((Private))
There was light, for the first time in a while. Warm winds, and a bright sun reflecting off of the light morning rain. The sky had almost entirely parted, with only a few clouds of rain dotting the blue horizon. In the distance, a hamlet could be seen, just as a party of five young men went to tend to their fields, laughing as they went. They brought with them small cakes of wheat, shovels and rakes and began to toil in the mud. Beside them, children played. He himself stood alone with the graves. Only perhaps a few hundred meters from the home he grew up in. Happy. A family. No bloodshed.
Genoa, flashes of fire, dust, blood. It burns it burns it burns it burns it burns. He runs. Houses collapse. A man kills his friend as they struggle to run to safety. The killer dies moments later.
It was all wrong, then. He remembered the days they spent here. Summers that had no end. The face of an uncle, still not ostracised from his own family. Still alive, still happy. Running through the green grass, blowing in the wind, with his brother and sister. ''We swore we would never be apart'' he mumbles to himself. Empