He pursed his lips. “Yes.”

I twisted my upper body around to look at him. “And you want me to join them?”

“Amadeo–”

“I will, because you refuse to make me eternal.” I reached for his face. “Is it truly about my soul? I can only dream of it being as bright as yours one day!”

He turned his head to the side, pushing my hands away. “This is precisely the reason,” he said, irritated. “Your infantile view of the subject is off-putting.”

Another approach to the situation was in order, then.

I stood up, faced him, and took a few steps backwards.

“Ah. Am I so perfect it’d be perverse to improve upon me, or am I infantile and off-putting?” I teased as I started to take my clothes off. “Or is it both, and you wouldn’t have it any other way?”

Visibly confused, Marius asked, “what are you doing?”

“Undressing,” I said, and I continued to do so. Master did not move nor do anything to stop me. “I want to go swimming,” I added with a smile.

“Swimming!” He scoffed. “The water’s freezing.”

“So are you,” I murmured defiantly.

“Amadeo!” He stood up, and I backed away further. “You will fall ill!”

“I already have,” I said, pretending to cough vigorously. “It makes me sick how much I love you! I’m fatally in love!” I put a limp hand to my forehead as if I was about to faint.

At that, he started to laugh, really laugh, his face scrunched up in delight, his shoulders shaking with the force of it.

“I– Matteo’s waiting for you with a bath,” he said, still chuckling. “He despises going to the cistern, he complains each time. Do you want the bath to turn cold? His hard work will go to waste.”

I giggled under my breath, stepping out of the hose. It was chilly outside, but I didn’t care. “He likes me,” I said. “He’ll heat it back up.”

Master’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Very well. I will chase you.”

He took another step towards me, and I went backwards again. He took one more, and I spun around suddenly, then started to run towards the water.

I knew he could have caught up to me at any time; in a split of a second, he could have been right there. But he chose to do this at a very slow, very human pace, and I gleefully looked over my shoulder to check that he was still following.

When he finally got me, I was already ankle-deep in the water, and so was he, his shoes surely completely soaked through. He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me closer to himself, but it was not forceful – he barely applied any strength at all.

He was smiling widely when he said, “What now, hm? I would go after you to the ends of the Earth itself.”

I bit down on my bottom lip, stifling another chuckle. “I don’t believe you. Kiss me to prove it.”

He looked around. I knew he did not like to do so outside the palazzo, but there was nobody else there, so he did kiss me. I opened my mouth to feel his tongue against mine, and I stood on my tiptoes to reach deeper, but it didn’t quite work; my feet sank into the washed-over sand.

“Bite me,” I purred into his mouth. “I’ve been eating so much fruit. My blood tastes like strawberries and grapes. Like wine.”

He gasped. “Insatiable,” he muttered. “Not here.”

“Of course.” I stepped back. “But once we get home, my expectations will have risen beyond a bite.”

Marius rolled his eyes. I could not recall ever witnessing him do that before. “God help me,” he said to the sky.

I bent down to dip my hand into the water and splashed him with it. He laughed about it.

The painting was finished some time later, and Master would not let Giotto keep or display it. Marius bought it off his hands, and hung it in our hallway. The masterful colouring makes it seem as though you are put against not a sunset but a storm of fire, he told me once. He was right.

Chapter Text

It was the middle of a late spring night, and I sat inside a gondola with Master. The gondolier was firmly under Marius’ spell – the older man might have been physically present, his oar working through the black night-water, but his eyes remained vacant and glazed, and I knew that he would not respond to his own name even if called repeatedly.

I envied them sometimes. No matter how much I pleaded, Master would not agree to empty my brain as he emptied theirs. I could only imagine what it was like to be so focused and driven towards the one thing that mattered – pleasing Marius. Of course, that was my very purpose ever since I met him, and I did not need to be enchanted to follow my Master, but there were always distractions. Always something to prove, always something to correct. And what how did it feel, to be so completely unable to consider failure, or so wholly unbothered by it? I longed to know. What was it like to sit there, wax and feathers sticking to their palms, the inevitability of the sun’s heat the most comforting of thoughts? The image of it appealed to my anxious mind so strongly that it bypassed my tensed-up gut and soured into lust in the depths of my groin.

Or perhaps the lust was a direct result of Marius’ fangs sunken into my neck so deeply that whenever I tried to swallow, I struggled and tasted blood at the back of my throat. His arms were wrapped around me in what could look like a gentle embrace if one stood far enough not to see his bared teeth. Nobody would be close enough to say otherwise; we were huddled up under the heavy felze, my vision blurring into one long, hazy strip of faint light as I glanced to the side, my gaze catching onto the little cesendelli that illuminated the water from every other street corner we passed by. I heard Marius swallowing in the otherwise silent cabin – it was a quiet but primal type of sound, one that terrified and thrilled me at once.

I enjoyed feeling useful to Master: that he’d choose to indulge in me when there were so many others he could have, was most arousing. This time, though, he was beginning to forget himself, or he was purposefully letting it happen. All the usual signs were there: the tips of my fingers turned numb, my heart beat twice or thrice as fast as it should, its measly attempt to overcompensate for the blood loss. I grew increasingly dizzy, the world swaying gently before my eyes. Almost like the ship, I recalled, because we were on one.

I tried not to move in fear it’d snap him out of whatever blood-fuelled trance he was in, and he’d stop. I didn’t want him to stop. I wanted him to keep going, and going, and going until there was nothing left of me to take. I fought for my consciousness against the constant lull of blood pounding in my skull. Perhaps the gondola was not an ideal place for it, but we’d manage with it. If I could make it a bit longer, I thought, and if he could suck a bit harder, then surely, soon enough he’d have no choice but to turn me–

“Amadeo,” he mumbled into my neck. I grunted as his fangs retracted back into his mouth and out of my flesh. I kept hoping, and I kept feeling disappointed despite my common sense. “You do realise I can hear your every thought, especially when we’re this close, this… connected?” he purred. I felt him lick along the wound on my throat, the tip of his tongue slipping in-between my torn skin.

I moaned, an ice-hot shiver rumbling through my body. He was right; it was unbelievably difficult to shield my mind in any capacity when all I wanted was to give myself over to him. I felt embarrassed by my own desire, and I would have blushed if there was enough blood inside of me to fuel such a reaction.

“Your bite excites me,” I said, my voice shaking. “You could drain… every last drop, you could, and I would let you. I would thank you. I want you to do it.”

He shook his head, a gesture I felt more than saw in the darkness surrounding us. The air smelled of my own blood and something rotten within the canal waters, and I fought to keep my eyes open.

“Ah. You do have a fondness for the dramatic, my impassioned little dove,” he told me. He sounded amused. “Open your mouth.”

I did as requested and felt a drop of something thick splash onto my tongue. Blood, I realised, and not just any blood. His blood. I grabbed him by the wrist with both hands and closed my lips around the short cut he made with his nail.

The overwhelming somnolence lifted from me in an instant, and I felt alive. It was not the first time he shared blood with me as a curtsey after taking too much of mine – it would not extend the dark gift towards me so easily, but it was still the closest I have ever gotten. The taste was difficult to explain: metallic, yes, with a tinge of salt, but there was another flavour underneath that I could never identify. Like citrus gone bad, bitter orange peel, not-quite-sour lemon steeped in rosewater. Once I tasted it, I craved in constantly: the feeling of it sliding down my throat haunted my dreams and occupied my thoughts. I knew that was precisely why Marius waited so long. He would not offer unless I was sick, weak or, as I was now, slightly too close to fainting to continue our quaint ride.

“Do you truly wish to become like me?”

His question surprised me so much that I let go of his hand, and nearly choked on the blood inside my mouth. My eyes watered.

“Yes! More than anything,” I said, still coughing.

But he already knew that. I kept telling him, I kept begging, I kept promising…

Once my vision cleared, and he was no longer a blur, I saw that he was looking at me very intently, his gaze following the drops of blood that fell from my mouth onto my clothes. I was wearing red anyway.

“And if I were to grant your wish, how would you choose them?”

I cocked my head to the side, not comprehending the question. “Them?”

“Your victims, Amadeo.” He smacked his lips disapprovingly. “At my age, I can abstain for weeks. Months or perhaps years, if circumstances were dire enough. But you? You elevated this… vision of love eternal inside your mind, but the sole love you’d know as one of my kind is blood. In the early days, years, you’d need it constantly. Every day. Two times a day. Three times a day, if you’re greedy, and you are. So let me pose the question once more. How would you choose them?”

I glared at him with my mouth agape, my eyebrows raised, my thoughts racing.

Oh, this was… the furthest he’s ever entertained the idea. I could not squander the opportunity to prove that I was worthy of eternity.

“I would– bad people. Ones that would not be missed. Or– convenient ones, I suppose,” I said. It was not that I’d never considered it before. I have, naturally, but I worried my ideas weren’t what he expected. “And with time, I would… learn to spare them, perhaps. You could teach me how to only take as much as I need and let them free.”

Marius laughed. “You are not ready.”

I gasped, and reached for his hand again, grabbing him by the wrist. “No! No, I understand! I understand that it comes with a price, and I am willing to pay. It does not scare me, not with you by my side. I– whoever you point to. I swear it. I shall not think twice!”

If eternity could be granted to me, no mortal life was too valuable of a sacrifice to ensure it. If he could see how serious I was about the whole ordeal, how eager to learn from him, how restless to become even more exceptional, and remarkable…

He looked at me as if musing over the idea, and then he sighed. “Very well,” he said. Just as I was about to grow excited, he added, “I shall leave my next meal in your hands, beloved.”

I furrowed my brows. “Your– what? What do you mean?”

“Tomorrow evening, you will leave the palazzo, and you will not return alone.”

He smirked, and I opened my eyes wider. He wanted me to– to go and bring a person back into the palazzo? A person for him to eat? Well, drink.

“I–” I hesitated. “Of course.” I smiled nervously.

What choice did I have? If that’s what it would take to persuade him, then I would do it. Maybe he was right, maybe a certain amount of practice would allow me to develop a deeper, more profound understanding of my nature as time passed.

“It cannot simply be a person you dislike,” he told me. “You ought to think logically, for it is most crucial to your education. Who would not be missed? Not by you, but by anyone? Who would drown at sea and not produce one ripple to notify others of their departure?”

I took a deep breath. “Perhaps the–”

“Ah-huh.” He held a finger up to his lips. “Do not tell me. Decide. Act accordingly.”

I nodded, and turned my attention to the black waters of the canal. I was amazed to note that my sight sharpened considerably – the wooden, swaying side of the gondola, the shadow of the oar breaking the surface, the gondolier’s sturdy, unmoving silhouette. I saw it all. It must have been the blood. Whatever he wished, I would do.

The next evening, I left the palazzo with a singular purpose – make Master proud. This had to be the final test of my character, and I would not fail it.

Who would not be missed?

Not simply someone I disliked. So be it.

If you were a Venetian in need of release, but you were not important or fortunate enough to fuck me nor wealthy enough to fuck others like me, you had to settle. You could visit the poorest, ugliest part of the city, and take your pick amongst the unfortunates from the lowest brothel or choose from the many half-ghosts half-whores wandering around at impolite hours. Some of them had a price, others had no choice.

It was completely unlike what I've known in Delhi, and it was no different at all. If it weren't for the overwhelming stench of piss, one might say the buildings looked decent enough, all stone and wood. But that smell… was it this bad back there, too? I couldn’t remember. And if it weren’t for their rotten teeth and blood-shot eyes, one might say the people looked decent, too. I should feel bad, I thought as I walked through the street, empty, loveless stares following my every move. I should feel bad and I should want to help them. Save them. Why didn’t I?

I proved my worth. I proved it, and proved it, and proved it, all over again, every day, again, and again, and again. And I was different now. Better.

Better.

Who would not be missed?

I pondered the question as I kept walking, my fingers rubbing against the hem of my sleeve; I felt the stitch unravelling. Master hated when I did that. You ruin perfectly good garments, he said. But the strange urge to pull, and squeeze, and crump, and stretch was always there. The more anxious I was, the less control I had over it. But a loose thread or two would not matter once I return to him triumphant and confident.

It was nearly impossible to decide which person might be bad without Master by my side to see their minds. Would the classless men seeking an easy fuck be missed? Perhaps, if they had wives, if they had children, if they had anyone else dependent on them. So many of them did. Were they evil? Or were they merely lonely and frustrated and–

If I were to try, how would I get any of them to follow me to the palazzo? I could offer myself, but I looked laughably out of place: and it has not slipped my attention that most of them were after young women. Once they got them, they rarely bothered with a secondary location other than a pitch-black back alley.

I anticipated the women to be easier and quieter to sway. Why wouldn’t I be able to take one to her doom? But didn’t they have people that depended on them, too? Who would miss them if they disappeared, who would search for them? Did anyone miss me? Did anyone search for me?

I could not bring myself to to enter any of the buildings. Their surroundings were disturbing enough, and it’d surely be easier to convince someone to follow me off the street than from a brothel. I’d know.

Spotting a suitable person took me no time at all; I turned a corner, and stumbled upon a young woman sitting right on the ground, weeping. I couldn’t quite see her face; it was obscured by her shaking hands. Locks of auburn, fiery curls fell down her back and in front of her face, as if engulfing her silhouette in soft, afternoon flames. The sun was just setting. She looked up and her swollen eyes met mine. Something stirred inside my chest, and I hesitated. Could I really do this? She was beautiful even as she cried; she had soft, delicate features, her face flushed and freckled, her thin lips glistening from what I assumed to be tears. Or saliva. Or snot.

“Ah! I– I apologise!” she said, waving her hand towards me, and she started to wipe herself up with the edge of her sleeve. This caused her to smear something dark and oily across her face, presumably from whatever dirty thing she’s gotten into before. “Fucking hell! This is a disaster.”

Could I do it? Could I keep living, knowing I was the reason? She committed no transgression against me. Maybe that was the point – that I would not need to live much longer.

“Good evening,” I said, bowing to her. I pulled out a pristine, folded cloth handkerchief from my pocket and handed it to her. “It is not my intent to intrude but… Take this.”

She accepted the handkerchief after a brief pause, then began to clean her face with it. I watched as she dried her tears, then blew her nose into the cloth in a rather inelegant manner. Oh, her behaviour would enrage Marius! But to my surprise and dismay, it did not rattle me in the slightest. I thought about lending her my own sleeve to blow her nose into next if she so wished.

How could anyone do this? How could Master do this? He did not talk to them, did he? But I did not possess any of his abilities, and so I had no choice but to engage.

“Thank you.” She smiled at me, running a sweaty hand through her hair. It got tangled into her curls, and she groaned, pulling harder, ripping a few strands out. They fell down to the ground, orange thread lost between the dirt. “Ow! I’m Ambra, and this is truly embarrassing. You caught me at an unfortunate time. Everything’s gone to shit.”

I chuckled. “Ambra, after the stone? It suits you,” I told her, because it did. “Amadeo,” I introduced myself after a moment. “No need to be embarrassed. Do you wish to tell me what is bothering you?” I asked, extending a hand to her.

She could have told me to go to hell, it was clear she had the capability to. But she didn’t. Instead, she took my hand, and I helped her get back on her feet.

“Why not,” she said with a long, loud sigh. “Why not, you are just a stranger I may never meet again. My father threw me out when he found out I’ve been…” She pursed her lips, and made a loud, smacking noise. “Selling myself. It’s not like he was doing anything to get the money we need to live, the loon. He used to fish, but he can’t anymore,” she said, a corner of her mouth twitching in disgust. “I did it for him, you see, even though he hates me. Now I’m left with nothing, and so is he.”

She looked somewhere far in front of her, her expression sad and pensive. I contemplated what I had learned. It seemed to me that Ambra might have been unlucky enough to be be perfect. Would she be missed? Not anytime soon. Perhaps one day, and then it’d be too late.

“Hm. You are very beautiful,” I said, and she turned to me once more. I felt myself grow red under her gaze. “I– I merely mention that to emphasise that not all is lost. This may be temporary–”

Something softened in her eyes, and they appeared almost yellow in the dim light. The sun was down. She bit her bottom lip, and brushed her shoulder against mine in a deliberate manner.

“You are beautiful as well,” she said boldly. “You speak so sweetly, and you look like the sun adores you. Unlike me who cannot stand to bask in it for more than a few minutes before going bright red.”

I, too, was skilled at what Ambra was attempting – hold onto whatever scrap of conversation suggested that they wanted me, that they’d pay. Did she think so, or was she desperate? Or was it both? Wasn’t I desperate, too? Either way, the flattery pleased me; it was different from what I commonly heard. Did the sun adore me? It would be rather unfortunate if so.

“Will you come with me?” I asked. “I do not live far. It will be… comfortable,” I said, struggling to make that word leave my mouth.

Focus!

Who would not be missed?

“Of course,” she said. “Lead the way, Mister…” she trailed off.

“Do call me Amadeo,” I told her as I started walking.

After a minute or so of silence, she said, “can I ask you something? You do have to promise not to get upset.”

Which made me curious, so naturally, I responded with, “I promise.”

“Is that really your name? Amadeo?”

I gave her a pointed look. “Yes, it is,” I said readily. “Why would you ask that? Is Ambra not your name?”

She laughed. “No, it is not. Oh, I do apologise,” she added when I made a face. “It is not my intention to deceive you or– or anyone! Ambra is merely the girl who enjoys the pleasure she provides.”

I slowed down despite myself. The girl who enjoys the pleasure she provides. Could she step away from herself, too? Did she have a meadow of her own? A pang of sympathy shot through me, and I didn’t want to do this to her. But I got so far… and she was perfect, wasn’t she? She was exactly right. Young and fresh and miserable. Marius would be delighted.

“And you are clever, but that is not why I asked,” she continued on. “I asked, because you do not look like an Amadeo.”

I scoffed under my breath. “Why is that?”

“My grandfather,” she said, which only baffled me further. “He was a good man. An educated man, and a travelled one. One time, he boarded the wrong ship, and then another one, and then he got captured by pirates!” She glanced at me, and cleared her throat. “Anyway, that is when he ended up in Hindustan. He told me all about it. How warm it was, how colourful, and how beautiful the people were! He was somewhat of an artist in his day, he wrote, and he drew, I mean, he drew the people wherever he went, and you… Ah, especially from the side, you look just like his drawing!”

I stopped immediately. She kept talking, but I heard nothing over the panic rising within me. What was happening? I was losing my already-slippery grip on the situation. Some… girl from the street! Some girl from the street took one look at me and thought– After all this time, after all the effort I put into being exactly like them?!

“Is something the matter?” she asked when she realised I was not walking with her. “The resemblance must be a coincidence, but you really– I’ll show you! I have the journal, well, I’m no artist, but I’ve been noting down other things in it since grandpa died–”

Seemingly oblivious to the depths of my distress, she reached into a small sack tied to her belt, and produced an old, tattered book small enough to fit into the palm of her hand from it. She started to flip through the yellowish, stained pages.

My heart was in my throat.

“Here it is,” she said as she handed the open journal to me.

I didn’t want to look, but I felt that to refuse would be needlessly strange.

She was right; the sketch was of a young boy who may have easily been my brother. Bilal, Delhi Town, read the small, neat print in the bottom right corner.

On impulse, I flipped the page to see if there were more drawings of Delhi people. What I saw instead were intricate sketches of marigolds and a dried flower pressed in-between the pages, stuck in the middle of the drawn petals, sketched leaves, outlined stalks. The sight of the brittle marigold made me gasp, and after that, I could suddenly not breathe at all. No. No, this wasn’t real. I was having a dream, or a vision, or– something. Anything but this.

It came back to me in a flash; a jolt of pain that clamped around my memory instead of my body. An overwhelming scent of sweat, a damp, dull heat emanating from the streets, a panting man straddling my hips, a single marigold swaying in a vase on the nightstand. And then, glass everywhere. The vase, shattered. My cry, muffled by his salty palm. Blood sinking into the floorboards.

And by God, what dragged me back was her voice, because she was still talking!

“–said that they were everywhere, growing like weeds by the side of the road, except who would call those weeds? They’re so pretty. And–” She finally took a good look at me. I realised I could not see her clearly through the tears welling in my eyes. I sniffled, and gave the book back to her. “Have I– offended you?” she asked, visibly worried.

I forced a smile. “No. No, I– I am simply– I–” I cut myself off. I couldn’t think clearly in the moment; I couldn’t even come up with a good lie. This is a disaster, was the first thing she told me. And what a disaster indeed. “Turn around. I changed my mind.”

How could I do this to her? We were so close to the palazzo – we’d be there within minutes. I saw the gate in the distance. But I couldn’t lead her there, could I? I needed time to think.

The girl with the old journal, the girl with the marigold, the girl pretending to enjoy it! God, I might have as well reached for a mirror. What if I could save her? And what if she was only worth saving, because she was me?

She furrowed her brows. “I do apologise–”

“You did not offend me,” I assured her. “I want to go somewhere else. Follow me.”

I took her to the shore, that same place where descent into sea was steep, and the view was beautiful. I could not see much in the dark, but the hum of the waves alone was enough to soothe me.

I sat down on the sand, and she sat next to me. Why was she still there? I wondered. She had every reason to believe I was not of sound mind, at the very least. And I would not stop her had she decided to walk away. I presumed she was curious, or impoverished enough to take the chance.

I was terrible at this. Master would be upset. This was not what I was supposed to be doing.

“Tell me about yourself,” I said.

“Is that what you would have me do? Talk?” She seemed amused, but not unwilling to entertain the idea.

“Yes.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Have you ever been in love?” I asked. “Not… this. Not Ambra.”

She thought about it. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Well, there was my neighbour. A very handsome boy, he was, and not too poor. We talked, he had a nice smile. He kissed me. I dreamed that one day he might knock on my door and ask father for my hand.”

I nodded. “But he didn’t?”

She giggled. “I hear he impregnated some other girl and denounced the child. That poor thing,” she said, exasperated, not looking in my direction. “So young, and unmarried, and that– I must confess, I would suffer the lost love, if there ever was any, rather than the unexpected childbirth.”

“Unexpected childbirth?” I repeated. “As opposed to an expected one, which is not quite as harrowing?”

She laughed out loud. “It would be anticipated after marriage, perhaps. And then I could be prepared!”

I chose not to bring up her line of… work. Maybe she knew something I didn’t.

“So you do wish to have children one day?” I asked instead. “A family?”

“It’d mean a life better than this.” She paused. “So I feel forced to say yes.”

“Forced by whom?”

She pondered the question. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “Everyone. What other path is there?”

“There are many paths. I don’t want to have children,” I disclosed with a shrug.

I am a child, I thought. Master’s child. I have never considered anything else.

“Why not?” She asked, puzzled. “Are you not rich? Your kids would have it easy!”

I shook my head. “I am merely wealthy by association. And I wish to do other things with my life.”

“Such as?”

“Such as travel. Such as learn a new language. Such as play the viol very well.”

“You can do all that with children. And a wife.”

“But I do not want to,” I said. “I’m selfish. You could be, too.”

She said nothing, but her eyes sparkled, and she was grinning now, showing all of her slightly crooked teeth. I liked that. It added a certain imperfection to her otherwise pristine little face. I was giving her hope, wasn’t I? I was reckless.

“You were right,” I told her. “I do come from… Hindustan. But Amadeo is my name.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is it? The one you were born with?”

“Yes,” I lied. “And what name were you born with?”

She didn’t respond for a long while. “Lucetta,” she finally said. “My mom used to call me Luce when I was younger. She said once I entered a room, no other light was needed.”

I took a deep breath. “And you truly do not have anyone else?”

Lucetta shook her head. “My grandparents are dead, so is mom. Her death… it really took a toll on all of us, but especially my father. He– he’s really not well, these days. I had a brother, but I haven’t seen him or heard from him in years. He’s probably dead, too.”

Perhaps bringing her to Marius would provide an outcome most merciful to her circumstances.

“Hm.” I hummed. “You said your father fished for money before he got… unwell, but your grandfather was an educated artist and traveller. You know how to read, you said you write things down in his old journal. That is most unusual.”

She nodded. “Ah. I did not grow up as a fisher-girl. Nor as a whore, for that matter. I grew up in a beautiful house with a mother that loved me very much and then… I was never loved again, I suppose. Not in the right way.”

I tilted my head to the side. The more I learned about her, the more peculiar she appeared to me. “What is the right way to be loved?” I asked.

She looked at me as if it was obvious. “Without reason, and without expectation.”

I scoffed. How would I know I was loved if I could not fulfil one’s expectations to ensure it?

But there was something else, besides her skewed definition of love, that caught my attention. Something very odd.

“Your mother,” I circled back. “How did she die?”

“She fell ill. After she passed, my father sent me away up north to live with my grandpa for a while. Father claimed he needed time to gather himself, but– Well, suddenly there was no home to come back to, and my brother had been sent away for work. So I stayed with grandpa, but he died, too, and I could not keep the farm as he did. Everything just… fell apart.”

I couldn’t help but place her against what Matteo had told me about his life. A dead mother, and a father that was unwell since her passing. A rich childhood than took quite the pitiful turn. Even a farm up north. Farmhouse, said Matteo, which was close enough. But it couldn’t be. He never mentioned a sister, and surely, there were many wealthy Venetians that lost their fortune in one way or another. It would be insane to except them to be connected.

Now that I thought about it, Matteo’s hair did seem reddish when the sun hit him just right. And he sure had the freckles to match Lucetta’s.

The possibility continued to nag at me. Maybe if I made sure, once and for all.

“And your bother? You said he was sent away?”

“Yes. I don’t know where. Dad says he’s paying off our debt, but why wouldn’t he write to me in the meantime?” She sounded genuinely offended. “He is either a slave with no means of getting to a pen and paper, or he is dead.”

I had to ask. And I had to be ready for whatever her answer would be.

I turned to the waves, pretending to be mildly interested at best. “What’s his name?”

“Matteo,” she said, amused. “Why? Do you think you can find him and ensure a happy reunion?”

I closed my eyes. Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

I shouldn’t have pushed. I shouldn’t have asked! Now–

I’d been afraid that Marius would kill her if I brought her to him. Now I was afraid he’d do something worse. It was too late to let her go, wasn’t it?

Chapter Text

The situation I've found myself in was most unfortunate.

What would happen if I took Lucetta to Marius?

I saw it quite clearly: we’d enter the palazzo, Marius would be waiting in the living room, the big one downstairs, the one with the always-cold floor and the never-lit fireplace. I’d lead Lucetta to him, and he’d take her by the hand. He’d look at me, say, you did well, beloved, and then he’d bite her. She’d scream, of course, and her eyes would go all big and wet as she’d glance at me for help. But I’d have already realised the inevitability of her fate, so I’d simply watch it unfold. Her life for my eternity. Was it selfish to desire it, even at such a price?

Or worse. I’d lead Lucetta to Master, and he’d read her mind. He’s read our minds, and he’d come to know the strange truth of her identity as well as my undeniable fondness towards her. He’d take her by the hand, and tell her, follow me. He’d take her to bed, because she was young and beautiful and ruined, exactly as he preferred them. He’d keep her like he kept me. And what would he need me for, then?

Even worse still. Marius would take her to Matteo, and he’d say, did you know your sister was a whore? And then he’d keep her. He’d keep her like he kept Matteo, having collected the complete sibling-set of poor, indebted souls with nowhere else to go.

Which was more cruel, I wondered, life or death, were it to be dealt by my Master?

What would happen if I didn’t take Lucetta to Marius?

The thought was terrifying! The one task he’d given me was to bring someone in, so I couldn’t return with nothing! What if I’d let her go, and choose somebody else? Was there any possible outcome of tonight’s events that would please Master once he’d see it all unfolding inside my head? I could try to obscure some parts of it, but locking everything away would be of no use against Marius – he’d know what to search for. He’d know there was too much time missing at such a crucial point of my education.

Letting Lucetta go would mean that I was soft, and flawed, and not worthy of eternity. Bringing her in while conflicted about doing so would hardly be an improvement: it’d mean weakness, and it’d illuminate my shortcomings.

“You don’t want to fuck me,” said Lucetta suddenly, getting my attention.

What were we even talking about? Her brother? She seemed to be long past it, and I was lost within my thoughts.

I looked at her, tilting my head to the side. “Hm?”

“You wanted to,” she said. “At first, yes, when you offered to bring me to your house. But then I started to talk, and talk, and talk, and now you don’t want to fuck me anymore.”

Was that what occupied her? Curious. I wouldn’t mind it, which was not much of an indication of any deep feelings. I’d fuck anyone if the circumstances called for it. Wouldn’t I?

“Perhaps I do want to fuck you,” I said with a smile. I did not mean to be crude; I saw that she needed the validation. “But I won’t.”

I’ve fucked too much. I’ve been fucked too much, and it means nothing at all, and I can fake it too well. That’s what I wished to say. Maybe she was the only one who could ever comprehend the sentiment.

She stared at me as if I spoke in another language. “Why? That’s the whole point–”

“What else do you enjoy?” I asked her. “There must be something to keep you afloat, other than… this. Other than whatever you force Ambra into.”

“I don’t– force–” She paused, a deep line forming between her brows. “Well, I like to sew,” she said after a while. “I’ve sewn many clothes for myself and my father, and I reckon that brought me joy. Alas, it is not possible to–”

I had an idea. It was not a particularly good idea, and I knew it’d cost me.

“If you could start over, would you?” I asked her.

She furrowed her brows. “Start what over?”

“Everything. If you could find yourself in a different place, perhaps, where nobody knew you, and you could earn a living with your sewing, would you? Would that make you happy?”

“I– Yes, I suppose, but–”

“Give me that journal.”

She scrunched up her nose. “You– I really don’t understand,” she said, but she did pull it out. “What are you going to do with it?”

“Nothing you’d mind,” I assured her, reaching for the book. She gave it to me, and I flipped through the pages until I found an empty one. “You said you write things down sometimes. What do you write with? I need that as well.”

She handed me a long, thin piece of blunt charcoal, which made sense; upon considering her grandfather’s sketches once more, they did look like charcoal was his medium.

“Thank you,” I said, positioning myself so that she could not see the page when I started to draw. “Tell me another story,” I urged her in the meantime. “The one about your grandfather, how he was taken by pirates? I am very curious.”

“You are quite strange,” she said, raising an eyebrow at me.

Yet it was clear that she did not mind, or that she was too eager to tell the story to mind. I half-listened as she recounted her grandfather’s adventures, half-focused on my sketch of her.

Of course, it could never turn out as masterfully as The Pale Amadeo, which was what I called Giotto’s portrait of me that was actually titled Amadeo Against Sunset. It hung in the wide hallway leading up to Master’s bedroom, between two ancient swords he liked to display there as well.

But did it matter? Would she care about perfection?

The fact that she was speaking, or even moving, did not bother me, nor did it cause a slight upon my work. I liked how passionate she was, and how invested in her grandfather’s life she seemed – so I drew her smiling. Really, truly smiling, her lips stretched into a proud, loving grin, her face half-turned to the side, her eyes aflame with a familiar longing.

“Are you drawing me?” she asked when I was nearly done.

“Yes,” I confirmed with a laugh. “Keep talking.”

“But would it not be easier if I were still?”

I shook my head. “No.” Posing would ruin it all. She was too real to pose.

And so she kept talking, and I kept sketching. She looked her best when she was happy, I thought, even just temporarily so. When she was proud of her family, when she was hopeful I’d help her in the end. I wanted to.

When I was done with the drawing, I wrote Lucetta, Venice Town in the bottom right corner of the page, precisely as her grandfather did for the others he immortalised inside his little book. I’ll admit – I was curious to know what she was writing about, so I peeked at the previous page. There were no drawings there, merely a few neatly noted dates along with various amounts of money. I guessed it must have been how much she earned, and it was not much at all. I flipped the page back to my sketch. An image of her was smiling at me from the parchment.

I drew in a flower in her hair, tucked behind her ear; a marigold, naturally. She did not know it, and she never would know it, but that very flower may have diverted her life to an entirely different path.

I held the journal up and turned it around towards her.

She stopped talking, gasped at the drawing of herself, and took the book from me. “I didn’t expect it to be good!” she announced, which made me giggle. “Oh! I– I didn’t think it’d be bad, no, but you are an artist! You were too generous in your depiction of me, though. I am not this… beautiful.” She snickered, and even in the dark, I saw her cheeks burn.

“Of course you are,” I insisted, cocking my head to the side to look at her. “When you talk about something you truly care about, you are. You should do so more often.”

I reached for her face and caressed her cheek with the back of my palm. I noticed that I left a dark smudge on her skin as I moved my hand; the charcoal. It was just like the smudge she wiped with my handkerchief earlier – she must have been writing something then. Tallying her pitiful earnings? She was worth so much more than those numbers. Priceless, in fact. The tragedy was that she did not realise it, or the world squandered her before she could realise it. I didn’t want to fuck her. I did want to kiss her, but I would not do so.

“Why are you so kind to me?” she asked softly. “It scares me, to be frank.”

I knew what she meant. Kindness was rarely unconditional.

Who would not be missed?

“You remind me of someone,” I told her. Me, I wanted to say, but instead I settled on, “My sister.” It was a lie, but one I told in good faith. “I wish there was somebody who would have helped her.”

She hesitated. “What happened to her?”

“She met a very wealthy man,” I whispered. “And he fucked her. Then he killed her.”

Lucetta’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

She turned her head to the side, and she sat there, on the sand, gently petting the cover of her grandfather’s journal. She looked at the waves, and I looked with her; the sea was unusually calm that day.

“Are you going to help me?” she asked after a while.

I bit down on my bottom lip. She’d follow me anywhere if I asked her to, or so I imagined. I could have still taken her to the palazzo. She trusted me, as much as she could have in that bizarre moment. But I thought about Delhi, I thought about marigolds blooming through the dirt on the filth-roads leading up to the brothel, I thought about Lucetta crying over her withered journal here in Venice, and I thought about Matteo. Matteo, my best friend… my only friend. He’d forgive me for what I had in mind, were he to ever find out. But he would not forgive me if I brought her to Marius.

She’d be missed.

Matteo would miss her. I’d miss her.

“It is almost dawn,” I said. “That ship over there.” I pointed to the vessel docked at its usual berth not far from where we were sitting. It seemed dark and quiet, but it would not be so for long. “Will depart along with the sun rising. You will board it, and you will talk to the captain. You will tell him that Marius de Romanus sent you, and you will pay him to take you to the next port. Or the one after that, whatever you want.”

She watched me closely, clearly not understanding why this was the best conclusion to her time here. “What?” she finally asked, her voice unusually high. “I don’t– Who is Marius de Romanus? Where’s the next port?”

“Hispania, I suppose” I said. It was not particularly far; not like my journey from Delhi. “They mainly trade in spices, but I’ve seen people on deck. Going back and forth. Paying the captain.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve sat here many times, watching the sun rise and fall. Watching the boats come and go. Watching people get on and off,” I said.

I recognised some of the boats by then. I knew the usual captain of that particular one, too – he was a decent man, despite his sparse dealings with Marius. He loved his coin, and he did not care for much else; he always took his payment in gold, which, in that moment, reassured me greatly. Out of sheer curiosity, I’d talked to some of the people leaving his boat, too, and they had always been clear: for the right price, the journey was smooth.

“And Marius?”

“My father,” I answered quickly. “Do not use that name after today. It draws…” I trailed off. “Hm. Unwanted attention.”

She chuckled. “You really think I can leave? But my father–”

I scoffed under my breath. “He threw you out. Do it to spite him, if you must. Take the boat, and find work. Ah! Take this.” I pulled out a small pouch of coins I had on me, and handed it to her. It was more than enough to guarantee a safe trip. “In fact,” I said as I started to take rings off my fingers. I had five on that day, all shiny, and expensive, and colourful, and wanted her to have them. “Take these, too. It should be enough for a while, if you sell it well.” I passed her the jewellery, then started to unfasten the brooch from my dublet. It had a sizeable emerald embedded into the metal, much larger than the rings could accommodate.

My proposal seemed to disturb her. “But I can’t– This is really too much, I– Why do I need to leave?” She sounded rather panicked. “Venice is my home, the only one I’ve known! I– I need time to think, at least!”

I took her by the hand, and one by one, I slid the rings onto her fingers. When I saw that they fit her perfectly, I glanced at my own hands, slim and fragile. We were just alike, were we not?

Lucetta might have thought that she had time, but she did not. I took too much of an interest in her, and if she was to stay here, it’d take no effort at all to track her. If she swam away, she had a chance. Who knew where she’d end up? She may decide to get off at the first port, she may decide to keep going. There would be no reunion with Matteo, of course, but I was certain he would have preferred it that way. Keep her oblivious to his current engagements, get her out of here, help her. That’s what he’d want.

“I will not force you,” I told her. “But I do wish my sister could have had that chance.”

Lucetta pondered her position, or at least I presumed that’s what she was doing. The sky was beginning to lighten into a reddish sunrise. I was afraid she’d refuse.

“Come with me,” she said, both of her warm, delicate hands covering mine. “You said you wanted to travel. You don’t want children, you don’t want a wife. What’s keeping you here? Travel with me!”

I looked at her, surprised. How could she think that? How could she want to leave with me? She didn’t even know me! And the most absurd part was that I considered saying yes. Against my better judgement, against everything I’ve ever wanted with Marius, in a fleeting, flickering moment of carelessness, I longed to agree. I could picture it, my arm wrapped around her waist as I walked to the boat, as I told the captain, on Marius’ orders, take us away. And he would.

But then what?

I would chase after you to the ends of the Earth itself. That’s what he told me. At the time, I heard a declaration of love, but now I heard a warning. There would be no leaving Master’s side, I realised, unless on his explicit order. He might not waste resources on Lucetta, but if I ran away with her… I felt my face burn with embarrassment. What was I thinking? I did not want to go anywhere! I loved Marius! I wanted to be with Marius! This– this was–

What was this?

Come with me, I almost told her. There is one thing I need to take from my home, and then we shall leave. And I almost lead her to the palazzo in the end. Almost.

“No. I’m sorry,” I said instead. I took my hands away from hers, and I stood up: I felt that I needed to move somehow, to shake myself out of these strange thoughts. “No, I cannot come with you. This is your journey to take, your– your life to live. Don’t ask again.”

She looked disappointed, but then she said, “Very well. Since I do think you wish me well, I will do as you say.” She stood up, too, and came up to me. “You are a good man. I did not think there were any of those left, but here you are,” she told me, and then she hugged me.

She pushed herself close to me, and her body was so, so warm; I was quite unused to the feeling since Master was never that. She squeezed me tightly, but it did not feel sexual – it felt familial, I supposed. Like she was embracing a long lost brother. Maybe she wished it was Matteo helping her, sending her off into the sunrise. I was fine with that, so I returned the gesture, my hands resting gently on her back. She smelled like fish but not the disgusting, rotten kind; like the sea-fresh, salty kind that one might queue for at the dock at dawn.

Speaking of dawn. After a minute or so, I pushed her away softly, keeping her at arm’s length. “It is time to go,” I said.

“One more thing,” she whispered, her eyes bright and determined, locked into mine.

I raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Tell me your real name.”

I blinked at her slowly. “Amadeo is–”

“No, it is not!” She laughed. “Please. We may never meet again. I told you mine!

Without a word, I started to take off my coat.

“What are you–”

I reached around her, and threw the material over her shoulders. It suited her – the deep purple complemented her skin perfectly, and brought out the green in her eyes. “When you get there, tell them you sewed it,” I said. “You sewed the coat, and you are exceptionally proud of it. You didn’t fasten the thread tightly enough at one of the sleeves, and it has sadly come apart, but you have learned from your mistake.”

She held her arms up and examined the sleeves, the right one torn apart indeed – evidence of my constant restlessness embedded into the otherwise thick, sturdy fabric.

“You’re telling me to lie?” she teased.

I smiled widely. “Yes,” I said. “And you can give me any name you want.”

“Ah. I will not pry, but one day, you will regret not telling me,” she said softly, then she shrugged her shoulders. “Amadeo it is. Goodbye, Amadeo.”

Lucetta knew more of me than she realised; or perhaps she realised it all too well.

“Goodbye, Lucetta,” I said.

And I stood there, alone on the sand, and watched her walk to the ship; her radiant, curly hair falling down her purple, wealthy back. She turned around just before boarding, and she looked in my direction, raising her hand to wave at me.

I waved back.

The sun was rising, and the boat, as well as the docks at large, slowly filled with people. I saw her talk to the captain, I saw her give him the coins, I saw him nodding appreciatively and gesturing on board.

It worked.

It worked, and she was saved. Well, maybe. Possibly.

Once I could barely make out a small, gliding point that was once her ship, the sun was already high up, and I was left with nothing. No meal for Marius, no coat and no jewellery, either. Again, I contemplated whether I should search for someone else to bring to the palazzo, but there was no point in that, was there?

I came back to the palazzo empty-handed and horrified of what was to come. I did have a plan, but I suspected I was not skilled enough to enact it.

My short acquaintance with Lucetta was over, and in the grand scheme of things, it was completely inconsequential. A silly little girl wanted my attention; and I had briefly given it to her. She wanted to travel the world with me, and I would not entertain the idea. There was not much to mull over. That’s what I’d think. What I’d claim to be true, because it was. It was undeniably true.

Marius was, exactly as I imagined, waiting for me in the living room, the one with the cold floor. He was sitting on the sofa, but as soon as he saw me, he stood up and walked to me.

“What happened?” he asked.

His tone made me wince. I bowed in front of him, my hair falling over my face. “I could not find anyone suitable,” I said, which, at the very core of the matter, was true. “I– tried, Master. But none of them are good enough for you. You deserve… the best.”

There was no right choice, was there? Nothing that’d have satisfied him. Not bringing her here, not letting her go alone, not leaving with her. Especially not leaving with her.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

Did he know? Did he already know everything?

My body still bent forward, I tilted my head up, giving him my most honest, big-eyed expression of submission. He adored it, always. Yet this time, his eyes grew frigid under my gaze, and I felt his mind reaching into mine.

I knew he'd do so, and I knew I could not keep the night from him, but I made an attempt to conceal the worst parts of it. If I presented myself as eagerly open, I thought, if I offered my weakness freely and repentantly, the finer details of the situation, such as Lucetta's familial ties, might be lost inside a deep, dark drawer of the hut, and he might not ever think to open it.

I welcomed the brutality of his mind’s intrusion. A fleeting grimace of pain twisted my face as I kept bowing in front of him, but I stayed still otherwise. The feeling was approaching unbearable: his will poured into my mind like water just to freeze solid at once, expanded inside my skull beyond what should ever be possible. It might have killed me at any moment, I suspected – my head would explode or it’d fall apart, crumble into tiny shards of ice all over the floor.

Master kept tearing through my efforts at keeping something, anything, hidden. He was inside of me, his mind was inside of mine, and he was digging. Digging, digging, digging, sharp fingers scraping at my soul like impossibly long nails against a dull whetstone. It made me shiver, it made me nauseous, it made me want to surrender everything to him. I felt my bottom lip quiver with the strain of whatever resistance I tried to cling to.

Lucetta was a foolish distraction that I entertained for a night. A sweet one, perhaps. But, and I saw that clearly, she was not someone I should have ever aligned myself with in any way. I made a terrible mistake by approaching her at all.

Wait.

Was he doing that? Was he putting these thoughts into my head? If so, was he deliberately not trying too hard, because he wanted me to feel it?

I could not take it. As quite a pitiful last resort, I tried one more thing – I dragged whatever I deemed not truly incriminating out of my hut, and I hurled it over to the meadow. Master knew about the meadow, so naturally, that's where he’d look. Nothing else existed, I thought. Nothing. No house. No house, no house, no house, but look at this beautiful, open field, full of every embarrassing idea I've ever had, full of how terribly sorry I felt for Lucetta, and full of…

With a quiet sob, I let it go. I let him in. Look right there, look, look, look! It was torture to experience it once more; Lucetta crying on the street, Lucetta wiping snot off her face, the marigold in her journal, me sketching her on the shore, her saying come with me, and nothing in-between, no, nothing in-between, no brother, no sister, no, nothing.

For a moment, I did not feel my physical body: all that existed was my strained consciousness and the flood of Master's will within me.

“You think yourself a saviour. How curious,” he finally said. His voice came as if from underwater. “Look at me.”

I was shaking, I was crying, I was on my knees in front of him with my eyes shut tightly, but I opened them and tried to focus.

I expected Marius to be furious, but it did not appear he was – he watched me from above, his expression mildly irritated at best, and I could read the precisely as I suspected from his motionless lips. He did tell me I was too weak the previous night. He did. And I proved him right.

“You look like the sun adores you,” he said, his voice mocking and forcibly high-pitched.

I felt myself grow crimson from embarrassment from the tips of my ears all the way to the middle of my chest. There was no answer I could think to give. None that would matter.

“Is that the kind of sentiment that stirs your blood now? From such a banal girl, no less. Your mind, Amadeo, remains unformed, your spirit so woefully susceptible to softness! I begin to wonder if you will ever grasp the lessons I meant to instill in you.”

I shook my head, raising my trembling hands up as if in prayer, pleading. No, no, no, I begged desperately. I knew what he meant. He meant, you were so very close to eternity, but yet again, you have squandered your chance. I was such a damned fool. An embarrassment to my Master, to my Father, the one I have ever truly aimed to please! I should have taken her here, I should have!

“It– it was a momentary lapse! I felt… compassion towards her misfortune,” I said, tears stinging my eyes. My heart was pounding. “I– I didn’t know what to do, it felt like she’d be missed, and I– Please, Master! The bite would reward–”

“The bite,” said Marius, “is no reward. It is a wretched burden, an irreversible inscription upon the soul! Your every flaw of thought and feeling, would be cast in iron. Eternal. Incurable. Every defect, immortalised. It cannot be so, Amadeo, as you do not comprehend the gravity of it.”

My shoulders shook as I attempted to stifle sob after sob after sob. A defect, that’s what he saw in me, that’s what he was afraid of preserving? A defect!

If the bite was not a reward, then what was it? Did he not indirectly promise it as a reward for my obedience? I could not keep up with his reasoning.

I needed to do something, anything, if there was any chance of proving myself still.

“I love you,” I insisted, my words unsteady but honest. “I love you, Master. I love you! And my love, that– that is eternal. There is nothing I long for more earnestly than to be eternal with y-you. I am yours, Master, please, please! I will improve myself, but– the time, Master! It’s running out!”

I was choked up, the words spilling out of my mouth before I could think about them. I leaned forward and, still kneeling, wrapped both hands around Marius’ hips, and pressed myself into him, my cheek rubbing against his groin, the most ugly, violent sob bursting from my lips. It could not be so; he could not leave me like this, could he? Would he?

Master took a deep breath, then wiped my cheek with his cool palm. “I love you, too,” he said, and as I looked up at him, equally hopeful and mortified, I saw him licking my tears off his fingers. He hummed, his eyes half-closed. “But affection, I am afraid, is no true testament to merit. As delightful as you are to me on your knees, you are not ready. Perhaps you never will be.”

I shook my head, but before I answered, he continued speaking.

“But fear not, my beloved.” His voice was low and unbearably tender. Why was it tender? He should be so much angrier! He should be livid! There should be rage! It made no sense. “My Amadeo. My cherished little cherub, adorned with sorrow. Even as your body is ripening, you remain–” He paused, his eyes suddenly open wide, his hand slipping into my hair, fist painfully closing at the back of my head. I felt him grow hard against my cheek, a strange but familiar type of heat emanating from him. “God help me, you remain a vision of beauty. Especially like this.”

I smiled through the panic-tears, my mouth watering in a completely involuntary but welcome response. Yes, I thought. Yes, thank Heavens, he wants me. He desires me, still.

So there was hope. Maybe I could turn it around.

“Yes,” I said, nodding enthusiastically. I reached under his tunic, and I was shaking all over, my whole body burning for him. “Yes, and I could remain like this forever, Master. Forever like this. Forever with you. Forever yours.”

His grip on my hair tightened, and it hurt when he pulled me closer. “You certainly believe that,” he mumbled, his hips rocking slightly. I felt as a shiver ran through him under my careful fingertips. “I have heard enough. Now open.”

I did as he said. For him, I was always open. As my hands slipped under his clothes to pull his hard cock out, I was already waiting, salivating at the sight of him, my lips were half-parted and eager, my tongue rolled over my teeth just so to cushion the inside of my mouth for him. It was beautiful, I concluded then, and I was incredibly fortunate, that he desired me. Still. Still, after every blemish upon my soul have been exposed, he desired me.

From my part, it was worship. It was careful, skilful worship, my lips wrapped around him tightly, my cheeks hollowed out as I sucked. He was gripping the back of my head, and he pulled me closer, closer, closer, until I could feel the tip of his dick sliding against the back of my throat, making my eyes water and the muscles in my neck spams. I knew what to expect by then – I knew to breathe through my nose, I knew to relax, I knew to remain still with my gaze turned upwards as he kept my head steady, my curls wrapped around his fist, and he began to fuck my mouth however he pleased. I hummed deep within myself, deep in my throat, a few trickles of saliva making their way down my chin.

“So eager, my Amadeo,” he grunted, thrusting into my mouth harder, making my mind spin. “So warm, so, ah, alive.”

Alive.

With that last word, his pleasure reached its peak, his seed flowing down my throat, thick and smooth like honey, except there was not a single tinge of sweetness to it. It was sharp, bitter, metallic; a chewed up grapefruit peel soaked in blood. I swallowed it all in a few gulps, but I knew that if I hadn’t, if even a drop made its way out of my mouth, it would have been pinkish, tinted with blood.

“Do not come to my bed tonight,” he said once he withdrew his hips.

His words perplexed me. I always came to his bed! Whenever he was home, I always came, and he always wanted me! “Why–”

“It appears I must arrange for my own meal, does it not, Amadeo?” he said, his voice flat and emotionless. He began fixing his clothes up, and my arms fell limply down my sides.

What? He– he said he loved me! He called me a vision. A vision of beauty! He said–

“But Master,” I pleaded, swallowing hard. I could still taste it – him – not even halfway down my throat yet. “You can feed from me! At any time,” I insisted, still on my knees.

“I am aware,” he said. “Similarly, I am aware that there is no act filthy enough for you to refuse it. The burden lies with me.”

The burden of what? Refusal?

I opened my mouth, then closed it. Not only was I pathetic, I was a pathetic whore, wasn’t I?

He didn’t say it; he didn’t have to. It was all there, all inside his half-gentle, half-mocking gaze. Unfortunately, he was correct. I would not refuse him anything.

Was that what this was about?

“I’m– I–” I tried, but I wasn’t able to gather my thoughts.

“Moreover,” he cut me off. “You shall assist Matteo at the cistern today.”

“The… cistern? But Master, I'm not–”

Not a servant, I wanted to say, but once more, he interrupted me.

“What are you, then? Do tell me.”

A whore?

Your whore?

He sneered, and then he said, “Lay not thy hand upon the lad, neither do thou anything unto him. For now I know that thou fearest God, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son, from me.”

I looked up at him, profoundly confused.

Oh.

Was he trying to say that it he never intended to kill whoever I brought to the palazzo? That it was a test of my willingness to follow his word without hitch, which I failed? Or was I the son that needed to be readied for slaughter, and his was the word that saved me from it?

“I don’t–”

Understand, I meant to say, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so, because Master was already walking away. He did not look back.

It was the first evening I spent with him, all over again; kneeling in front of him, offering myself, swearing to do anything. Anything! And it was still not enough. It was never enough.

As I helped Matteo at the cistern later that day, I felt dead. Did any of this even matter? I wondered as I hauled two stupid buckets of water up to the palazzo. I made such a horrid mess out of my life, I could hardly imagine it going any more disastrously.

Matteo was being very kind to me, which was most irritating at my fragile state of mind. I stared at him, sweat dripping down my face, and he was nowhere near as exerted, and he was smiling. Smiling! And he was taking to me, too, as if any of his stupid, empty words mattered in the face of my suffering!

I was painfully aware of the fact that I’ve backed myself into a corner. I did not want to lie to Matteo, but I couldn’t tell him the truth, either. Selfishly, I was afraid that if he knew about Lucetta, he’d realise there was someone waiting for him out there, he’d go after her, and I’d never see him again. And I would have lost Master’s respect, any chance at immortality, and my one friend, all in a single day.

Even more strangely, it was unclear to me whether Marius knew the connection between Lucetta and Matteo – he did not bring it up, and the detail seemed too important to leave out of the conversation. Which meant that in the midst of my terror, I either somehow succeeded in keeping a small part of the night hidden, or Master was simply waiting for the ideal moment. Perhaps a moment that would upset me and Matteo simultaneously. If I were Marius, that was certainly what I’d choose to do.

“You really don’t have to do this,” Matteo said, and it took me a while to understand what he was referring to.

The water. The stupid buckets. This should have been beneath me.

“I do have to,” I said, visibly annoyed and panting heavily. “In fact, it is your fault that I do.”

He laughed, but I was serious! It was his fault. If I never met him, maybe I wouldn’t have cared about Lucetta’s fate as deeply as I did. If I were not afraid to lose his friendship, I might have dragged her into the palazzo anyway. But would that matter in the end? Or did Marius never mean to offer the bite, no matter the outcome of his test? He did appear unusually unbothered by my failure.

“Is that so? What did I do?” asked Matteo, and he sounded so awfully amused and high-spirited it made me sick.

He was not the person that wronged me. But I could not confront the one that did, and Matteo was there.

“Nothing. Everything!” I scoffed, setting the bucket down at last. “Only that… I’ll grow old and ugly now. Just like you, and that is rather horrible.”

He gasped, but somehow he was still grinning widely. “I’m barely twenty eight!” He chuckled. “Truly, what’s gotten into you today? Do we need to talk? I could make you something to eat.”

Twenty eight! I never want to be twenty eight, I thought. Never ever. I wished he’d acknowledge how dreadful it was to be so old, but all he did was take my distress lightly. I had no idea how to make him grasp the gravity of the situation without explaining it further, and I could not explain it any further. I was seeking a fight, I supposed, but I didn’t find it with him. It was disgusting, how amiable he was being.

“No,” I said flatly. “I don’t want to eat, and I don’t want to talk about anything.”

I did this to myself, I thought. Try as I might to shift the blame, it would always swing right back at me.

Chapter Text

The day I let Lucetta go marked the day I’d been abandoned by the last deity concerned with my fate – that seemed like the most probable explanation of every horrific year that followed.

I thought it best to drop the matter of immortality, at least for a while. In the face of Master’s disappointment with my alleged weakness for beautiful street-girls, I sought to convince or perhaps reaffirm my usefulness by his side. I worked tirelessly to prove myself, but he did not appreciate it. The more desperate my devotion skewed, the more indifferent he became to my advances. I did not know how to be anything other than wholly obedient and utterly in love with him: that's what he taught me to be, and so I kept clinging to what I knew, and he kept dismissing it. Dismissing what he himself has constructed out of me, and tended to so carefully.

A few weeks after Lucetta’s departure to an unknown future, Master dragged me to de Benetto’s house, and he left me there for two gruelling days. I did not quite remember most of what has transpired during that time; I was drunk, I supposed, or otherwise not entirely myself. I recalled a supple, handcrafted whip he slid in and out from under his bed, and I recalled a wooden bucket with a metal handle, and I recalled the room spinning both under and above me. It was the first time Marius didn’t stay to watch; he handed me over without supervision, which, as far as I was concerned at the time, must have been a punishment for what I had done. And he must have decided that once was not enough to teach me to behave.

Because he did it again.

He took me away, and left me with them. Alone. Alone with them. It was not constant, it was not what most of my days were like. But it happened, and he was not there except to bring me to my destination, and collect me afterwards. Each time, he brought me back to health, naturally, made sure to see me through any physical incompetence.

And then he did it again.

And again.

They did whatever they wanted, and I let them, and I lay on the meadow at all hours of day and night as my own name escaped me by the end of the ordeal. I felt thoroughly detached from my body. Dehydrated, also. They didn’t feed me much, and I could take hunger well, but the thirst, cracked lips and little to no saliva to lubricate their desire, were difficult. Still, Master was there when I returned, and he desired me, somehow.

Then he did it again.

And again.

Their wishes grew stranger, yet none surprised me. Each request – here, there, Delhi, Venice, whispered, shouted, spit into my mouth – swung towards the same depravity I could never escape: perform the son, the brother, the daughter or sister, too. I could be anything. Anyone! The servant, of course, oh of course. So often the dutiful servant or compliant slave that did not speak Italian or any, as they put it, civilised language, and so he was tongue-less but also tongue-skilled beyond their wildest dreams.

It was, admittedly, rather easy when they wished for me to feign ignorance – I preferred it that way. But some wanted me to speak; recite poetry or whisper the filthiest thing they could imagine, which varied greatly. For one, touch my cock was entirely too vulgar to ever utter. For another, I'll piss on you if I please was barely enough to rattle his sensibilities, and he expected me to see it through. Some made me dance or sing. Many dressed me in foreign garments – they’d often cast me as Egyptian even though I've never been to Egypt, and was scarcely familiar with the culture. The exotic pharaoh must have seemed more titillating than the poor Delhi boy. I could understand that.

It was not long before I began to suspect none of it had anything to do with art nor politics anymore. How many uncorrupted council members were there left for Master to control? It appeared that my suffering as well as my unwavering dedication to the cause were becoming pointless at their core, and that distressed me. I feared that the only way for Marius to enjoy my company as he once used to was through torment. That my submission both thrilled and tired him. But how could I refuse it? Being irreplaceable was everything I've ever wanted.

I did it, because I loved him, I loved him, I loved him, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after miserable year, I loved him.

I loved him when he was gentle, and I loved him when he was rough. I loved him when he fucked me, and I loved him when he let others fuck me. He was the reason I could stand it at all. I loved him when he was with me, and I loved him when he was away.

And it was becoming more and more common for him to leave and give no explanation as to when he’d be back. The absences stretched and stretched, into weeks, and sometimes months, lost time to which I was not privy to. Master wouldn’t explain where he disappeared to, and I’ve long stopped asking.

I should have been grateful for the respite that Marius’ absence granted me; when he was gone, I was left to do as I pleased within the palazzo. I read then, and I painted, and I rested on his cold, empty bed, and nobody touched me at all. But even as I lay there, I remained on edge. One thought never left my mind: what if he’d never be back? What if that time he’d finally abandon me? The longer he was gone, he more anxious I grew. I was surrounded by riches, but I’d give it all up to have him. To keep him.

And the worst part was still not that he left, but that sometimes when he’d return, he would not come alone. He’d bring someone in: a boy or girl, beautiful and pale and young, younger, always so much younger than me. They’d stay for a while, and they’d paint, and they’d play, and they’d sing, and they’d be skilled, and gifted, and most grateful to him.

But Matteo was right. Even as Master revelled in their raw, prepubescent talent, he inevitably grew tired, and then it was a matter of weeks before they were gone. I did not bother learning their names, and I did not bother getting to know them, because I could not let myself get involved with another Lucetta. That might have been his point, I reckoned, to test whether I’d repeat my mistake. I never did.

In fact, seeing the wonder in their watery eyes dim as they grew used, discarded, and replaced, filled me with a sick sense of accomplishment. They might have been younger, and they might have been prettier, and some might have been far more talented than me. But I stayed. They were gone, and I stayed.

Their fate did not concern me – I presumed they were dead, drained, eaten. What of it? They were not me, were they? That he’d get rid of each of them except for me; me who aged, me who would give anything to turn back time and make myself perfect for my Master once more, was miraculous in its own right. Some days, it made me feel invincible, and some days, it chilled me to the bone.

Try as he might, Marius could not live without me, and he could not replace me. At least not yet. At least not in all those years that I spent with him, at least not with any of them.

Whenever he returned from his travels just to lock himself in with a new whore, I longed to be in their place. Not out of concern for those kids, but out of desire to please Master better than they ever could. Perhaps that made me just as cruel as he was. Perhaps that was what I aimed for.

For years, the loop persisted. Master left, and I missed him. I took my evening walk and I stepped over a dead bird in my path. Master came back, and I begged to be allowed in his bed. He let me, or he laughed, I could never be sure which one it’d be. He fucked me or he fucked someone else. I fucked someone else on his request. He took me for an evening walk, and I stepped over a dead bird in our path. The bird was always there, decaying, which was strange. He read Inferno to me, and I dreamt that I was drowning in the flames. I wished to die in my sleep, sometimes. I wished to live forever, other times. Master touched me gently and told me he loved me. I asked for the Gift, and he refused. He brought up Lucetta, and explained I was not ready. Master left, and I missed him. I took my evening walk. Like the ouroboros consuming itself, then shedding its sick, mangled skin just to bite its own tail, over and over.

Marius was right to worry about my soul.

As my twenty-seventh year approached, I found myself impatient and increasingly insecure. Master claimed to see beauty in humanity; beauty in the way my hair kept growing, beauty in the way blood pumped through my veins, beauty in the way I was still able to scrape my skin when I fell, beauty in the brittleness of my nails and the blunt edges of my teeth, and most of all, beauty in how warm my body was. He was consistently worried that in granting my wish of immortality, he'd be stripping me of something I could never get back. He insisted human existence was extraordinary, and the Dark Gift would bring me nothing but grief. I insisted my existence was only valuable with him by my side.

I kept noticing things about myself: two small lines forming between my brows whenever I pouted or frowned, the corners of my mouth creasing, deeper and deeper, when I smiled. To my terror, a persistent ever-regrowing silver strand appeared among my hair, and I was no longer perfectly smooth, the hair follicles on my chest impossibly rough under my fingertips even after my zealous attempts to shave it bare. My cheekbones seemed sharper and more pronounced, my face no longer full and beautiful in the same boyish manner Marius praised so ardently.

The shift was gradual, yes, but it was also indisputable. When he held my face, his eyes drifted away from mine too readily. He complimented my appearance still, but each time he saw me, he did so less and less eagerly. He didn’t touch me like he used to, either; his stare no longer burning hot as it spilled over me, his breath no longer lodged in his throat when I called him Master, when I pleaded take me, please, take me.

One dreadful night, as he kissed me and caressed me, he made a remark about my facial hair growing back in since I had last gotten rid of it. He pointed it out once, and then he never had to again; it was enough to devastate me all the same. I shaved everywhere, any hair that grew below the neck gone, often to the point of my body pulsating with a raw, itchy heat, forcing me to rub some moisture back into it. I tried my hardest to appeal to his tastes. I grew my hair longer and longer; spent time in the bath rubbing oils into them, making sure the ringlets of my dark curls glistened just like Botticelli's cherubs he so adored. I made myself smaller, shorter, as much as I could: I crossed my arms, crossed my legs, kept my head low.

It was not enough.

In my own mind, I stood on the precipice of my fleeting youth, and I urged myself to do something, anything to stop time. If my soul was the price, so be it. I was willing to dig it out of myself with nothing but my bare hands and the dull razor I used to shave if that was what it took. Would he turn me then?

Every hopeless frustration reaches its peak at one time or another. Once it does, it is merely a matter of time before it blows through any and all conceivable remnants of one’s composure. In my case, the explosion took place soon after I accompanied Master to an unremarkable party.

I knew their rules by then; when to smile, who to smile at, which furniture to compliment and which philosopher to evoke in response to their humble admission of wealth. I’d long secured my position among the educated Venetian society, although all novelty wears off eventually, and so did mine. I was not unwelcome, I reckoned, as long as I stayed domesticated by Marius’ side. Master's presence became the anchor that defined me whenever I went, and I never wished for it to be otherwise.

On that particular evening, I stood by Marius and held onto his glass of wine. I knew he’d never finish it, but wouldn’t dare drink out of it myself. He appeared to be somewhere far away. There was a certain indifference in his tired gaze, an absent smirk lingered on his lips as he looked through me. He barely glanced in my direction throughout the party, and then, finally, he nodded at a young girl from across the room, and he said to me:

“Is she not breathtaking?”

And she was, of course. She was young, too young; short and slim except for her round, flushed-with-joy cheeks. Her skin was smooth and so pale it seemed transparent over her frail body, her hair dark and curled around her face. Not one wrinkle soiled her expression even as she smiled, and laughed, and chuckled.

What I told Marius in the moment was, “she is.” I was ready to lunge myself at her, kill her on the spot, and I considered doing so. Instead, I kept holding onto Master’s half-empty glass that he never needed again, and I did not speak for the rest of the party.

He used to look at me with the awe of a man admiring his favourite painting. He used to touch me like I was exactly that, too. As if a careless, harsh stroke of paint might ruin me for good. He used to. Then he stopped, and what became of me was a battered canvas cracking along the edges, losing its once vivid colour, a bubble of moisture bursting from under the layers of paint, warping its beauty. And her? That girl, that breathtaking girl he liked. She was, undoubtedly, a fresh piece of art – the paint on her damp and glistening, still malleable under a wet brush-tip. I wanted to slash the canvas.

Once we arrived back at the palazzo, I couldn’t do it anymore. It’s been years. Years, I’ve loved him. Years, I’ve adored him. Years, I’ve begged him to do it! I realised that I should have been so much angrier so much sooner: at all the fucking, I supposed, at all those men that I hated. But I could explain those. I could assign purpose or penance or both to whatever was happening.

But this, this I could not stomach.

I didn’t know what to do with myself; I paced down the first-floor corridor leading to Master’s bedroom, back and forth, back and forth, over and over again, my thoughts racing. Will I ever be enough? I wondered, looking over his collection of long-useless weapons displayed neatly on the wall. My own half-open eyes beamed at me from Amadeo Against Sunset that hung right between an unsightly old sword and a shorter one with a golden handle. Was he perfect? Perhaps if he were able to step out of the canvas and take my place by Master’s side, a boy of eternal youth, right at the lush spring of his beauty, all would be well. And had that happened, what, by God, would become of me? Me! What about me?

It did not take Master long to notice my unsavoury mood. The door to his room swung open, and he stepped out, his vest unbuttoned.

“I feel your displeasure through the wall,” he told me. “You are being absurd. What is the matter?”

His annoyance was like a slap across the face. The matter? What was the matter? The fact that he would pose such a question at all outraged me.

Years! It’s been years, and that’s what I got out of them?

“Am I breathtaking?” I asked, and I did not mean to sound as pathetic as I did, but once the words were out of my mouth, there was no taking it back. I hesitated as I felt my heart drop all the way down to my stomach, my insides turning over themselves, bracing for the truth. “Am I, Master? Or are you seeking to replace me? Discard me?”

Marius sighed deeply, looked up at the ceiling as if awaiting some sort of divine intervention. “I thought such insecurity was long behind us,” he said slowly, impatiently. “Do not lower yourself to an act of trivial jealousy.”

He made me feel small, and stupid and, above all, quite ugly. I grimaced, crossing my hands over my chest. “You reprimand me like a child,” I said. “At the same time, you think me aged beyond desirability. You– you haven’t touched me in months, and your gaze lingers… just never on me. Say it is not true.” My voice cracked, and I dug my nails into my crossed upper arms in an attempt to keep it together.

I could see the line in-between Master’s eyebrows deepen, the corners of his mouth twitching in annoyance, and for a moment, I wanted to grab my own words mid-air and stuff them back into my mouth, then just say nothing at all, make no problem out of my own childish hurt. My fate could never be foreseen, because it swung between too young to handle eternity and too old to satisfy Marius’ deepest desires. He had all the time in the world; but mine was running out.

I wanted the truth. What he offered instead was an exasperated gasp of, “Amadeo.” Once again, as if forced to explain something trivial, he started saying, “physical beauty is hardly the only enticing quality–”

And there it was. As close to a confirmation of my downfall as he could have given without admitting that he’d waited too long. Was it too late?

“Ah, wonderful,” I cut in, my voice ridiculously high, adrenaline rushing through me. “Do you even want me? Do you? Do you even love me?! Answer me!”

I felt each little hair at the back of my neck prickle up in warning as Marius laughed loudly, no amusement in his voice. “Whose house are you living in? Whose food are you eating?” he asked, taking a step towards me. Instinctively, I took a step back. “Who pays for the very clothes on your back? Who grants your every whim, who allows your ludicrous, twice-weekly perfumed baths? Who–”

Too late, I thought. While he was still speaking, I started to undress. I unbuttoned my doublet, threw it to the ground. I yanked my shirt open, and a few buttons rolled down the floor as I did.

“Take it then!” I screamed, fighting with the layers of fabric, pulling it all off as if having the material touch me burned right through my skin. My fingers shook as I pulled down the hose and stepped out of them. “Take the clothes, take the food! All of it, I don’t want it! I don’t fucking care,” I wailed, tears rolling down my cheeks; I could not tell if Marius was surprised or outraged, because my vision blurred at once. I was trembling. “I’d rather be naked! Starving! Filthy! Than go a day without your love! It kills me that you d-don’t want me!”

I sniffled, attempting to wipe my face, but all I did was smudge the still-flowing tears and snot all over myself. Marius’ hand wrapped around my arm, and I saw his lips moving, moving, moving, his eyebrows furrowed in not-quite anger, but all I heard was the deafening hum of my own blood. I took a breath, yet felt as if no air filled my lungs at all, so I breathed harder, and harder, and quicker, until the world spun around me.

“–in no state to discuss such matters.” Some of his words finally got to me, and I felt him tug at my arm. “I shall help you back to your–”

“No! No! No!” I pulled myself away from his grip, and swayed on my feet. He reached for me as if to not let me fall, but I took another step back. “Tell me the truth! Am I ugly? When you fuck me, do you think about some child-whore you saw at a party? Do you?! Why won’t you just turn me, Master? I love you! I love you! I love you! I love you, but does it matter? Does it matter if soon, I will be that dead bird by the road?”

He blinked slowly. “What bird–”

“The bird!” It was clear; it should be so clear. Weeks, months, months of looking at its decomposing body, and he never noticed? “You take me for a walk, and there it is, for months now, a dead bird just outside the palazzo. Do you not feel its soft carcass give in under your feet as you walk over it? Do you not see a flash of sun reflected in the feathers?”

“This is nonsense, Amadeo!” He sounded almost-panicked in his confusion. “There is no bird, you’re having an attack. I do not understand what–”

“How can you not understand!” I felt myself vibrating with emotion. Tears still streamed down my face, down my neck, down my chest. “You can have my every thought, every desire, and you do not understand?! When I am dead, and you know, you know I will be dead soon, what will become of my mortal body? A curled up, broken little corpse by the side of the road that the sad servant takes note of, that the Master steps over? Rotten flesh that returns right to the ground, nothing but bare bones and shiny plume for all to gawk at? You refuse to turn me, and so, you will have to kill me, because I can’t live like this! I can’t! I won’t!”

Could he not see it; the inescapable future of my flesh fit for nothing except a beautiful burial? My body, the body that I cared for so desperately to satisfy him, to keep his attention, to prove my worth, my readiness to serve? The food, the clothes, the baths, it was for me to enjoy, but it was for him, too; so that his eyes needn’t see the truth of my aging, so that his hands needn’t touch anything as unworthy as my own filthy, unperfumed self.

I was the finest foreign bird one could dream of, but once dead, I would be useless and trampled over, and there would be nothing left of me except a pile of torn-up hair-feathers that served as no sustenance to the earth and all-sustenance to the noblemen’ gossip.

“You are not in your right mind!” He screamed back. “You cannot expect me to feed into this delusion! I will not apologise for only ever wanting what’s best–”

“Delusion!” I scoffed. How could he say that? How could he say that when I’ve done the unspeakable for him? I was furious. “Am I wrong, then, to assume you are losing interest in me? What can I do to satisfy your desires, Master? How can I revert to something more worthy? How, when you are the one who let me age, year after irreversible year, even though you liked me better before.” I kept crying, sobbing. It was such an ugly sight, I was sure. “What– What do you want me to do?! Do I go hungry, do I get smaller? Do I burn my clothes, do I wear the rags you met me in? Is that it? The clothing? It’s gone now! Have me as I am! My skin? My hair? It–it was shorter when we met, I could–”

As I looked around in a frenzy of grief, my gaze fell onto the portrait, Pale Amadeo’s sad, dark eyes drilling into me. Then I stared at the sword to the painting’s right, and I thought, yes. Yes, perfect. In one, swift motion, I reached for the golden handle and pulled it off the wall, the blade swishing through the air as I grabbed a fistful of my hair and swung to cut.

“No! Enough! Stop this at once!” yelled Marius before I could do it. I could not recall ever seeing him this angry, and all I wanted was to keep pushing. I felt so horrible; I felt like I might die, and I wanted him to feel it, too. “Are you hearing yourself? How whiny, how ungrateful, how pathetic– And God help me, drop the sword! Drop it!”

I did not want to drop it! I wanted to cut my hair, which, in my overworked brain, was the way to prove just how inviolable my devotion truly was. I felt it instantly: a cold shiver down my back, a profound sense of emptiness filling me, spreading within me, Master grappling to take control of me. He’d force me to surrender, force me to drop it, force me to forget all about this.

At any other time, I’d have let him, and I’d have knelt to accept his will. But the situation was like no other. I did not want to forget, and I did not want to surrender, not before he understood! What was it that he wanted from me? Submission, so I submitted, and then it bore him! Did I not deserve the truth at last? Did he love me? Did he want me? He wouldn’t say! It was torture not to know! I fought against him.

The wave of emotion that overcame me was so overwhelming that I felt his hold on my mind shatter in an instant, the remnants of his mental grip melting away. It left me raw, and blazing, and determined enough to take the final swing he tried to prevent. I did. The sword glided through hair just above my shoulder like nothing at all, and the cut-off fistful of it fell onto the floor; black, shiny locks curling on the white marble, light reflecting off its jagged surface like the sun reflected off the bird’s feathers.

The silence that followed my insubordination was deafening. Was I more or less beautiful? Did I or did I not look more like the boy he fell in love with? Marius was staring at me in shock; his mouth agape, his gaze darting between my face, the sword in my hands, the hair all over the floor, my face, the sword, the floor…

“You–” he started, and I could not tell whether he was impressed by the strength of my will or horrified by it. “Impossible! How did you– How–”

I started to laugh, my whole being shaking with it. The sound echoed through the corridor, but seconds later, it seemed more like a sob than anything else. How, indeed! How did I do that? What did it mean?

“I should just end it right now,” I said, my throat dry from all the screaming and crying and laughing. I shook my head, still chuckling. “I should just kill myself since you’re too cowardly to–”

Time stopped immediately. I was locked in place, my body stone-solid and unmovable, and I could not breathe. I felt it – him – enter me from the top of my head, ice-water pouring into my mind, freezing the once-boiling blood in my veins. I couldn’t even blink; I glared straight ahead, right at Master. A wild, crazed expression twisted his features. It might have terrified anyone, but I was not anyone. I pushed, and I pushed, and I saw what I tried to dig for at last. Marius had never immobilised me to such an extent before: he was in my thoughts, he was in my body; so much of him, the inexorability of his will stretching me out, threatening to rip the seams of my already-strained sanity, forcing me to bend, to let go, to let him in. And I did. Finally, I did.

It happened quickly. Aided by nothing but Master’s wordless command, the sword fell from my grasp, landed on the floor with a much-too-quiet thud, then slid across to the other side of the corridor. Marius took one, two, three steps towards me, then one more, and suddenly, I was trapped between the cold wall behind my back and Marius’ cool, fully clothed form pressed into my bare body. He grabbed me by the chin, forced me to look him in the eye.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he growled. My knees bent under me; I was still unable to take a breath, which was making me dizzy. “Oh, you wouldn’t dare ruin my creation, would you? Will I need to keep you under lock, beloved? Or will you behave?”

A fresh surge of tears stung at the corners of my eyes, and I felt myself blush all over, half-embarrassed and half-suffocated. “I– God, I can’t– Breathe–” I managed to spit out. “Master–”

“I asked you a question,” he said, his grip on my jaw tightening. The room spun around, tiny white points bursting at the edges of my vision. “You are in no position to strain my patience further.”

I struggled for breath once more, but no release came. I wanted to argue, yet I wanted to breathe more. Will I need to keep you under lock? Would he? If only there was any air in my lungs left, I’d have screamed.

“I… will… behave,” I mumbled instead, and just as I did, a punch of air shot through me. I breathed with wild urgency, my whole chest rippling as I gasped like a drowning man freshly pulled out of the sea.

Marius’ hand grazed along my neck, brushed past my Adam’s apple.

“You doubt my love,” he whispered, leaning closer, his lips at the shell of my ear. And there it was again, some deep, stupid instinct within me, screaming run. Run. Run, run, run! I never listened to it, not once. He slid his leg in-between mine, and pushed up so hard I had to stand on my tiptoes to ease the discomfort of his thigh digging into my groin. “You won’t once I’m done with you.”

I groaned, but I swiftly adjusted to the situation, a spike of lust piercing through me. It was what I wanted, after all. Desire, yes, I wanted him to desire me in every way imaginable. I wanted him to look at me and long to touch me, kiss me, fuck me, love me, every day, every time. “Master,” I moaned, but he shushed me.

“You’ve said enough,” he decided. “Not a word more.”

With that, he turned me around, shoving me against the wall. No, no, wait, I thought, disappointed despite myself. I wanted to look at him, I wanted him to look at me! But I did not dare question him. I would be taken exactly as he wanted.

He pressed into me, his whole body rubbing against mine, and I felt his hand slipping between my legs. His sharp nail circling my entrance drew an immediate, high yelp out of me; he wouldn't, I told myself. Not like this, it… it would tear me apart, surely, the nails. He might have as well picked up the damned sword if– I tensed at the sensation, my muscles taut with dread or anticipation or both, but he never went further; he barely scraped, the pointed tip of his nail raising goosebumps all over me as it lingered.

I imagined him pushing through the resistance anyway, which I knew he could do easily, I imagined his sharp, elegant nail tearing at my insides, blood running down my legs, pooling on the marble under me, easing his movements, because no discomfort of mine was enough to stop him. Would I die? Maybe. And maybe it would be exactly the death I deserved.

“Heavens. What vivid, foul imagination you have,” he whispered, his head resting atop my right shoulder; we were cheek-to-cheek, his hand still between my legs. “Poor thing, my Amadeo. Father’s neglected your needs, and you are needy indeed. Allow me–” He sounded like he cared, but did he? He put a hand in-between my shoulder blades, shoving my chest into the wall. “What do I want, Amadeo?”

“Y–” I started to speak, but cut myself off.

It was a trick, I thought. Tell me to shut up, then coax me into speaking! But I knew I could do better than words, and so I adjusted the position myself. I made sure that my upper body was flush against the wall, my arms bent at the elbows, fingers spread. I turned my face to the side, my left cheek pressed to the wall. I pushed my hips out, spread my legs for him, arched my back just so. I felt him shuffle with his clothes behind me.

“Very good,” he hummed into my ear. Then he reached around and held an open palm right under my face. “Spit.”

I did as he said. The oil was right there, in his room, but ah, he did not want it.

Was it a punishment? A reward?

“Resist me,” he said, and he dragged his not-spit-on hand along my spine, his nail digging into my skin just slightly; not hard enough to pierce, I knew, but hard enough to scrape. A shiver ran through me along with his touch.

He grabbed my ass, and before I could process it, he was already thrusting inside of me. It didn’t hurt, or perhaps I’ve long forgotten what hurt was supposed to feel like.

Resist me.

What he meant when he said that was, perhaps, do not let yourself relax. I was to grit my teeth, tense my muscles, clamp myself around him so tightly he had to force his cock out, and back in, and out, and–

To relax was an involuntary response that I had to wrestle against, trembling with exertion over his favourite little performance. I clenched my hands into fists, my breath coming out in short, exerted puffs and moans as he fucked me.

Does he love me? Does he? Is this enough?

The spit was not to helpful; a few thrusts in, I’d call it useless. I wished he’d tear something after all – I’d take blood, I thought. It’d help.

Master grabbed a fistful of my hair, and pulled my head away from the wall. He held his other arm in front of my neck, restricting my breathing once more.

“You want blood?” he asked, and he did not wait for an answer – he bent over and bit me.

His teeth sunk into the side of my throat smoothly, and the sharp, quick pain that followed jolted my body into action: I groaned, jerking against his unyielding embrace, which did nothing much except excite him further, I reckoned. I was too weak for it to matter, and he loved to prove his point. I loved it when he proved his point, too.

Harder, I thought desperately, and felt him chuckling into my neck.

“I told you not to speak,” he murmured. Blood trickled down my shoulder as he tore himself away just to scold me, and the metallic smell of it filled the air.

I’m not speaking. I’m thinking, I insisted.

Spoiled beyond repair, he said into my mind.

He bit down on my neck again, drawing a long whimper out of me. It’s been a while since he fed on me like that, and I’ve missed it terribly. I could scarcely picture anything more arousing than his fangs thrust into my throat in tandem with his dick thrust into my ass. I could not decide which pain to focus on, and so my consciousness jumped between harm and pleasure until they blended into one indivisible feeling of red-hot lust scorching everything in its path.

I was close. Was he close? It was difficult to tell when he was so adamant about me not looking at him: all I could see was the empty corridor, and the golden two-winged door at the end of it, now shaking along with my vision every time he slammed into me.

He tore himself away from my neck, and said, “I killed her,” right into my ear.

Her? I could not guess who he meant. The girl from the party? But I was with him the whole time! There was no way he could have done it.

“Wh–”

Who, I almost asked out loud, but he held one hand over my mouth to prevent me from speaking, and wrapped the other around my painfully-erect and now-painfully-confused dick.

“Lucetta.” I could hear the smile in his voice.

What?

I tried to yank myself away, but all it accomplished was Marius’ iron-like grip tightening around me.

What?!

He didn’t actually do it, did he? He wouldn’t–

“I fucked her first,” he purred. “She was good; not outstanding like you are.”

I shook my head, cold sweat covering my forehead. Why would he say that? And why would he say it a moment like–

Resist him, was that it? Was I too compliant again? I made another attempt at freeing myself, and I took my hands off the wall just to grab his arm instead. I dug my nails into his forearm and tried to peel it away from my face, but he did not even flinch. He pushed into me, and he kept pushing until I believed he might genuinely crush me to a pulp between his firm, rigid body and the wall.

“No need to worry,” he said, and he squeezed around my cock so hard I saw stars. “I gave her your warmest regards before I drained her.”

“No!” I cried into his palm, tears welling up in my eyes again. “No! Stop!”

Whether it was true or not, he was being needlessly cruel, and I– and I was still turned on. Why? Was he doing that?

“No,” I repeated, without much confidence this time.

“Yes,” he said. “As you come, you will imagine how I fucked her. She begged me to stop, but deep down, she adored every second. They all do.”

They.

I didn’t want it; or did I? I could not tell anymore. I did not know where my thoughts ended and his began. I did not know what to believe, either. He wanted to get a reaction out of me, perhaps. But what if–

A scene flashed inside my mind abruptly, her fire-hair taut around his palm as he pulled her head back, exposing her bloodied neck. There were tears in her eyes, and she sobbed quietly, shaking with the impact of his thrusts. Amadeo, she mouthed.

“No,” I gasped, trying to rid myself of the image.

But Master was relentless. What he’s brought upon me was, without a doubt, the strangest orgasm I’ve experience up to that point. Mentally, I barely felt aroused anymore, but my body screamed for release – and he heard it quite clearly.

When he let me go at last, my knees buckled, and without him to keep me in place, I fell right to the floor.

There was a loud, incessant buzzing in my ears.

“I don’t believe you,” I said weakly, still staring at the floor. I was afraid to look up and meet his eyes. “That you killed her. What a brute lie.”

He laughed. What just happened? Did he even fucking finish?

“Do come to my bed tonight,” he said.

I scoffed under my breath.

How many ways were there to violate someone? How many ways to humiliate them? Master kept finding new ones, and I kept crawling back for more.

I did come to his bed that night. And the night after that.

A few weeks later, Marius left town, and I came up with a plan. I attempted to set it in motion the day following his departure.

The palazzo was nearly empty; a few servants lingered, but they were instructed not to bother me unless I specified otherwise. I haven’t seen Matteo for some time, which was a good thing, I supposed. Whenever he spoke to me lately, I felt awful. There was a sense of guilt weighing me down, of course, for what I’d presumably done to his sister. Did Matteo think about Lucetta too? Was he curious what became of her? Did she make it to Hispania? And was she truly dead, making every repercussion I’ve suffered for her freedom pointless? But what if– what if Master was lying? He presented no evidence of her apparent death, other than the messily-formed memories he attempted to stuff into my brain while I was at my most vulnerable. I brought the subject back up repeatedly, but he stood by his words.

I sat at the end of a long, empty table in the long, empty dining room, and instead of eating a meal, I drank wine. One glass. Two glasses. Three. Four. Along with the alcohol, I pondered each moment, each decision that lead me where I was.

I was screaming on the first boat, the one before Master, a shaky silhouette of whom I could only presume to be a parent drifting away. And I was screaming at the brothel, possessed by many but belonging to nobody. Then I was with Marius, belonging to him at last, yet still possessed by many.

It became clear to me that Master would never offer the Dark Gift out of love. He did love me, I concluded, but not in the way I needed him to love me. He loved the humanity, or the humanity was what aroused him, and he’d cope with my ageing body if such was the price of keeping me warm and bleeding. Alas, that was not what I wanted.

There was no malice in my decision back then, or so I liked to think. It was but a desperate attempt to hold onto what kept me alive for more than a decade by his side: his love, his approval, his companionship. Time was not my friend; twenty-seven was enough. Too much, in fact, but it’d have to do.

In the end, I thought, whatever end may have awaited me, it’d be me, and it’d be Master. If he would not make me eternal for love, I simply had to make sure he’d do so out of fear and guilt.

It’d be a matter of weeks. Months, at most.

Chapter Text

Marius did warn me. He warned me repeatedly.

He’d say, “You must refuse the ill. The spread is quite concerning.”

And he’d sound worried, so I’d respond with, “Yes, Master. I shall be most careful.”

That’s what I’d promise, over and over – to be careful. I’d smile, and bow, and think beautiful, obedient thoughts that pleased him. Then I’d remember that I was growing old, and he didn't fuck me like he used to. So I’d smile wider, and bow lower.

Before he left, Master told me about a boy named Lorenzo who fell gravely ill. He’s been housebound ever since the symptoms first presented themselves, and some kind of medic watched over him at all hours of the day. Perhaps at night as well, although I supposed they needed to rest at some point. As days passed, people started to talk about him, which was most unexpected at our corner of the city. They’d say, boy’s got the shame. It rots you away from the inside, and God knows what he did to bring it onto himself. And they’d shake their heads as if they were so much better and purer than him.

Morbo gallico, some called it – the French disease – which amused me and piqued my interest at the same time. It was a brand-new, irremediable horror, the latest, most decadent condition brought onto the world by our loving, wrathful God. A consequence of promiscuity and hubris, they said. I had plenty of both, and on top of that, I knew something they didn’t. They only saw damnation at the end of the shimmering death-road, and naturally, they did not want to die, but I saw a unique opportunity. I understood that I’d need to force Marius into action much like he’d forced me into inaction, and there was no simple way to do so.

But there was a way – I could arrange the affliction for myself by any means necessary, and leave the rest in fate’s hands. Master’s hands. God’s hands, perhaps. I did recognise the consequence of doing so: I would either die as I was always meant to die, in sweet, ugly agony, or I would be reborn as Master's perfect child. Give me either, I thought then, it’s been so long.

What other option did I have? To leave him? The idea filled me with dread. I didn’t want to leave! I wanted to stay forever. Not the stupid, false forever mortal men reluctantly offered to their lovers, but the true, never-ending forever dripping from Marius’ fangs.

Turn me or kill me, I’ve already told him, and I told him, and I told him, again, and again, and again, but he never listened, or if he did, he didn’t take my words seriously.

The plan was, admittedly, unconventional.

And I was, admittedly, not fully sober as I enacted it.

I lingered at the palazzo until long after nightfall; I occupied myself with wine and my own misery as I waited for the day to end. Then, I simply walked out onto the street, and went to Lorenzo’s house. I’d entertained his father a handful of times, so I remembered the way.

Venice appeared to stand still as my shoes clicked against the cobblestone; there was no wind, not even a slight breeze caressing my skin, the black sky reflected inside stagnant canal-water, the air heavy and thick around me. The city itself held its breath alongside me when I approached my destination.

It’s about to rain, I thought.

The building was nothing special, all light brick and stone, and as I walked right up to the side entrance, the one I had used previously not to disturb the household at large when I met Lorenzo’s father, I considered abandoning the plan. It was likely the last moment in which I could have easily done so.

But I pondered the life that’d await me were I to turn around, and I couldn’t stomach it. What would it be? Go on a walk, walk over the bird, walk over myself, miss Master, beg Master, be refused by Master, eat my own tail, go on a walk, and walk, and walk, and walk over the bird until I lay curled up in its place, and it was Master walking over me with his breathtaking little whore from some stupid party.

I would not let him cast me aside.

I took my shoes off, because they seemed to generate too much noise while I was walking, and I went inside. The house was entirely dark and silent, and I wandered around slowly, trying to adjust to its gloom.

Upstairs, I got on my knees, and put my head to the ground to look under each door in the hallway; there was nothing but pitch black beneath all except one that let out a small, quivering ray of light from within the room. When I pushed at it, it moved with the softest of creeks. After a moment of quiet contemplation, I slipped inside, and closed the door all the way behind myself. This time, it made no sound.

As soon as I entered, as strong smell of old blood and some pungent herb I could not quite identify hit me. Then, I noticed a large candelabra on the far-right side of the room, four candles struggling to light up the tight space. A few steps from it, stood a large, ornate bed with a young man buried within a cluster of thick, embroidered pillows and sheets. Lorenzo, as I recalled. Once I saw him, I couldn’t look away.

He seemed about my age, but it was difficult to tell in his current condition. The very first thing I noticed as I approached the bed were the sores – small, reddened dots spilled all over his skin, his face, neck, hands, every visible part of him. The corners of his mouth were cracked and bloodied, his lips completely dry. His eyes were closed, but he didn’t look like he was sleeping; his brows furrowed, his expression tense and pained in the dim, flickering candlelight.

I imagined myself in his place. Me, burrowed under rich sheets, surrounded by empty vials of what must have been medicine, my skin ugly and diseased, my dull hair thrown all over the pillow as fever shook my entire body. Yes. Yes, I’d suffer. I’d suffer beautifully, just like this, and leave Marius no choice. Turn me or kill me, I’d say, once again, dying, and fragile, and tragic. Sign the painting at last, take some fucking responsibility for what you’ve created. He’d have to do it.

Lorenzo’s eyes fluttered open, and he shuddered when he saw me standing at the foot of his bed – he stared at me, stridulous breath caught in his throat, but he said nothing. I suspected the illness made it burdensome for him to talk.

It’ll be over soon, I thought, but I did not say it. Without a word, I crawled on top of him, and straddled his hips. I felt a feverish heat permeating off him even through multiple layers of material separating us.

He was still looking at me, his lips forming a perfect stunned little ‘o’.

“Are you… an angel?” he asked. He spoke so quietly I had to lean closer to make out the words. “I’ve been hoping… praying for you.”

I bit my bottom lip, and touched his face: it was rough, sticky with sweat, and absurdly hot under my fingertips. I stroked his cheek anyway, my hand gliding along his skin without hitch, and he did nothing to protest. Lorenzo was likely not entirely aware of what was unfolding around him. He leaned into my palm, a shallow sigh escaping his lips. How long has it been since anyone’s touched you? Are they too afraid? Do they wear gloves? I wanted to ask. I wanted to ask about so many things, but we did not have much time.

An angel. I could be one, I reckoned. I felt no obligation to inform him of what was truly happening. God sent me. Didn’t he?

“Yes,” I whispered, my face hovering above his; he smelled of that herb again, but it did not quite mask the sour tinge of fever-sweat. It didn’t bother me. “An angel of death,” I added with a smile.

“Ah.” He smiled too, and immediately, he looked relieved. Content, even. “Ah, yes. So it truly is the end. They sent… you, yes. The Lord knows. About my… about everything. About Raffaello and me, and how… this happened. I– will it really be Hell, for me? Eternally?”

I did not fully understand, but he looked so terribly wounded as he spoke that I felt compassionate towards whatever it was that distressed him. How did it happen? If I put the pieces together well enough, I had one chance to assume.

“Hm.” I tilted my head to the side, mulling his words over. “You love him? Raffaello?” I asked.

Lorenzo pursed his lips tightly, re-opening the crack at the corner of his mouth; a bit of blood dripped down his chin. He flinched at the sensation, and his gaze slid somewhere above my head, then back to me. When he spoke, there was a desperate plea in his voice: “I know it is a sin. Believe me! I know! But I cannot, in good conscience, lie to you, can I? To an angel! So I do, I love him, and… Thou shalt not lie with– It will be Hell, then.”

–mankind as with womankind: it is abomination, I finished in my mind. Was that the worst he’d done?

Tears welled up in his dark, blood-shot eyes. Had I been capable of taking the sickness away and consuming it all for myself, I would have done so. But even though recovery was long out of question, Lorenzo did not have to go scared and guilty.

I could made a difference for him. I could make it gentle. Beautiful, even.

“No. It won’t be Hell,” I told him confidently. “Love is not a sin.”

With that, I bent down and kissed him on the lips. He tasted disgusting; like hot, liquid metal laced with bad breath and sickeningly sweet rot. Vomit, I thought. That’s what it was. His mouth was so dry and cracked, I nicked my tongue on his lip when I pushed myself to deepen the kiss. Seconds later, he was sighing into me, his frail hand holding onto my shoulder. It was exhilarating, in a way: to welcome the sickness, yield to it of my own accord.

He squeezed my shoulder, pulling me closer, and I took the opportunity to slip under the sheets. It was like submerging myself into a smouldering fire; so suffocating and airless, I felt my forehead bead with sweat instantly. Thankfully, Lorenzo was oblivious to my discomfort, his stare hazy and glossed over, as if he was already standing on his way out of this world, and up to the Heaven I promised him.

“So this is… what it’s like for everyone?” he asked, his voice heavy and brittle as it left his lungs. “The kiss of death? I should have… died sooner.”

He looked small and lost beneath me, and I saw his attempt at humour as quite charming. I hoped he’d get to meet his Raffaello in Heaven soon enough.

“Perhaps.” I chuckled. “There are as many endings as there are people.”

Was it true? Did we all get an ending tailored to our earthly existence? Did it include a whore-angel with its tongue in our mouth?

“You taste… like wine,” he murmured, his eyes shining. “Delicious. I know there is wine in Heaven.”

“There is,” I assured. “Are you ready?”

I leaned against him, my hands slipping under his clothes, along his skin, his damp with sweat and blood and pus skin. He started shaking under my touch. Candlelight flickered over us as if picked up by some nonexistent huff of wind, and the movement of it guided my gaze up the wall. There, I saw my own dark shadow hunched over Lorenzo’s like some gargoyle. An angel, I should be thinking. But it wasn’t really that, was it?

I looked down at him again, observing his face carefully. He wasn’t frowning anymore; his expression was full of bliss.

To kill him was not part of the initial plan – all I wanted was to become gravely ill, too. But would letting him endure the pointless suffering not be tenfold as cruel as ending it? I could not cure him, but I could spare him further indignity as the illness progressed, and consumed even more of his mind and body.

“Yes,” he groaned. “I want– I want it to end. Please. It’s been… humiliating enough. Take me away, angel. You’re so… beautiful.”

I sighed. “Am I?”

“Oh, yes,” he murmured. “Please. I need it to end.”

I’d already lost a chance at immortality once, and I paid for it dearly. So now–

I kissed him again. When I moved away, I replaced my lips with my hand clasped over his mouth, and held his nose shut with the other. He did not consciously struggle; his body jerked against mine, but he was weak, and I was still straddling him, my weight keeping him pinned to the bed. He reached for me, but not to try and peel my hands away; he touched my cheek, then shut his eyes, and it seemed as if he was deliberately holding his own breath, too. My silhouette above the bed sprouted a pair of huge, shadowy wings as he suffocated under me, I could have sworn. An angel of death, I said, and there I was.

It took longer than I expected, the dying, the killing; even though he did nothing to resist his fate, I kept having to press harder, dig my fingers into his inflamed flesh. Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes. I never wrapped my hands around his throat, because I was set on not leaving behind any obvious marks that may alarm his family in the morning; I’d only do so out of necessity. It would hardly be shocking that Lorenzo’s lungs gave out overnight – his breathing sounded as if coming through a backed-up sieve long before I touched him. And this sickness, who knew what it really did to a person. What organs it could affect, and how quickly.

A few long, excruciating minutes passed with nothing except my own laboured breath disturbing the silence until finally, I felt his muscles grow loose under me. I slowly took my hands away; his head fell to the side, limp and heavy, his mouth half-open with a thin thread of pinkish saliva stretching between his lower lip and the pillow under him. I put my face next to his, and listened, waited, readied myself to finish what I’d started, should the need arise. Then I pressed my hand on top of his chest, looked for the pulse on the side of his neck. Each time, there was nothing. No response, no movement. Nothing.

I blinked and watched my own tear splash against his cooling cheek. I wondered if I had lied to him; perhaps he did go to Hell, after all. Perhaps he was always meant to burn there, and perhaps so was I. But was it not better to meet one’s death with hope and excitement rather than fear of divine ire?

I swallowed a sob, suddenly conscious of the fact there were other people in the house. It felt like a dream; not exactly a nightmare, but a frenzied, misty vision born of prolonged fever. Soon I’d know what that felt like. I, too, would be consumed by the same shame that took Lorenzo, and it’d hurt. It’d be miserable, as it was for him.

The inevitable never felt quite as thrilling. What was a week, a month, a year of anguish, in the face of eternity?

Before I left, I pulled the heavy sheets over him, smoothed them over his motionless chest, and I blew out every candle in the room; it seemed fitting. Then, in the heavy darkness that followed, I left the building the same way I entered it, and as if nothing transcendent had just transpired, I walked.

I was right. It was raining. Pouring, which meant I was soaked through at once, but there was also fresh air to breathe at last. Rain drummed against the ground in a quick, relentless rhythm, and the canal looked like it was about to overflow – a trickle of water crept out of it and into the streets. It was only when I slipped and almost fell that I realised I’d been walking barefoot; I left my shoes in an alleyway behind Lorenzo’s place, and they were gone now, I supposed. I watched the tide swallow more and more of the cobblestone, the ground slick and cold beneath my bare feet. Water spilled over the edges of the fondamenta, lapping at stone arches and wooden doorways. There was nobody else outside, which did not surprise me. Will it flood? I wondered briefly, and it’d be quite tragic if I were to drown in the canal now.

I stretched my trembling – why was I trembling? – hand out and looked at my skin. It was still clear. I knew the city would mourn nothing of me once I was gone.

I should have felt guilty, but I didn’t. I intended to do my best to keep the night to myself, but even if Marius were to know, if he were to pull every second of what I’d done out of my mind, the choice remained simple.

Turn me or kill me.

The sickness came slowly. When I awoke the next day, I felt inexplicably alive and more human than ever. The beginning of a headache buzzed at my temples, and my limbs felt heavy as I got up from the bed. I broke a nail while pouring a scented oil into the bath, and managed to slice through the tip of my finger with a page of an old book I was re-reading at the main-floor library. Despite all that, my spirits were high.

After midday, Matteo came looking for me. I had not seen him for the better part of the week.

“You must be hungry,” he said, and as if on command, my stomach turned and grumbled, and I remembered that I had not eaten for a while. Not since before paying Lorenzo a visit. I wondered if he’d been found by his family already; he must have. But I could not inquire about such a thing.

I had my legs stretched out on the couch, my head propped up on a pillow that was not meant for resting on but rather for decoration. I smirked as I intertwined my fingers, and rested my joined hands on top of my chest as if in mock prayer.

“Ah. I thought you might have left for good,” I teased.

“Without saying goodbye? You wound me,” he said with a smile. “So, are you hungry? You look hungry.”

I chuckled. “Do I?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll prepare any dish you like.”

In Marius’ absence, I’d often lose my appetite. Most days, I’d barely nibble on bread soaked in spices and oil while feeling sorry for myself. Matteo always tried to cheer me up, then: he’d keep me company, tell me a story I’ve already heard, read from a book I knew by heart.

But it was different this time – I felt wonderful. As if a great weight had been lifted off my sore shoulders.

“Very well,” I said as I got up from the couch. “I want risi e bisi.”

“Risi e bisi,” he repeated, shaking his head.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “What is funny about that?”

“Nothing,” he said, but I saw the hardly-contained grin twitching at the corners of his mouth. “I– I know there’s delicious food at those parties. Things I’ve never even tried. And Master, he imports singular ingredients in case you may want them. Yet whenever you choose for yourself, it’s always… lentils or rice with vegetables.”

He was right. Food was one of the least enticing luxuries Marius could offer me; through the years, I’ve never quite developed a taste for the finer ingredients. Instead, I chased after one poor meal from my youth I could not quite replicate.

“Yes. I fail to see the issue,” I said, amused.

“There’s no issue,” he assured. “Will you join me in the kitchen?”

I did just that.

The rice tasted different that day; it was still not exactly what I missed, but once again, it was close enough. Soon, I imagined, I’d crave blood above all else, and no mortal meals would matter to be. Or I’d be dead.

“When we met,” I said after Matteo finished telling me the almost-entertaining story of a spice shipment he was overlooking for Marius. “Did you think he’d kill me the very first night?”

I’ve always wondered. Matteo was here before me. He’d seen Master bring others into the palazzo, he’d seen some leave battered and bruised while others vanished into thin air before my feet graced our marbled hallways.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

And you did not try to warn me, and you did nothing to prevent it, I thought. But how could he? Why would he? He didn’t know me then, and Marius was his Master.

“Are you glad he didn’t?”

“Of course!” He sounded offended by the question. “But sometimes I think… what kind of life is it in here? I mean, for you.”

“You’re here too,” I pointed out.

“Working for Marius is lucrative,” he said. “My servitude had its beginning, and it will have its end, I’m not far from being able to pay it all off. Your binds are stronger than coin.”

I put a spoonful of rice in my mouth, and chewed it thoroughly. He seemed so convinced of what he was saying, and perhaps Marius had ensured that Matteo would believe his employment not to be indefinite, but I had my doubts. How could Master ever let him free? Matteo knew his secret. As did I, but I loved him, and I wanted to stay. Matteo didn’t.

“Nothing binds me, not in the way you’re suggesting. I love him, and he loves me,” I said plainly. “Master’s my family, the only family I have. My place in this world is with him or dead.”

That much was true.

“Amadeo!” He gasped. “I do not doubt your love, I am simply concerned about the way–”

“Have you ever been in love?” I asked before he could finish.

He tilted his head to the side. “What?”

“I’m curious. Have you?”

“Well, I love you–”

His words made me laugh. “I’m certain you do. In some strange, incomprehensible way.”

“It’s not incomprehensible,” he argued. “You say Master’s your only family, but is that true? Would I have to bed you to earn such status?”

I put down the spoon, and looked at him, contemplated his words. Matteo was my friend, yes. My best friend, maybe, if one was not to consider Marius for the position. I cared about him a great deal, and sometimes, when I was especially lonely, I did think about fucking him. But I was almost sure he would not do it, and such a relation with me would needlessly complicate his employment.

But he wasn’t offering his body, was he? He was questioning my own companionship with Marius, and that I did not need to discuss with anyone. Nobody would ever understand the depth of our union, not even Matteo.

I decided not to indulge the provocation. “If I were to tell you to leave the palazzo, walk out of here and never return, because something terrible is about to happen, would you?”

He furrowed his brows. “What do you mean? What’s about to happen?”

“Would you?”

What if I told you your sister was alive and waiting for you in Hispania? I couldn’t ask that. But I wanted to.

“I–,” he hesitated. “Well, I can’t. The debt–”

I rolled my eyes.

What if I told you I killed a man yesterday, and you will have to watch me die if you stay? I couldn’t ask that either.

“The debt is never-ending,” I said instead. “You will never pay it off.” That was it, wasn’t it? Marius had him cleverly convinced it’d only be a little longer, year after year after year after–

“Of course I will!” He scoffed. “What’s gotten into you? You seem– You can tell me, whatever it is.”

I could not tell him; in fact, I’d already said too much, which was the tragedy of it. I could not be honest with Matteo, I could not be honest with Marius, and I could scarcely be honest with myself.

“Forget I said anything.” He’d never leave, I saw that now. He was following orders my word could never overturn. “I’ll clean the plates.”

The next three weeks passed quietly. Marius was still not back from his travels, and I stayed at the palazzo. I read books, wrote Latin, and practised the viola. I felt fine during the days, and I sweat through the nights as I dreamt of half-rotted flowers, silver rivers running under my bed, blood slipping through my fingers. Matteo made me food, and I did not know how to talk to him about anything important. Finally, the tidings of Lorenzo’s passing reached me while I shopped at a nearby market. Such a shame, some man said. The boy was so young. I heard he suffered.

Not long after that, I woke to Matteo standing over my bed, a look of concern on his face.

“Forgive me,” he said. “You don’t usually sleep this long into the morning, so I wanted to– But you–” He swallowed. “Y-your lip–”

I raised a hand to my face and grazed my fingers over my lips. I felt it then: a small, firm bump in the right inner-corner of my mouth, oddly warm to the touch.

Ah!

Was it finally happening?

I jumped out of bed, and rushed for the tall mirror by the wall. I smiled, and my reflection smiled back at me, a reddish sore blooming on the side of my lips. Lorenzo’s words echoed in my delighted mind. So this is what it’s like. The kiss of death? So it was! There was nowhere to hide now, my imminent demise painted all over my face, fate sealed in with a kiss.

I knew it’d work.

“I shall arrange for a physician right away,” said Matteo, his voice quivering.

I almost forgot he was there. “Yes. If you must,” I told him, still admiring myself in the mirror. “I suppose that with my proclivities, an infection was but a matter of time.”

Matteo said nothing, but I saw him grimace at my words.

“If I die before Master returns,” I said, my gaze never leaving my reflection. I was still beautiful, still youthful enough to fool them: my cheeks glazed over with red, eyes bright with something unspeakable. It’d work. “Tell him I loved him until my very last breath. With my very last breath. That is all.”

“You won’t– You won’t die!” Matteo sneered. He took a step towards me, then two steps back; he, too, was afraid of the illness. Rightfully so. “Don’t say such things. We– we caught it early. A doctor will know what to do.”

I laughed out loud, recalling the assortment of bottles, ointments, and syringes placed neatly by Lorenzo’s bed, all of them empty and useless. “If I were to tell you to leave the palazzo, walk out of here and never return, because something terrible is about to happen, would you?” I asked him again.

I saw a glimpse of feeling – pain, sorrow, realisation – flash across his face. He bowed at the waist, a gesture he only ever performed in Marius’ presence and for Marius’ sake.

“Go back to bed, Amadeo,” he said. “Please. Try to rest.”

It took Matteo a number of days to arrange for a physician. He was, after all, merely a servant with no means of securing a grand, up-front payment. When the doctor finally came, so did Marius, back from his travels.

Master was frantic from the first moment he laid eyes on me upon his return. When he saw me in bed, still fully conscious and alive and feeling quite normal back then, he gasped. He rushed to my bedside, sat by me, touched my face, looked right at the bump in the corner of my mouth.

“Morbo gallico,” he said. He knew instantly. “I can smell it in your blood. But– how? When? We were careful. Never the sick. Never! So how?”

We were careful, yes. We.

He was looking at me as if my face could have given him the answer; I smiled placidly, keeping my mind clean. Out of every time I've focused on holding certain rooms under lock and key, this was the most important. No Lorenzo. Lorenzo was stuffed into the basement of the basement, and he would not surface. There was not much else than a touch of worry, a touch of hope, a touch of love swirling inside my head, ready for Marius’ cold, sharp fingers to dip into.

They must have not looked ill at the time, I thought. Otherwise I'd never come near. It was only slightly uncomfortable to keep the thoughts afloat – Maris wasn’t pushing hard enough to break through. He barely scraped the surface. There was no indication of doubt on his face. He had no reason to assume malicious intent, after all. Who’d be out of their mind enough to commit themselves to such a terrible fate?

“I do not want to die, Master,” I said. It was a lie; a sweet, heart-gripping one that I had weeks to practise. At that moment, I even believed it myself. A shiver ran through me, as if on command, as if to highlight the gravity of my words. “I heard gossip around town. It's quite harrowing, the spread, is it not? It will make me… ugly.”

I looked to the side, pulling the sheets up, up, up until they covered the tip of my nose. I made sure that my hand was trembling lightly.

Marius stared at me with a pained expression. I longed to know what he was thinking. Was he considering it already? Was he making plans for my turning? Did he realise all hope was lost? How long would it be now? Days? I hoped so.

“Flaviano will be here shortly,” he said, his voice tense. “He will assess your condition. Do not worry prematurely.”

He put his hand on top of mine, squeezed it tightly.

I sighed, swallowing down my disappointment. “I shall try.”

Flaviano Maraldi was a peculiarly handsome man. Standing even taller than Marius, which – especially for the time – already bordered on a condition, he always seemed hunched over for one reason or another. His features were too small and too spread-out over his taut face. There was a certain look he gave me, a certain void pooling behind his eyes, and I’d been on the receiving end of it often enough to realise exactly what lurked there: perversion. I've seen it before on countless blank faces at the brothel, could pick it out from a crowd of passers by. As Flaviano leaned over my bed cautiously, his head cocked to the side, his thin lips twisted up in a smirk, I knew. I knew that man had an agenda beyond the medical, and it thrilled me.

“Describe the symptoms for me. Be thorough,” he instructed. He licked his lips, looking at me with anticipation. He should be less obvious about what stirred his desires, or Marius may not allow him to treat me, I thought. Speaking of Master, I expected him to stay by my bedside, but he left not only my room, but, as I suspected, the entire palazzo, in quite a rush. To make preparations, I hoped. To ensure a swift turning.

“There is the sore,” I said, pulling myself up to half-sit against the pillow behind my back. “It is barely uncomfortable. My lips feel dry, cracked. My neck feels tight. I have a mild fever at worst, I reckon. If I hadn’t known better, I’d say there was no need for me to stay in bed at all.”

Flaviano looked at me with something akin to pity from a man that knew much more about suffering than I ever would. As if.

“A worsening of symptoms is a matter of time, I am afraid,” he said with mock compassion. “If we are to stop them from developing, I must administer a most aggressive form of treatment. As requested by your Master, of course.”

I took a deep breath, but it did not calm my racing heart. An aggressive treatment it was, then. “Of course. What shall the treatment entail?” I asked.

“It is not generally advised for the ill to be privy towards the details,” said Flaviano. “We shall start tomorrow morning once I gather all supplies. I will remain at the palazzo for as long as necessary to monitor your condition.”

I definitely did not foresee him living here, but I forced myself to smile and say, “naturally. Thank you.”

I’d play my part, he’d play his. And so would, hopefully, Master.

Chapter Text

I expected to see Marius by my side as soon as I woke up, but he was not there. He had urgent business to attend to outside the palazzo, as I came to find out. Funny, I thought, that there were matters more pressing to him than my imminent demise.

This left me with the doctor, and I supposed I was as ready for his treatment as I was ever going to be. Flaviano insisted on drawing me a bath, but as soon as I approached the washroom, I realised it was not a regular bath by any means.

Fog-like steam rose from everywhere at once, concentrating just above the wooden tub. In the corner of the room stood a small, open-fire brazier with a metal pan resting on top of its flame. It wasn’t there before.

Flaviano, fully clothed from head to toe, was bent over the contraption. He held a thick, visibly damp cloth against his mouth with one gloved hand, and with the other, he gripped a wide, heavy vial full of a mysterious, silver liquid. He proceeded to pour it into the pan carefully, droplets of it sliding along the heated metal like priceless pearls.

“Get in the water,” he told me, his voice muffled by the cloth.

I complied, because I saw no reason not to. How harmful or miraculous could a bath be, after all? A chill ran through me as I undressed, my linen sleep-shirt abandoned by my feet. Flaviano’s gaze slid from my face to my chest to my groin, and I caught him licking his lips.

“Do make an attempt to be less obvious,” I said, holding his stare.

“I’m assessing your condition.” He sounded impatient. “Checking for more boils. Such is my role.”

With a scoff, I gripped the edges of the tub, and felt my feet sinking into something thick and velvety when I slowly sat down. A completely separate layer of liquid swirled at the bottom of the bath, silky smooth and almost too hot to handle. I dipped my hand in, touched the bottom, and when I brought it back up, the inside of my palm shone with a sheer layer of silver. As it trickled right back into the water, I could feel beads of it brushing over my thighs when they sank and set back down. I sniffed my hand, but there was no obvious scent.

“What is it?” I asked curiously. “The liquid in the water?”

“Living silver,” he said. I imagined he was smirking, but it was difficult to tell through the cloth. “It draws corruption away from the blood. Purifies it. Exceptionally effective, exceptionally expensive.”

In that case, it seemed a waste to bathe in it, and dilute its presumed effects in bathwater, didn’t it? The room was unbearably hot. Droplets of condensation settled on my skin, then dripped down my temples, my neck and chest, leaving sheer, silverish streaks behind.

“The more you sweat, the better,” said Flaviano. He was still standing away from me, in the far corner of the room. “Feel the silver purifying your lungs, your blood, your skin! Rub it in. It won’t froth, but it will work.”

I did as he said, blinking away the discomfort. If it were to make me worse instead of better, I welcomed it.

The bath lasted an abstract amount of time, perhaps five minutes, perhaps an hour. At one point, I noticed Flaviano extinguishing the brazier, and so I assumed it was over.

“It is quite usual to feel weaker after this initial stage of the treatment. Recovery takes strength and dedication. Let me assist you,” he said, extending a hand to me.

My palm slid into his gloved hand and I leaned on him as I got out of the bath. I noticed that he was sweating, too; but not silver. Just regular, watery sweat dripping down his absurd, collared outfit.

My skin was flushed pink, shimmering faintly under the early morning light. When I squeezed Flaviano’s hand to keep myself upright, I saw a faint blush creeping up his face, too. My heart drummed in my ears.

“I feel–” I didn’t know how to describe it, but I settled on, “like… I’m inside a fog.”

Flaviano smiled a weird, crooked smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “Precisely as intended,” he said, and I felt his hand slide down my side. It brushed my hipbone, drawing a shiver out of me before he gave me my clothes back.

Marius returned to the palazzo late in the evening. He refused to elaborate on the outside matters that kept him away, but he did eventually come to sit by my bedside to appease me.

I did not want to discuss the day’s events. Instead, he read Petrarch aloud to me, his voice soft and quiet as he over-pronounced the verses for my enjoyment. Master was partial to Petrarch’s Latin works, but he knew I liked Il Canzoniere better, so he humoured me. I was dying, after all.

I saw a girl under green laurel

colder and whiter than the snow

untouched by the sun for many years

I could picture it clearly. How beautiful she was, Laura, his beloved. Pale, bright, and soft-spoken. A calm sea, an anticipated return, a morning breeze, adorned with a laurel wreath in her golden hair – that was how I saw her, and that was how he’d want it, too. I was sure of it.

My thoughts at last will come to shore,

when there are no green leaves on laurel:

when I’ve quieted my heart, dried my eyes,

we’ll see freezing fire and burning snow

“He loved her so much,” I said after a while. “His whole life, he loved her. His whole life, he wrote about her.”

Marius looked at me with mild amusement.

“You disagree, Master?” I inquired.

“It is not truly about the girl,” he said. “It is never about the girl.”

I blinked, taken aback by his words. “So many of the verses are about her. His obsession, it– it’s evident,” I insisted. “How can it not be about her?”

“You are, as ever, an incorrigible romantic.” Marius stroked my cheek with the back of his palm. I leaned into the touch, more attracted to the coolness of it than ever before. “It is one of your most endearing traits. To believe that a man would devote three hundred and sixty-six verses to a woman herself, rather than to the art she allowed him to perfect. How very charming.”

I considered his words, and I considered his patronising tone. “We show love with what we know,” I said, a strange desire to defend Petrarch’s feelings swelling inside me. It was real. It had to be! “Writers write. Painters paint. Composers compose. Is that not real love? To apply your best ability towards the satisfaction of your beloved?”

Just like I do, I wanted to say. My best abilities are yours to command. Ask anyone about my skilled little mouth. They’ll tell you.

Master stayed still for a while. He stared at me in silence, and I stared back.

“Your mind remains unclouded. I believe the treatment is taking hold,” he said. He sounded content. “I shall leave you to your rest.”

“But Master,” I protested. “The treatment? It will not work, and Flaviano–”

“We cannot give up hope,” he cut me off. “Please, Amadeo. It is time to rest.”

I could never challenge an order to rest, not for a lack of trying. I didn’t want him to leave me alone, but he did.

During the night, I stirred time and time again, haunted by fleeting dreams of fire lapping at snow, boats crashing against black waves in a storm, a dry laurel branch with no leaves digging into my temples. I tasted iron, a tinge of salt and metal that would not leave my mouth for the rest of my mortal days.

I woke to Flaviano nudging me on the shoulder. A headache permeated from the base of my skull to the back of my eyelids, and the very tips of my fingers felt numb, but as I looked down at them, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

“Open your mouth,” he told me.

“Good morning,” I said instead, pinching the bridge of my nose. Again? I thought, swallowing down disappointment. Why in the world was Marius not there? “I don’t recall inviting you into my room.”

“I’ve been granted access to all parts of the estate, should it prove crucial to your swift recovery.” He hoisted a large bag onto my bed. “Now, open your mouth.”

I did, and he put two gloved fingers between my lips. He pushed down on my tongue as he leaned over me, squinting at my exposed throat. I felt myself salivate as he pressed harder, but I sat still and compliant, my head turned upwards.

When he finally retreated, a thin string of saliva clung to his fingers. Flaviano didn’t bother wiping it away before reaching into his bag to pull out a leather-bound journal.

“The results are encouraging,” he said, not looking at me. He started to note something down in his book, and I did my best to read the words upside-down. Pale gums, he wrote. Increased salivation. Suppressed retching reflex.

“The suppressed retching reflex is a skill, not a symptom,” I clarified.

He closed the journal with a loud thud. “Your input is not needed,” he said, visibly annoyed. Then all of a sudden, he smiled. “Though I must admit, your teeth are unusually healthy. Wouldn’t put you past twenty years of age on that alone. How did you manage it?”

I winced. “You are ageing me like some stray dog, now?” I crossed my arms on top of my chest. “How much are we paying you?”

“Ah. No matter how commanding you may try to appear, you do not have one coin to your name, Amadeo.” He chuckled. “But do not fear, you are very precious to your Master. He’s compensating me handsomely.”

“And where is he?”

Flaviano raised an eyebrow. “You do not know? Well. Ask him once he returns.”

Even if he knew, he wouldn't have told me, I realised. If it was up to me, I’d simply rot in bed until the illness claimed me fully, undisturbed by his ridiculous practice, but apparently my fate shifted to serving as a medical curiosity.

“We shall begin with the salves,” he said. He produced a small glass jar of grey ointment out of the bag. It was much duller and lighter than the liquid I bathed in, so I assumed that living silver was only one of its ingredients. “Remove your shirt.”

I gripped the edges of my tunic and pulled it over my head. I folded it neatly, put it aside, then sat up straight. If some ordinary salve could cure the affliction, surely people would not be so terrified of it. Lorenzo’s parents were wealthy and concerned with his well-being – if there was a magic balm that could have fixed him, they would have paid.

“Well?” I urged Flaviano. “I can do it myself. Give me the salve.”

“Application is key,” he objected, as I knew he would.

“How many have you cured of morbo gallico with this thing?” I asked as he pulled the lid off the jar.

A strong, acrid scent hung in the air between us: rendered fat and herbs cut through with something metallic and alien, like crushed mint leaves steeped in vinegar.

He didn’t answer my question. Instead, he dipped the same finger he pulled out of my mouth minutes ago into the salve, scooped a considerable amount of it, and smeared it over my chest. He used both hands to do so, both of them gloved and slippery with the balm, and he massaged it into my skin in slow, deliberate motions.

The salve was thick and heavy enough for him to struggle with rubbing it in until it became warmed by my body heat. His palms slid over my shoulders, my arms, then over my chest and stomach. This left my skin covered in a slick, vaguely grey sheen. It felt cooling against my skin, and the pungent scent of something bitter but fresh, faintly cloaked by rosemary and clove, burned the inside of my nose.

Flaviano’s hands lingered on my me long after the salve’s been thoroughly applied. His fingers brushed past my nipple as if by accident, as if he did not have enough space to administer the cure otherwise.

When he looked at me, I saw it again. A glimmer behind his eyes, a glimmer that sank all the way down to where I knew the filth spread within him. He was getting something out of this, I reckoned, something absolutely non-medicinal and uncontrollable. I licked my lips, an empty but knowing grin overtaking my face.

“It must be difficult,” I said, cocking my head to the side sympathetically.

He hesitated. “I– I am not following?”

I put my hands on top of his, intertwined our fingers, and guided him to squeeze at my chest, muscle twitching slightly under our touch. His eyes widened.

“To only get aroused by what could kill you,” I said, amused. “Will kill you.”

Startled, he pulled his hands away, and stood up.

“That is quite enough.” He must have meant to seem threatening, but it came out rather pathetic.

What kind of doctor was he? The kind I needed to keep close, I thought, since my recovery wasn’t in his best interest, and it wasn't in mine, either. He never answered my question. Was it because the answer was none? Has Flaviano not saved any of his patients? Were all of them dead?

The days grew long and unfamiliar. They’d start with rubbing more salves into my skin or gurgling liquid silver and then spitting it out into a shallow dish in Flaviano’s hands. Then he’d make notes on my condition; sometimes I’d be able to silently read the writing, his lettering neat and tidy, the words anything but.

Complains of headaches.

Tremors start in hands.

Sudden fever spike.

I still couldn't comprehend why Master wasn’t there through most of it. He’d return for a brief evening visit, and sometimes he’d offer a few drops of his precious blood if the fever grew particularly bothersome, and I begged for it, but he would not stay.

This perpetuated a vicious cycle. The blood made me feel better, of course, and by the morning I was well enough to convince Flaviano his treatment was somehow working. So he applied it all over again, and my condition mysteriously deteriorated soon after.

It couldn’t have been what Master wanted. What benefit did watching me suffer in such a way have? What about leaving me with Flaviano out of all people? Couldn’t Marius read his thoughts and see the error of what was happening?

I was not getting any better, and by the end of the week or what I presumed to be the end of the week, I got significantly worse.

Feverish nights dripped into feverish mornings like blood seeping from an old wound. I had an ever-lasting headache, and whatever food I forced myself to eat had a faint, metallic aftertaste that could not be masked. Not even with wine, not even with handfuls of sugared fruit. I could barely taste the sugar, anyway, and what I did taste of it made me sick.

One day, Flaviano entered my room along with the first sunrays streaming through the window, took one look at me, and gasped. I noticed then that his face looked weird; weirder than usual. His skin stretched over his skull oddly, his thin lips blurred into virtually nothing, two pairs of quivering, blinking eyes floated above his not-there-mouth.

“What happened?” I asked, and he looked at me as if he did not understand. “What happened?” I repeated louder.

“You're speaking in a language I don't know,” he said, all four of his eyes lit up with interest. “Do you remember where you are? What your name is?”

I pulled myself up to a sitting position. The room swayed, streaks of sunlight crudely cutting through furniture, scorching the wood in half, everything I tried to focus on completely distorted.

“Of course,” I said, making a conscious effort at Venetian. “My name is Amadeo, and this is my home. We are in Venice, where I've lived for the last twelve fucking years.”

He started scribbling something down again. “Fascinating. Periods of confusion followed by stretches of lucidity,” he mumbled.

As soon as I caught of glimpse of my own hand, I forgot what I was going to say next. My hand. My hand, or were there two of them? Or three? Well, all were covered in an ugly rash. Reddened, raised bumps spilled all over me, my skin somehow more pallid than usual against the warm, angry tone of the rash. I blinked and shook my head, as if it could make the infliction disappear. It didn't. My breath came out in short, ragged bursts, a disturbing, whistling sound emerging from the depths of my lungs. How bad was it already?

Lorenzo's face appeared in front of me suddenly, the same bumps on his skin, redder and more scratched-open than mine. He smiled, he coughed, he looked straight at me, his once-brown eyes completely white and iris-less.

Are you an angel?

I knew an Angel of Death would not be granted to me as it was to Lorenzo. I would die in the ugliest of truths – there was no saviour holy enough to undo what I’ve done to myself. Mayhap I needed to search down, not up. If God did exist, I wondered what he thought of all this. Was I a disappointment? Did he give up on me and if so, at what point was I lost?

“What is the prognosis once morbo gallico reaches this stage?” I asked, stretching my other hand to look at it, now three in total that must have belonged to me.

Three?

I tugged the sheets off myself, then raised my shirt up to reveal more reddish bumps on my chest. Bad. It was bad, and it was happening faster than I anticipated.

Flaviano grimaced, and slipped his pale, boney hands into gloves. “Do not be afraid. As I said, a most aggressive form of treatment may be needed,” he said seriously. “There are options we have yet to explore.”

I huffed, crossing my arms over my chest. Well, I made an attempt, but since I now had three hands, I was not sure how to best interlink them, so I put them all in my lap and shot Flaviano a pointed look.

“And what options would those be? Do they involve me removing all of my clothes?” I mocked.

Flaviano glared at me like I offended him.

“To heal the body, one must observe the body,” he said. “We shall start with a living silver enema.”

I felt my mouth drop open against my will; I knew I should not show that the perspective rattled me, but I could not help it.

He did not just say–

“An enema,” I repeated slowly.

He nodded and pulled out a huge metal syringe-like contraption out of his stupid bag. I tried my best to seem indifferent.

“Say you want to fuck me and be done with it,” I said, my voice completely flat, and the deepening crease in-between Flaviano’s brows confirmed I spoke in that language again. My original dialect, it must have been. Which was peculiar – I couldn't exactly remember how to use it, but it kept slipping in and out now, the tongue as obvious and real and easy to understand as my third arm and Flaviano's second pair of eyes.

“The circumstances are quite urgent.” He licked his lips, his lips which appeared and then disappeared, making the whole ordeal rather comical. “I shall prepare the room.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and saw bright spots of flashing stars over nothingness. The whole room swayed as if my bed rested on an uneasy ocean.

“I need to talk to Master,” I pronounced carefully, grabbing a handful of sheets to ground myself. It didn’t work – the material felt like something wet and sleek running through my fingers. “I think it best to postpone the treatment until then.”

Flaviano laughed. “No,” he said. “Do remember that I act in your best interest.”

“I won’t allow–” I started to say, but he was walking out of the room already. “Flaviano!” I called after him, but he did not stop.

“Fucking hell,” I muttered to myself. What now? Nothing ever went according to plan!

All but one of the servants refused to come into any type of contact with me, and I didn’t blame them. I considered Matteo to be a fool and a madman for staying in the palazzo. And he was there again, looming behind the entrance to the room.

“Good morning. How are you?” he asked, gripping the doorframe that he did not yet dare cross. “Would you like something to eat?”

I sighed. “You should leave,” I said. I kept saying that. “I'm not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten yesterday, either,” he said. “You're losing weight! It cannot be good in your– your condition.”

He kept trying to feed me, too, and so it seemed we’ve both been rather monothematic. “I will eat once Flaviano’s done with– me,” I said.

“Very well.” He finally approached the bed. “You didn’t answer my question. How are you?”

“You have a death wish, Matteo,” I said, shaking my head. I did not care if I infected Flaviano, and sometimes I hoped I would. Master, of course, could never fall ill to a human disease. But Matteo? His presence worried me. “I'm hideous now. Hideous and contagious. I keep trying to tell you–”

“You're my friend.” He sat on the edge of the bed. His face was normal: two eyes, one mouth, and I found that bizarre. “And I keep trying to tell you that the treatment's not right. You ought to try something else.”

Oh but I will, I wanted to say. Any minute now, we'll be pouring the same liquid that burned a hole through my throat into my asshole. Is that not exciting?

I heard the door opening or closing, but when I looked up, there was nobody besides us in the room. Not even a shadow, not even a speck of light out of place. I looked back at Matteo. I could have told him, convinced him to get me out of the palazzo. But to what end? It was me who vowed to see this through, wasn’t it? Perhaps today would be the day that forced Master’s hand at last.

“Thank you for your concern–”

“Please,” he cut me off. “Please, I am worried about you. Marius still foolishly thinks he can find some sort of miracle elsewhere, but at this stage–”

I paused. “Is that what he’s doing? Searching for a miracle?”

Preposterous, I thought. The miracle cure was right there, after all. All he needed to do was open his damned mouth.

Matteo bit down on his lower lip. “He didn’t tell you.”

“No,” I said. “But you will.”

I could see him battling with his thoughts.

“I’ll tell you a secret, too,” I proposed. “A fair trade.”

That caught his attention. “I don’t know much, but– I overheard Master talking with a man outside the palazzo. He was… gathering information on the illness, asking about survivors, about doctors, noting down names, addresses. He’s trying his hardest to find anything that could help you, I suppose. Anything other than– well. And I command him for it, truly, but that man he left you with isn’t helping, and–”

I knew Marius would treat the turning as a last resort, yes, but weren’t we already long past that point? What else was there to attempt? How many useless human physicians and their unhelpful treatments would I need to endure? How much pain was still ahead before he realised the truth of my condition? How much silver would leak out of every orifice of my body before Master made a decision?

I could have sworn I heard someone – a woman – humming a low, soothing melody right next to me. There was nobody there, yet the sound echoed inside my head. They cannot touch your soul, I remembered suddenly. Who said that to me, many years ago? What if I wanted them to touch it? What if my soul was nothing but scraps of torn, exposed nerves that recoiled at the slightest sensation and I didn’t want it inside me any longer?

“Amadeo?” Matteo touched my hand gently, looking at me with concern.

Just take it, I wanted to say. Take my soul, take my body. I don’t need them. I hate them.

“Arun,” I said quietly. The word slipped out of my mouth before I could think it through, and it felt no less terrifying than ripping my own heart right out of my chest and presenting it to him.

But he didn’t know what it meant. All he did was furrow his brows. “I’m– sorry?”

I could still take it back. I could still say, forget it. But I promised him a secret of my own, and frankly, I did not know how much longer I’d be there. Maybe whatever Flaviano was about to do to me would kill me at last, and if such was to be my fate, I needed Matteo to know.

“My name,” I said. “Before Amadeo, it was Arun. If I die before he– then I want you to remember it. There will be nobody left in the world to mourn him otherwise. You’ll all mourn Amadeo, yes, but what about him? He deserves to–” I swallowed around a lump growing in my throat. What was I even saying? “That is all.”

Matteo squeezed my hand tighter, looking as if he was about to cry. “Arun,” he repeated slowly. He would not take his eyes off me, and I felt like he was seeing something within me that I never wanted him to reach; but I was so tired. So, so tired of keeping myself afloat. “You won’t die.” His voice wavered. Did he believe his own words? “And I– I would never forget you. Not any part of you.”

I forced myself to smile. “Do you swear it?”

“I do, I swear it! Do you– want to tell me more about–”

“No,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “Perhaps… later in the evening, as I said. You should leave now.”

“But–”

“I need the rest,” I said. “Don’t I?”

Matteo looked like he wanted to protest, but ultimately didn’t. It was out there now, and I felt content with it. You won’t die, he said, but he also said I would never forget you, and so subconsciously or not, he was already dealing with the inevitable. It was better this way.

Flaviano had to walk me over to the bathing room. I could take steps just fine, then I was stumbling over myself. My knees were too stiff to bend, then so soft they sent me straight to the floor. He sat me down on a lone, wooden chair he dragged to the bath, then reached for my shirt.

I glared at him. He glared back with all four of his slimy little eyes.

“Do it yourself,” he said, holding his hands up as if in surrender. “We’ve no time to waste!”

I did do it myself. I took my shirt off, then made a point of holding onto the edge of a cabinet and not accepting his outstretched arm as I undressed further. It was not the nakedness that bothered me, but rather the reality of what I knew was about to happen. Just how lowly would I let myself be degraded in the guise of healing?

“Shall I lie down?” I asked, and Flaviano looked surprised by the question. “We’ve no time to waste.”

The strange humming persisted. It was likely produced by my tired, confused mind, except– Except it sounded so real. I could almost distinguish words within the melody.

“No. Get on all fours,” he instructed. “Face down, hips up.”

He stood there, fully clothed, cloth wrapped around his mouth, a large metal syringe with a blunt, rounded tip in hand. Expecting me to demean myself. And I would.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror leaning against the wall – the reflection was barely mine. My body was gaunt and greyed except for the bright red rash. Dull, puffy strands hair fell onto my shoulders, not oiled or properly washed since the sickness has taken hold of me, frizzy locks curling around my face where they clung to my damp, sweaty forehead. My long, meat-less limbs seemed little more than crude vessels for muscle and bone, something clearly feeding off me from the inside. My skin prickled with unshaven hair gathered at the bottom of my stomach and the centre of my chest. I glared at myself with eyes about three or four times as big as I recalled them to be; now more black than brown, my pupils completely blown. Eyes, against all odds, still framed by thick eyelashes that cast trembling shadows at the highs of my hollowed-out cheeks. I looked… ugly. I did.

It’s been humiliating enough.

Maybe for him. For me, the humiliation was just beginning.

What else was there to do? I swore, I swore to see it through.

I assumed the position Flaviano requested, and I closed my eyes – I didn’t want to see anything.

If Flaviano was saying something, I did not hear him. I shut my eyes and tried my hardest to leave the body behind and hold onto the meadow instead, just like Master taught me, but in my pitiful state, it proved increasingly difficult. Visions of my own body splayed on the cold marble swirled inside my mind. I wanted it to stop, and I wanted to go–

I couldn’t go anywhere. I almost felt the thought-grass under my thought-hands, but as soon as I opened my eyes, I was back on that floor. I fought for it anyway; shut my eyes, tried to focus on somewhere better.

A clear sky, I told myself, a clear sky, sunshine, sunshine on my skin, and birds singing… The longer I tried to anchor myself to the sound, the less avian it sounded. Not like the birds at all but like… humming. Like a person humming. And there were words too, actual words within the sound.

The peepal tree. The peepal tree is fast asleep.

That’s what she sang, I was pretty sure. A ghost of a touch lingered on my face, brushing hair out of my closed eyes. The scent of iron filled the air, ruining my clear spring day. A clink of metal on metal rang somewhere above my head. Where was it coming from?

The silver stream. The silver stream is fast asleep.

A gloved hand slid between my legs, cold metal thrust into my body without warning. Or with a warning that I was not able to receive. I held my breath, strained every muscle I could still exercise any control over as a smooth liquid made its way inside me. It wasn’t working like I wanted it to; I couldn’t bring myself to the meadow, I couldn’t float above myself, either, and every sensation at once tangled around itself within my body.

Sleep, baby. Sleep.

I didn’t realise how hard I was biting down on my tongue until I tasted blood. Hands glided along my body. One on the small of my back, hoisting my hips up. Another on my shoulder, pushing my upper body down. Another on my forehead. Why were there three hands? Which hand was the lie? A voice floated outside my head – Flaviano speaking – but I couldn’t understand the language anymore.

Sleep like the peepal tree. That’s what I remembered My stomach cramped, constricted to what felt like a tight ball of string within my gut. Not one word of complaint left my mouth. Sleep like the stream. The humming was so familiar. Could it be– Could it– I tasted metal at the back of my mouth. Metal at the front of my mouth. Metal inside my ass.

Flaviano clutched my shoulder, shaking me violently. The singing stopped.

“Do not faint.” He sounded annoyed. I tried to hold onto the soft lullaby instead. “Keep it in, do you understand? The treatment needs time. Amadeo. Amadeo. Amadeo!”

“Shut your mouth,” I barked out. I was sweating; I felt the liquid sloshing inside me, scorching its way through. My stomach gurgled threateningly. “You’re ruining it!”

I saw nothing but silver inside my delirious mind. A silver stream running outside my window. A silver stream running inside my body, through my body. Living silver. Dead silver. Silver bursting out of my veins in lieu of blood. Silver mouth, silver saliva trickling out from in-between my lips. Silver skin, precious and wrong. My thighs trembled with the strain of keeping myself still. I hummed the strange melody to myself. Time passed. I didn’t know how much time: minutes, hours. The phantom hand moved from my temple to my cheek.

“The peepal tree,” I muttered to myself. “The silver stream–”

That’s when it happened. A painful spasm, sharp and hot, shot through me, disrupting my fragile composure. A second of too-intense ache was enough to push through the limits of my body. A flood of liquid poured out of me at once: down my thighs, and legs that bent under me. There was no way of stopping it once it began, and right in the middle of what was already nothing short of a crisis, I felt overwhelmingly nauseous. On its way out, a surge of vomit burned not just my throat but the inside of my nose.

At possibly the lowest and most horrifying moment of my life, naked and filthy, I sat in a pool of dulled liquid silver streaked with blood, puke, and something mucus-like and semi-transparent. The room smelled of blood and bile, my ears were ringing, I was crying. Sobbing; I only noticed when I heard my own voice echoing off the walls.

As I dry-heaved over my own mess, now with little else left to purge out of myself, I thought I might have been dying. My body should have had the decency to shut right there and then, I thought. It didn’t.

I nearly forgot Flaviano was in the room – I caught a glimpse of him standing still. The situation didn’t appear to surprise or disgust him. In fact, the cloth was gone from his mouth, and he was smiling, something akin to satisfaction all over his face.

You cannot be serious.

Before I could process anything else, I felt the fever spike like never before. I was shivering all over, goosebumps spilling over my entire body, my teeth clanking against each other, sweat running down my temples and into my eyes, an indescribable sensation of being burning hot and ice-cold at the same time.

“Kill me,” I said, laughter catching in my throat. I coughed, winced, gagged on nothing, and spat out more yellowish bile onto the desecrated floor. God, I took this too far, I thought. I took this too far, and it was not even worth it! “Fuck your treatment! It’s stupid! Put me down!”

I cried. What would it matter now? If he wanted to fuck me first, and I knew he did, perhaps now more then ever, so be it! I’d allow it! As long as he ended it after.

Flaviano finally moved. I heard him smacking his lips with disapproval. “Ah, do not be ridiculous,” he told me. “This is exactly the nature of the treatment! I must admit, I have yet to see such an… aggravated exit of bad humours out of the body, but it is highly encouraging. The worst may be behind us.”

I shook my head. The, as he put it, exit of bad humours, should have made me feel better, I supposed. It didn’t. Flaviano was insane. Master left me, Master didn’t care, or he was insane, too, for thinking there was something besides the bite to be done to cure me. I would have given anything to have my own self straddle my own hips in the night, clamp a hand over my own sick mouth, and put a stop to this.

“No–”

“The bath is ready for you,” he interrupted me.

The bath?

I was too weak to object: I let him pull me up, and haul me into the tub. It was full of warm water. Just water.

How much worse–

I was afraid to finish the thought.

“I… didn’t mean–” I mumbled, feeling too light-headed to even glance down at the floor.

“No matter,” he said. “I called off the servants to spare them any disturbance. I shall clean it myself.”

He did exactly as he said. As I soaked in the bath, my guts still inside out, bile still coming up to my throat periodically, Flaviano knelt down to clean my bodily fluids and his living silver off the floor. As if he dealt with such matters daily.

I was barely strong enough to hold myself upright in the tub, and I felt like I was swimming in and out of consciousness for hours upon hours, using everything I had left within me to remain afloat.

Was that when I finally fainted?

The next thing I remembered was lying in bed later that night. I would die there, I reckoned, and all Marius would find once he finally arrived back at the palazzo would be my lifeless corpse, because Flaviano called off the servants, and then left, too.

The ache was unbearable, the crux of it clumping somewhere inside my stomach, tightening with each breath I took – a persistent cramp that never loosened. I was curled on the bed, clutching my bent legs, pushing my knees up and into my body as if some part of my gut may have fallen out if I didn’t press myself together tightly enough. I sobbed, but the crying soon became too exhausting, and the constant shake of my shoulders nauseated me, so after a while, I just lay still and motionless.

At some point I must have started drifting in and out of consciousness, caught between the heaviness of my drooping eyelids urging me to sleep and the sharp pain jolting me awake. I tried humming to myself again, but my mouth was dry, and I felt too poorly to move any part of my body.

Such was the state – curled up into myself, enduring, depleted, steeped in my own sweat – that Marius found me in upon his return. I heard him gasp loudly, and something heavy fell to the floor.

“No! Not yet, what– What happened?” he exclaimed, a surge of panic rising his voice into something I’ve never heard before. “Amadeo. Amadeo?”

I couldn’t respond. I was afraid that, were I to open my eyes or mouth, I’d inevitably throw up. So I pursed my lips tightly instead, attempting to stop the constant quiver of my body.

“Can you hear me, beloved? Speak inside your mind if you are able.”

I willed myself to relax, but I was too distraught to empty my mind or shape my thoughts into anything coherent. All I could focus on was the pain, and the pain felt inseparable from the rest of my being. It didn’t matter who hurt me, it only mattered that it hurt. It hurt all over.

I hear you. I struggled to convey anything besides pure scream-agony spilling out of my head. It hurts, Master. I can’t take it! Please. Please. I’m dying! And I’m ugly now. I’m ugly. Turn me! Or kill me. End it, just– It won’t stop!

Tears rolled down my cheeks. There was some shuffling, and then the bed dipped next to me.

“Your blood, the scent is–” He hesitated, but there was no need to finish. It was death, wasn’t it? Rot. Decay. “Please, try to open your eyes.”

He placed his hand on my shoulder, careful and light, and I obliged. The room was dark; a lone slant of dim light spilled in from somewhere to my right. Marius’ face was half-obscured in shadow, but I could swear I saw dark trails of blood, more black than red in the darkness of the room, dripping from his eyes and down his cheeks. Was he crying? For me? Because of me? Because I was dying? Because I was ugly? My mind spun around and a wave of nausea overcame me once more.

I looked over his shoulder and saw a dark figure standing there, her back turned to me, long black hair flowing down her tan shoulders, a smile on her lips. Yes, her back was turned to me, but I knew she was smiling. And humming. The peepal tree, she sang.

My mouth fell half-open to try and form the word. Marius looked at the presumably-empty space my gaze was glued to, then back at me. I knew he couldn’t see her, because she wasn’t there. But she was. A reminder of what I could have had, perhaps. A ghost of past wasted. Your soul, she said as if it mattered. Yes. My soul was floating on salty sea-water. It was beautiful but rotten beyond repair. The fish pecked at it slowly, and I wished they would eat faster.

And she was–

The realisation hit me very suddenly.

Could she be–

“Darling. Look at me.”

My eyes snapped back to Marius. An expression of growing concern overtook his features, and everything behind him started to spin. His eyes were so huge and white. White. White like the seafoam washing over my soul. He was searching through my thoughts, I knew as much – the feeling was familiar, cool, hollow. I didn’t fight it, because there was nothing useful to be pulled from me at the time.

“You are hallucinating, Amadeo. Nobody’s there,” he said, but I already knew that. It didn’t make her disappear, of course.

I opened my mouth, meaning to speak, but all that came out of me was a low, tormented moan. I felt like I might throw up again, or even more mortifyingly, I felt like I might shit all over the bed. Marius must have still been inside my head, because I saw him wince.

“You won’t make it through the night otherwise,” he said. “I don’t know what else– what else to do.”

My heart thumped in my chest, a flicker of hope lighting its way through my head. Was this it? Was it?

“Open your mouth,” he instructed.

That wasn’t right. He should be the one opening his mouth first.

I watched as Marius bit down on his own wrist, then he hovered his hand over my mouth. I let him do it. His blood shocked my tired body into action. I coughed, then reached for him, wrapped both my hands around his outstretched arm and pushed it closer to my lips. Instantly, I felt better. I stopped shivering, my mind cleared from the fever. The nausea was gone, and so was the figure haunting the edges of my vision. I kept drinking, even though I knew the relief was temporary, and Master was simply so cruel as to extend my misery.

After a few more gulps, he pulled his arm out of my grip, then used that same hand to hold my face. “How is it now?” he asked. “Better?”

I sat up, breathing in through my mouth, my nose, both at once, trying to get as much air into my strained lungs as I possibly could. I saw him clearly now, his features no longer distorted, the world no longer swaying around us, streaks of red staining his cheeks. So he was crying. And now he was looking at me with worry.

This was not what I wanted. How could he keep doing this to me? But the plan–

Perhaps I should stick to the plan, I thought with newly-regained lucidity.

“Better,” I confirmed, my voice raspy. “I– I am grateful, but it’s… it’s torture.” I stuttered over my words. “By the morning, I shall be worse again. So much worse! There is no cure, and Flaviano just did something–”

He sighed. “You need to rest. We shall discuss this tomorrow,” he said. “We must consider every option before the irreversible. The decision cannot be made in rush.”

How much more time did he need? How much more time did I have? He loved me, did he not? Granting a fleeting miracle was cruel, but it offered a different kind of hope. Hope that Master would realise the one route worth taking beyond this point was the bite. Did he love me?

After the initial wave of adrenaline passed, it seemed that his blood returned the ability to rest to me, and suddenly I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

“I love you, Master,” I whispered. It was important. Part of my crumbling plan. “In every… version of the future, I love you. In every version of the future… I live to serve you for the rest of my days.” I yawned.

“Yes.” He leaned in to press his lips to my temple. “Tomorrow, Amadeo, once you’ve slept.”

I could wait one more day. Just one more, he said. When was the last time I was so exhausted? Never, perhaps.

“Stay with me,” I murmured. “Don’t leave. Don’t leave in the morning, and never… ever leave again.”

He got under my sheets, and let me cling to his side for the whole night.

I dreamt of a beautiful sunrise over a calm sea: orange-pink and vibrant, the colours painted across the sky in broad, smooth strokes. I sat at the edge of the water, my feet buried in the cool sand. Lucetta sat next to me, her hair wild and blown by the gentle wind. She was looking straight ahead towards the horizon, smiling.

“I wanted you to have it. One last sunrise,” she told me. “See that boat over there? It would have taken you home. But it’s too late now.”

I followed her outstretched hand and indeed saw a barely-visible outline of a ship vanishing over the water.

“Are you dead? Did he kill you?” I asked, but there was no answer. “Well, where’s home?” I tried, turning to face her. “Where’s my home?”

She didn’t respond, and I didn’t expect her to. When I thought of home, I stuffed an image of the palazzo into the void, but it was never quite right. I did not belong among its marble tiling and gold-framed art. But I was not meant for the rotten floors of the brothel, either. So what was it? Where was it?

Hell awaited me at the end of the road, I supposed, but it did not terrify me like it did most men. I endured a version of it on Earth already. It lived inside the mouth of every man that ever chewed off a part of me. Fragments of my soul, my body, whatever they could rip off, were long-lost, scattered over the floorboards like ashes, longed in-between a painter’s rotting teeth, forgotten inside a composer’s heavy coin sachet. I began falling apart long before Marius found me, and it would be foolish to expect him to put me together.

“You shall get what you wanted,” she spoke again, looking at me with pity. “But not home. The sun won’t be yours for a while. She mourns you already, before you are truly gone.”

“She?” I tilted my head to the side. “The sun? Or–”

“Hm.” Lucetta smiled. “Mum understands why,” she whispered. “You had a choice, and she understands why you chose him.”

I shook my head. “What choice!” The sea got darker; waves rose suddenly, cold foam washing over my feet. I didn’t move. “The only choice I had was to either survive or–”

“The boat is always there,” she said, and she started to laugh. “But you cannot board it! Your fingers slip and you fall back into the sea!”

The wind picked up, making me shiver. The sky greyed, suddenly covered by dark clouds.

“I want to fall back. He loves me,” I insisted. “And he will claim me.”

Lucetta frowned. “He will.”

The tide turned; just as an ice-cold wave rushed at me from the ocean, I woke up, gasping for breath.

Chapter Text

Today, I decided, would mark my last day among the living. There was nothing, nothing in the world I wouldn’t do to make it so.

For once, Master was with me in the morning, which was promising – he sat by my bed, his hand resting gently on my shoulder.

“Amadeo,” he said as soon as I awoke. “Did you sleep comfortably?”

I disregarded his question. Who cared about sleep? The fever, I noted, was already creeping back in, an unmistakable tinge of pain steadily clamping around my stomach, and so I needed to hurry.

“Don’t leave, Master,” I said, taking advantage of whatever mental clarity I still had. “There is no cure to be found in the city, and I… I cannot be alone with him anymore.”

“Flaviano?” Marius furrowed his brows. “And why is that?”

Did he really not realise? Or was this yet another trial to be passed? I was unsure whether the doctor could still prove useful for anything, were I to lie on his behalf. I could not imagine anything that would bring me closer to the end than that man’s treatment already has.

Just as I was about to respond, Flaviano himself strolled into the room – as if he didn’t leave me for certain death the previous evening. Upon seeing me alive and well, he rushed to the bed. He started putting his hands all over my face: wiping my forehead, stroking my cheek, pulling at my chin to force my mouth open.

“Dear Lord!” he exclaimed, his eyes shining with excitement. “The illness, it-it is subsiding! The silver’s working precisely as intended! Ah, you must realise what a breakthrough this is, not only for us, but for the world! The world, Amadeo! We shall repeat yesterday’s treatment at once, let me prepare the room for–”

It was too much to bear. Maraldi’s sweaty hands on my skin, the unmistakable glimmer in his eye…

“No!” I slapped his hand away. “You will do no such thing! The treatment is over.”

I could see it clearly now, the impossible loop of ruin brought by Flaviano followed by the cruel mercy of Master’s blood followed by more living silver followed by blood in my mouth followed by Flaviano’s filthy hands followed by–

No!

The doctor scoffed. “You ought to be rational. We mustn't abandon the process of purging–”

I started to laugh, my voice high and strained. I knew it. I knew he’d assume to have cured me somehow. What a fool.

“Absolutely not. And you,” I drew out, narrowing my eyes at Flaviano. “You better start praying.”

He looked confused. “Praying? I don’t understand what–”

“Please, Master!” I ignored Flaviano, and spoke to Marius who’s been quietly observing us. “Let it end. I’ve endured it all for you, for us, for… a chance of salvation that did not end in bloodshed, but… you’ve seen what happens! It’s spreading, and I am as good as dead. I’m begging you!” I pleaded.

Flaviano cut me off. “What are you talking about?” he asked, exasperated. “Have you lost your mind? Your condition has drastically improved since last night! We must–”

I sighed. So be it, I thought. The time is now.

“Flaviano wants to fuck my dead body,” I announced.

Both him and Marius stared right at me. It was difficult to tell which of them seemed more shaken by the revelation.

“I wonder, would you like me cold and stiff, or do you prefer barely-passed and still warm to touch?” I asked, leering at Maraldi. Then I looked to Marius. “Read, Master. Read his mind, read his pathetic little journal.” I mocked. “You shall see.”

Flaviano shook his head. “How dare you? Such baseless, monstrous accusations–”

“Enough,” said Marius. With one flick of his pale, lithe wrist, Flaviano was silenced. Permanently, I hoped. “This may be unpleasant, doctor.”

Flaviano’s discomfort was immediate: he frowned, and made a face as if in an attempt to open his mouth that’s been mysteriously sewn shut. Master looked focused, his lids half-closed as he kept his stern gaze on Flaviano. He was inside Flaviano’s mind. As a crease formed in-between Marius’ brows, I smiled. He saw it, surely. One didn’t even have to be a mind-seer to realise what lurked in the doctor's head.

Master gasped, his eyes snapping to mine. “You let it happen,” he said. He did not sound angry, and he did not sound disappointed or satisfied, either. He sounded… uncertain. “Why?”

I knew he’d ask. I followed the plan.

“I hoped… Had it worked, it would have been worth it,” I said. I sought to be cured as well, yes. It just happened to be impossible. How unfortunate. “But I tried, and you tried, and he tried, and nothing’s worked, and– You must realise my position, Master. One foot in the grave, the other in my own excrement, apparently. My life is in your hands, as it’s always been.”

Marius' gaze softened. “It is as you say,” he admitted mournfully. “I simply thought there must be a way– Alas, there is not. I do apologise, Amadeo.” He sighed, and glanced at Flaviano. “On that item, what shall we do with him?”

I sat up, straightening my back. Something shifted in-between my shoulder blades with a loud, hollow crack. Did he… agree with me? Was it finally going to happen?

And he was seeking my opinion. I looked at Maraldi – Marius was keeping him still, but I saw his fear deepen. What was he thinking? Perhaps that his fate lay in my hands now, which was not entirely true nor entirely false. Marius might have seemed calm to a bystander, but I knew him well, and so I noticed the corners of his mouth raised in contempt, a dark shadow spilling behind his eyes, the muscles in his throat all tensed up. This meant the doctor would never leave the palazzo alive.

“Before you end him,” I said slowly. “Let him witness what he was too cowardly to take.”

Marius blinked repeatedly as he understood what I meant, or as he read the intention from my open mind.

“Are you certain?” His voice trembled with a mixture of horror and delight. “Beloved. You are unwell.”

“I am as well as I am ever going to be,” I said, a surge of determination shooting through me. I grabbed the end of the sheet covering me, and ripped it off the bed. “One last time, Master, before the inevitable end. Whatever it shall be.”

I pulled the tunic over my head and threw it to the floor. Perhaps I wasn’t beautiful anymore, perhaps I had no dignity to speak of left, perhaps my flesh was caving in on itself, but I was still warm. Warm in the most literal sense; the fever possessed my body before it possessed my mind. I needed Master to take me anyway, even if he preferred me perfect and groomed. I would be that again, in time, should he choose to make me so. But now I was ill, and ugly, and I longed to be his, too. I needed him to prove it. That he loved me. That he wanted me. That it would be forever.

Marius’ gaze travelled up and down before settling on my face. I rested on a pile of pillows behind my back. I knew he’d do it; I could see it in his eyes, the greatest and darkest of blues, an ocean I couldn’t wait to sink into.

It's almost over.

Master moved quickly; he was on the bed in what seemed like half a second, his fully clothed, frigid body pressed into mine as he got on top, in-between my already parted legs.

“God,” I breathed. “The only bothersome matter about dying would be to never see you again.” I grabbed him by the shoulders, and pulled him down. “Take me like it’s the last time,” I purred.

Maybe it was.

Marius’ eyes searched mine frantically, reflecting some strange desire I'd give my all to sate.

“My precious little dove,” he said. “All mortal beauty turns to dust, yet yours reaches far deeper than your gorgeous skin can ever show. It’s in you, Amadeo.”

Was he philosophising or flirting? Perhaps the latter.

“Is it? How deep, Master? Can you reach it?” I asked, spreading my legs wider, hooking one of my ankles around his hips to push him closer.

I focused on his pale wrist that stretched right by the side of my face.

“Bite,” he said, bringing his hand closer. “A temporary solution, yes, but I want you aware. I want you to come,” he elaborated.

I held his wrist in place, and I bit, and bit, and bit, the edges of my teeth barely scraping his skin. He liked it when I struggled, so I opened my mouth wider and tried harder, just to never be able to draw blood. Mercifully, Marius brought his own sharp nail to the skin, and sliced himself open – I began to salivate just in time for the blood to start dripping.

After the first tear, it was easier, and I kept sucking until all I tasted was blood. Marius leaned into me, his erection twitching against my groin. As his blood cursed through me once more, I felt myself grow stronger and more comfortable; almost as if the illness was gone. The feeling would not last long, I knew that. But in the moment, I felt extraordinary.

I dragged myself off Master's arm and attacked his lips instead; my eager, open mouth crashed into his, shameless and bloody, and I groaned into him. His response was unusually passionate; he held me tightly, and kissed me like I did not need to breathe to live. His fangs slipped down, so razor-sharp they nicked my tongue instantly, and both our mouths filled with a stir of our blood. Mine – weakened, diseased, bitterly metallic, and his – powerful, ancient.

Almost there.

It was only when I heard shuffling to my right that I remembered Flaviano was still in the room, frozen within his own body. I met his gaze, panting and acutely aware of the blood dripping down my chin, down my neck, and onto my chest. Flaviano was paler than ever, and he stared at us with utter horror. I smiled and ran my tongue along my upper teeth, licking up the blood. He tried to open his mouth once more, but couldn’t.

“Allow him to speak,” I said to Master. I glanced at his wrist, already fully healed. “I want to know what he has to say. Let us hear his theory.”

“As you wish,” he said.

Maraldi started taking quick, shallow breaths. “You– But–” he stuttered. He was shaking. “You must realise fluid exchange of any kind, especially blood, with the diseased will undeniably lead to–”

Was that what he was concerned with?

Marius barked out a laugh. “Is that right, doctor?” he asked, then grabbed my thigh, and pushed my leg to the side, my joints screaming in protest. I didn't flinch. He slid a hand in-between our bodies, and closed it tightly around my dick, drawing a yelp out of me. “What will it lead to, pray tell?”

Flaviano swallowed. “Death,” he said.

Marius and I laughed sharply at the same time, air whistling through my tortured lungs as I kept giggling.

“Ah. Death,” I murmured, amused, hooking my other leg around Marius’ hips, forcing him closer, closer, closer. “Do you long to know what it feels like, Flaviano? Death will never take you like it takes me. Master,” I pleaded, locking eyes with Marius. “Lay claim to me now. Fuck me.”

He did what I asked for, and I felt him push in, every swollen vein of his cock taking its rightful place inside me. Sure, he fucked me. But he loved me! It was more than physical; it was my mind opening up along with my legs, and my thoughts, an insufferable blend of absolute filth and religious adoration, all towards him.

“Ah, yes. Yes,” I mumbled. “Is he turned on, Master? Jealous? Is he? What is he thinking?” I asked, an unmistakable pitch of excitement breaking through the seductive purr I was attempting.

Marius squeezed harder, his fingers still wrapped around my dick.

I turned my head to the side to look at Maraldi, my vision hazed-over with desire. I knew the answer before Marius spoke. Flaviano stayed silent, his usually-small eyes bulging out of his skull, and he was panting. Panting like a thirsty dog put in front of a water dish that stood just out of reach. The dish was dirty, but the dog ached for it anyway. A thin trickle of sweat ran down his temple.

“He wouldn't risk the disease,” Master told me. “But yes, he desires you. He wants to fuck you, dead or alive. Preferably…” I held my breath. “Dead.”

I grinned at Flaviano. Neither of us would survive this, but I’d be reborn, and he’d be gone, and that aroused me. I bit my bottom lip and dug my nails into Marius’ shoulders as he kept fucking me.

“Break his leg,” I said slowly.

It wouldn’t be half as awful as what I had to endure. But it would be something to satisfy the injustice. Master stilled for a moment, his groin pressed into me, and Flaviano’s eyes were on the verge of popping out of his head.

“What did you say?” asked Maraldi, a noticeable crack in his voice. So he could talk again, but not move. Fascinating. “I– I am not quite sure what kind of… spell you've got me under, but this is highly ridiculous! It appears your Master is occupied with you at the moment and anyhow, he is not some kind of savage who'd–”

I sneered. “Surely I am the savage! And it stirs your desire, it does. Save the poor boy, take him out of the savage land, but it's in his blood, yes? It's in him. It's in me. He's in me. It’s all in me, and you have no, no, no fucking idea about any of it! Break his fucking leg!” I insisted. My body shook with Marius’ thrusts, each harder than the previous one. Prove it, I thought defiantly. Protect me! “Master! Do you fucking love me?!”

It happened. Marius closed his eyes, and stilled for a moment. I felt the coldness of his mind extend around and beyond me, as if caressing the edges of my skin. Then it moved to Maraldi, knocking the air out of him at once.

Flaviano screamed, the sound loud and piercing, but not as loud as the sudden snap of bone and not as piercing as the sharp shard that tore through his calf, making space for a stream of blood that flowed out of the gash. It wasn’t as humiliating as what he forced me into. But it was good enough.

Satisfaction vibrated through me. The doctor kept screaming. Marius grabbed me by the chin and made me look at him. His gaze was burning, but not like fire. Like ice frozen onto an open wound, blazing with a snow-hot chill, unmovable except along with a stripe of tortured flesh. The way he looked at me made my dick twitch and my muscles contract around him.

“You are not of this world, Amadeo. You were put here as a test of my character,” he said, his eyes shining with awe, disgust, reverence – it was hard to identify. “Which I've failed, yet still– I love your filthy little mouth and your perfect little ass. God!” With the last word, he pulled back and thrust inside me again. And again. And again. “You are mine. Mine. Say it,” he groaned.

It was pure chaos. Tears streamed down my face, Flaviano blabbered something incomprehensible, Marius fucked me senseless, all I tasted was blood. I could barely take it; I thought I might explode, or die, or come, or all three at once, and even that wouldn’t help with the excruciating sense of ripping at the seams.

“I am yours,” I exclaimed. “Yours! Only yours, Master. Forever yours. Yours until the end. I swear it!”

I meant every word.

Marius held both my wrists above my head, his palm splayed open to keep me in place. Flaviano was whispering a prayer in-between sobs, but I couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge him.

The plan. Remember the plan.

“Master,” I gasped. “If you must kill me, do it now. Right now! There– there is no better way to die than with you inside me. As I'm coming, yes? Ah. Ah! Do it!”

Marius stared at me with his mouth agape. He blinked, then let my wrists go and put his hand around my neck instead. He leaned closer, my world constricted to the intensity of his icy stare and the feeling of his fingers wrapped around my throat. I fought for breath. His other hand slid down to my erection, and he started stroking me as he began to rock his hips, the same crazed, nonsensical rhythm to each push and pull between our bodies.

Was it the end? I imagined dying in his arms. I imagined him mourning me. I knew he would, and oh, he'd be devastated. I didn’t care for a cross, but he'd make sure I got one, wouldn't he? He believed in God, he was God. What name would he have etched into my headstone, I wondered? Amadeo. Amadeo who, though?

“Amadeo,” he mumbled.

I kissed him like it was the last thing I were to ever do, my tongue against his, a faint taste of blood still lingering between us.

Would it be his last name? Would he bestow the honour upon me, stricken with grief after my unfortunate passing? Would I earn it then?

I could see it so vividly. Golden lettering on white marble. Sunrays spilling onto the plaque through yellowing tree-leaves.

Amadeo de Romanus

Here lies the most cherished son, pupil, lover, whore.

I didn’t realise how close I was until his cock brushed past something deep within me. Thousands of white, blinking spots exploded behind my eyelids, overtaking my downtrodden body and hoisting me over the edge of a violent climax. All my limbs were tingling; I couldn’t feel my fingers or toes. My bottom lip quivered as I arched my back off the bed with such effort I felt Marius’ body raise along with mine.

“Amadeo,” he groaned. He let go of my neck, and put his hands on both sides of my head, propping himself up. “God help me, I will not lose you. I will do it. You hear me? I will do it, beloved. You and me, Amadeo. Forever.”

I whimpered, squeezing my eyes shut, and he came, his seed spilling, and spilling, and filling me up, lukewarm in comparison with my overheated, sweaty body. When he was done, he collapsed onto me, and I began to laugh. Quietly at first, and then louder. Louder. Louder. Tears fell down my cheeks; I could not even begin to understand the emotions I was experiencing.

Finally.

I hugged him tightly, pulling him closer with no regard for the protest of my overworked muscles. “Do it.” My voice trembled. “Bite. Bite, Master. Turn me!”

I felt him shake his head in the crook of my neck.

“Let me prepare you. Bathe you,” he said, holding his head up. He brushed a lock of damp hair out of my forehead. “Let me make sure there is no hair out of place on your beautiful head for it shall be immortalised until the end of time. Will you let me?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes.” I could use a bath. A real one with no living silver and no threat of–

Speaking of which.

I glanced to the side, at the completely silent and seemingly unconscious Flaviano. Blood loss, perhaps? It was a shame; he missed the best part.

“Is he dead?” I asked.

Marius followed my gaze. “No,” he said. “He merely fainted. Shall I kill him?”

I contemplated it. “Don't shorten his suffering. If he makes it, he shall be my first meal.”

Master smiled. “You are not the boy I met all those years ago.” Did the longing in his voice mean he missed the boy, or that he was proud of what became of him?

“No.” It would be pointless to deny it. “He’s dead,” I said simply. You killed him.

The water was slightly too warm as I stepped into the tub. The room smelled of rose and a kind of citrus I couldn’t quite place. Not lemon, not orange, but something in-between. I felt a prickle of a headache returning, and tried to push it aside. It wouldn’t be long now, I told myself, and then, no more headaches. At least I supposed so; could blood-drinkers get headaches?

“Are you certain?” asked Marius. He was sitting on a wooden stool next to the bath. His strong hands slid down my shoulders and onto my chest as he washed me. “I have not kept any aspect of my nature from you. You are well aware of what you shall become.”

I knew the existence that awaited me – full of darkness and bloodlust, to name the obvious. But there would also be strength, and knowledge, and Him. My Master. Eternity did not frighten me if we were to spend it together. My love for him was endless, after all, and there was nothing in the world that could shatter it. I hoped he felt the same; that it was not yet too late to sculpt myself to what he most desired, and my beauty would please him for millennia to come.

“I am certain,” I said. “I am yours, Master. Alive, dead, undead, yours.”

He stroked my cheek; his hand was warmed by the water when he touched me, yet it sent a cold shiver down my spine. I knew he would do it.

“I can still recall the regrettable beginning of my own immortality as if it was yesterday,” he said. He shifted to sit behind the tub, out of my line of sight, and began washing my hair. “I have never felt more monstrous than during those first few infinite years. But one must not dwell on that. I did not possess the knowledge of my kind I possess today, and it was not my choice as it is yours.”

He was gentle; his fingertips tenderly pressed into my scalp, lathering my hair with a strong-scented pomade in slow, deliberate motions. I sighed, leaning into the touch.

I've long wondered what it must have been like for him, freshly transformed into something more, something finer than human, and lost as to what it meant. Despite my insistence, he never shared the full story of how or why or where it happened. But I imagined it like this: a clearing deep in the woods, green and fragrant, spring in full bloom, shortly after sunset. Mortal Marius always wore white and stood barefoot on the grass, and his Maker, whose name or history I knew nothing of, was a dark, looming figure that kept Master in place against his will. I might have been right. I might have been wrong. Did it matter?

“What they did, how they did it, might have been awful,” I said thoughtfully. “But I am selfishly glad it happened. What would my world be without you, Master?”

I shuddered. What would it be, indeed? I’d still be at the brothel, a brothel, any brothel. What else could a boy like Arun aspire to? Or I’d be dead. Everything I had, I had thanks to Marius. Everything I knew, he taught me. Everything I was, I became because he took me in. There was no poem lofty enough to encompass my gratitude and loyalty. It poured out of me in a gentle, loving stream, right into the petal-scented water I steeped in, then rose along with the steam that pearled on my skin like jewels.

“You have always been my favourite, Amadeo,” he said. He brushed through my hair with his fingers, slippery with oil, gliding along my hair until they bounced into wet, uniform curls. Like a little cherub, he used to say. Like an angel. “Amadeo de Romanus, if you please,” he added quietly. “You have earned it, and more.”

So he heard it. Saw it inside my mind, perhaps, the gold lettering I wished to be granted in death. Amadeo de Romanus, was it? What else was there left of me now that I have handed over my name, body, mind, and soul?

“Would you pluck the grey hairs?” I asked as he was finishing with the oiling. “There are… three or four on my right side. They keep growing back whiter than before, I fear. I take care of it when I can, but– I've been so weak.”

He did so without comment. I felt his fingers at my scalp, combing through my hair, and he plucked one. Then a second one. Third. Forth. Fifth. Sixth. Seventh. Why were there so many? It was a rather intimate affair, either way.

“Are they gone?” I asked. “I may go mad if I were to pluck a stray one for eternity,” I said, a sad attempt at humour.

“It is done,” he assured. “Shall I shave you as well, beloved?”

I nodded. “Please.”

I tried not to disturb him as he took the blade to my face. It was a tedious chore whenever I did it myself – I despised how quickly the hair grew back – but there was something profound in the way Master did it. The thought that soon no hair would be able to grow any longer than at the exact time of the bite excited me.

“Keep going,” I said when he was done with my face. “My body, too. Make me to your liking, Master. All of me.”

A shadow fell over his face, his hand frozen mid-way towards me. I wanted him to do it; to be able to keep myself exactly as he liked it was an invigorating prospect. His hesitation seemed pointless – he’s made his preference clear, and I had followed it closely until the illness became too much to bear.

“Master?” I furrowed my brows. “No matter. I shall do it myself.” I reached for the blade, but he pulled his hand back.

Then he got up and started pacing back and forth.

“I won’t allow it,” he said at last, stopping a few feet away from the bath.

It made no sense. He'd shave my face, but not my body? What was the difference?

“But… why?” I cocked my head to the side, confused. I wished to know what he was thinking. Did he not want me after all?

He glanced to the large mirror leaning against the wall. The very same one I was so ugly in the day before.

“There will come a day,” he said. “Perhaps not tomorrow, perhaps not in a year, but in a hundred, in a thousand years. I won't be here, and you'll look in the mirror and see a boy where a man should be gazing back at you. Faced with that reality, you shall hate me for taking the choice away, and you shall hate yourself for not considering the implications.”

The implications?

I scoffed. “That is, quite frankly, preposterous,” I said, because I could not comprehend a reality in which his words were true. He would always be with me, and I would always want to please him, and I would always cherish my youth, or whatever was still left of it.

I asked him to do it once more, and once more, he refused.

“Many years from now, you will understand,” he said. “And you will not argue.”

I had to let it go.

What choice did I have? I could still shave it all, I supposed: every night, again and again, over and over, if that was his desire. I reckoned he enjoyed the idea of me shaping myself for him in that way. Perhaps it'd prove my devotion. Whatever pleased him, pleased me.

I told Marius it was nonsensical for me to dress in white for the occasion, but he insisted. He had me put on a thin, silk shirt with loose sleeves and an ocean-blue dublet embroidered with thick silver thread, slashed at the sleeves to expose the fabric underneath, closed with many little buttons. I wore a matching pair of light trousers, and white, heeled shoes with an intricate bow at the front of them.

Master's persistence on dressing up puzzled me until I walked into his bedroom, and met my own reflection in the mirror he kept there; I looked almost normal. Almost as if I was not standing at death’s door, ready to cross the threshold. Marius’ blood did wonders for my complexion; it was no longer an ashy grey but my usual tan brown, an intense contrast to the light clothing. My hair fell down my shoulders in tight, shiny curls, shaped tenderly by Marius’ skilled hands.

There was a crack in the otherwise impeccable illusion, of course – the rash still dotted every exposed sliver of my skin. The chancre, as obvious and inflamed as ever, stayed firmly at the side of my mouth. It didn’t hurt, or maybe I grew used the pain. And maybe, just maybe, the erratic tremble of my eyes – I was not sure when it started, but it persevered through the tail-end of my illness.

Master was dressed for the occasion as well; he wore an emerald-blue vest closed over a frilled shirt and thick, dark trousers. When he stood by my side, we looked ready for a ball.

I took a chance and extended a hand to him. “May I offer you my last mortal dance, Master?” I asked, bowing to him.

“Certainly.” He took me by the hand, and bowed in return, then pulled me closer, holding me firmly at the waist. There was no music, but I imagined a dramatic tune guiding us across the room, and it was as if he heard it, too. “You are in high spirits. I’m glad.”

You could call it that. “Never felt better.”

Marius spun me around under his raised up arm, making me chuckle. It was not the elegant, rehearsed type of dance we'd partake in during the parties. It was a father indulging his child’s wishes while he still had the chance, while they were still young enough to notice. Or it was a lover taking their darling for a last desperate spin before both would become incapable of such joy. Or it was both or it was neither. We kept dancing.

Marius dipped me low, leaning along to stay close to my face. There was no quaver of muscle that could point to him struggling to support my weight on one arm. I leaned back, raised one leg, and hooked it behind his thigh, pressing our hips together. Master raised an eyebrow in amusement. He was so beautiful right then; his face open and bright, his eyes a calm sea on a sunny day.

“Kiss me,” I told him, and he did.

He bent further, keeping us in a position that defied all usual manner of movement, and pressed his lips to mine. The kiss was slow and overwhelming, his tongue searching for something in me – the last taste of fragile humanity, perhaps. He breathed into my mouth and swallowed my breath.

“Do it now,” I whispered, not pulling back. “Please, Master. I want it. I need it. Everything's perfect, and I love you. There is nothing else to try. Do it. Now.”

I was degrading myself, begging for something that was already promised, but I didn’t care. Master kissed the corner of my lips, then my cheek, my neck. He licked along my throat, sucked at the skin, cautious not to use teeth. I moaned, stretching my head to the side, offering myself.

Marius sighed, and grabbed me under the thighs. In one, swift movement, he picked me up, and my legs parted to wrap around his hips. It was as if I was weightless in his arms.

He carried me to the bed, lied me down atop the light, pristine sheets and fluffed-up pillows. I've spent countless hours in that bed, countless hours cuddled around him in my sleep, countless hours drawing abstract shapes on his skin as he taught me Latin, time lost shivering under his touch or pinned under him, my face pressed into the always-fresh pillow. It was rather fitting for me to die there, too.

I looked at him, a smirk dancing at the edges of my lips. “Am I beautiful?” I asked, arranging myself on the sheets.

I bent one knee, and leaned back to expose my neck in one elegant line. I felt the fever starting to grip me again, a flash of it spreading around my cheeks. How lucky, I thought, that it made me seem embarrassed of myself while I was anything but.

He got on top of me. “You are a marvel, Amadeo,” he said earnestly. “A marvel of pure beauty, and it shall be my greatest honour to preserve it forevermore.”

He touched my face, his smooth, cool hand gliding alongside my jaw, down my neck. He put his open palm on my clothed chest, and kept it there, waiting. He counted something under his breath, completely still. He was feeling for my heartbeat, I realised, and as I did, I felt my pulse quicken. Marius licked his lips, his hand still firmly on my chest.

“Your heart is racing,” he said as his long fingers worked through the tiny, impossible buttons keeping my dublet closed. He dragged the fabric open impatiently, exposing a stripe of my chest, still half-enclosed in white silk. “It may hurt, beloved. It may be agony,” he said. He looked haunted.

I groaned, some distant sense of dread swelling in my throat, but I squashed it down, and focused on the overwhelming sense of desire prickling at me.

“Let it hurt,” I said, willing myself to relax. “I love you, Marius. If– if anything is to go awry, I love you, and I will have loved you always. Golden lettering on white marble, yes? Swear it.”

He looked stunned for a moment, then he smiled with all his teeth. Transfixed, I watched as his fangs slipped, making the image of him leaned over me infinitely more arousing and terrifying. “I swear it.” He nodded solemnly. “Close your eyes, Amadeo. I love you.”

I did as he told me. He pushed my head to the side, and I held my breath in anticipation, my heart rattling in my chest like a crazed little bird smashing itself against the bars of its enclosure.

Then finally, finally, I felt it.

It was a familiar ache, a sharp tear at the side of my neck as his teeth sank in with the quietest of pops.

As he sucked, his fangs digging into me, tearing me open, keeping me open, I fought the first wave of dizziness. I opened my eyes to force myself to stay conscious, and dug my nails into his shoulders in an attempt to keep myself grounded.

“Yes,” I murmured, trying to keep still. I could swear I heard him growl into the wound he’s made of my neck. He was not careful; not this time.

I saw stars; silver and gold, speckled all over the high ceiling, winking right at me, dancing along the elongated shadows cast by flickering candelabras. I heard him swallowing, strained gulp after strained gulp, and I felt him lick at my neck as he drank. It would be his usual time of stopping whenever he wished to keep me lucid, but he kept going. And going. And–

“Master,” I moaned, using the rest of my strength to push my hips up into him. I felt him tremble over me. “Ah, Master. Marius. Harder!”

I almost chuckled, but the sound dissolved within me. Marius tightened his grip on the side of my jaw, and I felt the tips of his nails pierce through my skin. I wished to see his face stained with my blood, but all I saw was the ceiling, and the stars, and the shadows.

Then I heard it; a quiet gurgle at first that got progressively louder. He gagged, and I felt his fangs pulling out of my neck, cold air brushing the side of my tortured throat.

It hit me very suddenly that I must have tasted awful. Of course. How could I not consider that my blood was diseased, and wrong, and would be vile to him? That was why he wanted my eyes closed, my head tilted upwards and away from him, so as to not disturb the divinity of the experience.

But he struggled; I felt it. It was in the laboured hitch of his breath each time he swallowed, the desperate clutch of his hands on my face and shoulder. The fact that he wanted me, still, even like this, dying and disgusting and crumbling in his hands, solidified my desire. I wondered what I tasted like; was it metal, the same sour, overpowering thing I could not get out the back of my own throat since the first treatment I endured? Was it decay, was it meat gone bad, or was it over-ripe fruit covered in a plush sheet of mould? Was it death, was it a forgotten bouquet of half-dry, half-rotten flowers soaking in a vase of stagnant water?

“I don’t care if it’s ugly. If I’m disgusting,” I said, my voice full of barely-contained emotion. Lust. Devotion. Hunger. He might have been the one feeding, but I was hungry, too. “Let me see. Let me see!”

He hesitated, but then loosened his grip on me. As I turned to see his face, I felt unbearably light-headed; a testament to how drained I already was. I fought to stay conscious, to witness as much of it as I could. His mouth parted slightly, the tips of his canines shining from in-between his lips. My blood, crimson and thick, dripped from his chin onto his clothes, onto me, onto my exposed chest. The stars were still there; they clumped around him, blinked in front of him, blurred his silhouette in a cloud of otherworldly light. His light hair gathered around his face like a huge, backlit halo.

I reached for his face, and even though it felt like there was an anvil weighing on my wrist, I managed to wipe some blood off his chin. I put the bloodied fingers into my own mouth and licked them clean, my eyes never leaving his. Something stirred inside him, his gaze darkening strangely. To me, it just tasted like blood; metallic and warm. But it was the gesture that counted, was it not? I moaned, closing my eyes in ecstasy. If only there was enough blood left within me to rush to my dick, I’d be hard.

“Make it hurt,” I said. “Agony, Master. Give it to me. You promised!”

The performance tired me, but I gave it my all. Nothing was out of place. He had his rich fabrics and moody candelabras, and he had my complete surrender and perfectly curled hair. The scene was as perfect as it was ever going to be.

Now or never, Master. End it.

His teeth were back at my neck in an instant. He didn’t just bite, but tore through the skin – deeper, deeper, deeper – and I felt the warmth of my blood dripping down my throat, sinking into the pillow; he could not keep up with swallowing. How messy. My laboured breath filled the room, my pained moans bouncing off the walls. It hurt, it burned, it felt as if he might decapitate me with his teeth if he kept going, like he might bite through my spinal cord at any moment.

The whole room spun and swayed. My body was still fighting the blood loss; I felt heavy, my limbs limp under me even though I relentlessly tried to stay awake. It was like being stranded in the middle of the ocean and trying to keep myself afloat with a metal anchor chained to my foot, pulling me down, down, down towards the slimy seabed. Saltwater filling my lungs, salt-tears pooling in my eyes, a teary-eyed siren humming into my ear.

Humming. Humming? I groaned, the sound coming from the very depth of me, bubbling on its way out.

The peepal tree is fast asleep.

My ears were ringing, but not loud enough to drown out the words. I felt feverish all over again, tasted blood as it rose from the back of my throat, choked on it as I tried to breathe.

Sleep like the– tree. Her voice cracked.

I did want to sleep. Was this it? Would it finally end? Would he offer his own blood, or would he let me die? Marius’s face seemed huge and insane: there was nothing inside of him, his white, empty eyes fixed on me, blood dripping down his chin, blood clumping his hair together, blood–

A bright light burst from behind him, engulfing him in a starlight haze. The humming or singing got louder, and then, for no more than a few seconds, a woman’s face flashed right in front of his. Her skin was like mine – tan and radiant, her hair dark and flowing, curling down her shoulders and chest, her eyes big and brown, her brows furrowed. She was mouthing words I couldn’t quite hear. I tried to focus on them. Sorry, was it? Was it? Sorry, baby. Starving.

Mum? I thought, or I said it out loud; I could not be sure. I know, we were starving. I miss you.

I heard laughter, but she wasn’t the one laughing – it was a child’s voice, high and delighted. My own. I was laughing, except it was years earlier, and I didn’t understand the world yet. I smelled food cooking. Bread burning.

Love you, baby, she mouthed. He erased it. For the best. Love you, baby.

What? I tried to keep her there, but couldn’t. She was gone at once, and I let my eyelids fall, let the anchor pull me down into the abyss.

If this is how it ends, I thought. I did my best.

After that, there was nothing but darkness for a while. I floated in it, at the bottom of it, blind and deaf and unfeeling, until a strong hand gripped me by the shoulder and pulled me to the surface, the sun scattered through clear ocean water in trembling shafts of light.

“Amadeo.” Someone was repeating a name. My name. “Amadeo. Amadeo! Drink!”

A cool liquid touched my lips, and as the first few drops made their way down my throat, I remembered what was happening – Marius. It was Marius saying my name, it was Marius telling me to drink, it was his blood in my mouth.

I did as he told me, and started to swallow.

“Yes.” He sounded so relieved. “Yes. Drink. You’re doing so well, Amadeo.”

That was me, Amadeo. A-ma-de-o. Amadeo. I liked that. Ama-deo.

Encouraged, I sucked and swallowed until the heavy fog started to disperse from my mind and slowly, painfully, I found it within myself to open my eyes.

Marius’ face was the first thing I saw, his eyes wide, his whole face – mouth, cheeks, somehow even his forehead – smeared with blood. My blood? His blood? Our blood. My head ached as if split right down the middle with a blunt blade.

“Ma–” I started to speak, but he shushed me.

He shook his head, his hair swaying gently. “Do not disturb the process. You’re hungry, and you mustn't stop now for it is not yet done. Drink, beloved.”

He was right, I realised, I was hungry. The taste of his blood morphed into something else as it went down my throat. It changed from plainly metallic to rather sweet and rich, almost like… wine. Which didn’t make sense, and it made complete, beautiful sense at the same time. It was progressing as intended, surely – I would be his in every sense. Made of his own blood, transformed with his teeth, raised from the dead with his guidance, my blood coursing through his veins, his dripping into me like the sweetest of liqueurs. I craved for nothing more.

Yes. Yes. Yes!

Finally–

You shall get what you wanted, but not–

Sorry, baby.

I buried the memory of what they said. Nothing except Master should matter to me. Nothing except Master mattered to me.

As soon as I was able to move, I clasped both hands around his wrist with such strength that I heard a hollow crack. I paid it no mind, my attention fixed on the gash on his wrist; I sank my teeth as far as I could. When he started to heal, I pushed my tongue deeper into the wound, and I could swear I licked at his bare, exposed bone. Did it hurt? It must have, yet he made no noise at all; when I looked up, he was focused on my face – smiling, surrendering to the attack I brought upon his now mangled, open wrist.

How much did I have to drink? I kept going, kept swallowing him down in greedy, lustful gulps. The more I drank, the hungrier I became – it was not a simple, human hunger that could be satisfied with a meal. It was bigger, huge, all-encompassing, and it drilled into my brain like a tiny, stubborn parasite. More, I thought. This is not enough.

The change was as sudden as it was tangible. My skin itched all over and as I looked down, I saw every dot of rash, every cut, scrape, and scab healing over, the impurities dissolving back into the skin, the body devouring itself. The feeling was not pleasant: something electric and wrong rolled through me. His blood – or something else – scorched everything in its path, starting in my throat, and then going down. No, not his blood, I realised, but power. Unfamiliar and overwhelming, it burst from within me.

Just as I thought the shift was coming to an end, a wave of cold nausea came over me. A spike of heat followed right after, and I felt compelled to let go of Master’s hand and sit up on the bed in an attempt to fight it. What was it?

“It is as expected,” said Marius, the words muffled; as if I was underwater again. “It has to go somewhere, the disease. Do not resist.”

I tried not to, but it felt crazy. I groaned, what I assumed to be sweat beading on my skin – but I saw a silver sheen slicked over my skin, the peculiar glint catching in the candlelight. Living silver. I understood the name now; it sounded ridiculous when Flaviano’s said it, but it was right there. Silver, alive on my flesh, under it, inside it. So the cure, the poison, whatever one was to call it, had to find its way out, and through was simply the easiest.

I managed to bend over the edge of the bed before another surge of nausea clamped around my insides. Helpless against the sensation, I threw up what looked like liquid, shiny metal swirling in a pool of semi-coagulated blood. I vomited again, and again, my body constricting with the impact of it, tears rolling down my cheeks until I retched and nothing came up anymore. I sweat silver, and silver trickled down my skin, and blood-silver tears burned my eyes.

“Fuck,” I muttered, a laugh stuck somewhere on its way out of me.

It was supposed to be beautiful, yes? Master wanted it to be beautiful, and perfect, and dignified. And here I was, sitting in a pool of blood and silver-sweat, gagging on the remnants of my pathetic mortal existence. I burned, and somehow, I felt cold. Freezing and burning all at the same time. The fever was gone, and the nausea was no more; this was different. Deeper; coming from the very fibre of my being.

I shuddered, the tips of my fingers ablaze, then tingling as if dipped in ice. Mesmerised, I watched as my nails shaped themselves into neat, sharp points, glass-like and elegant. I flexed my hand and smiled, pleased with the change. The worst toothache imaginable emerged from the depths of my skull, but it only lasted a few seconds, and then something sharp tore right through my gums, more fresh blood dripping down my mouth. I felt the fangs drop as soon as I licked my lips to taste it. They seemed alien and ill-fitted, not a part of my own body yet.

“Amadeo,” said Marius, and with a whistle of air I didn’t know I was withholding, I remembered he was on the bed with me. “Look at me.”

For the first time in what felt like weeks, his face was crystal-clear to me; nothing blurred, nothing fogged, the haze lifted, the little stars disbursed. Just Marius, my Master, my Maker, the only one that ever mattered. I panted; breathing still felt good, and I didn’t understand how to stop doing it.

“You are… exquisite, my child,” he said, reaching for my face. His hand was warm, the feeling of it brushing against me foreign and somehow distant. “Beautiful. Like fire, beloved, a phoenix risen from its own ashes, you burn. I knew you would.”

I was not sure what he was referring to. I was glad he was pleased with me, but– More importantly than that, why was I still so hungry? I felt ravenous, and his blood, it called to me, still – there was something I needed out of it.

More.

“I want to bite your neck,” I said, and watched him raise an eyebrow. He looked so tired and spent; I didn’t care. “Be my first, Master.”

He stared at me for a while. “Ah. I can deny you nothing,” he said, slowly flexing his head to the side, exposing his neck.

When I moved, it was like my body worked faster than my mind; instantly, I was straddling Marius’ hips, and I was leaning into his neck, no warning, no plan, no nothing before I bit down. My fangs sank into him with no resistance from the flesh at all, or with what felt like no resistance compared to my lowly human capabilities. Marius murmured something under me, and I pushed harder – with my lips and my hips – as I started to drink.

Finally, I thought, finally I was taking, and taking, and taking, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. What if it was? We were connected; on some primal, subconscious plane, we were one and the same, he was me, and I was him. I wanted to drink him dry. I wanted to fuck him. I wanted to bite right into his chest and scrape my teeth over his heart. The trouble was, I had no idea how to stop myself once my mouth was full of blood.

Marius had to intervene; his hands dug into my shoulders, and he tore me away from himself, still physically able to overpower me even in his weakened state. I liked that.

“So much natural talent,” he said, then brushed his hand through my damp hair, grabbing a handful of it at the back of my skull, as if to test if I would still follow his lead. I did, letting him guide my gaze up, down, to the side. He seemed pleased. “We ought to get you an actual meal now.”

I pouted. “And if I want you to be the meal?”

He laughed, the sound echoing through the room and through my mind. “It is true that the transformation ignites all lust tenfold. Do not worry, you shall bed me soon. But there are unfinished matters to take care of, Amadeo.”

I supposed that was fair; especially with the hunger still burning its way through my stomach. Master’s blood didn’t quite satisfy it like I thought it would.

“Very well,” I said. “Oh. Is he alive?” I asked with a smirk. I meant Flaviano, and Marius knew that. He smiled back.

“Barely,” he said, completely devoid of compassion.

I chuckled. “Good. Take me to him.”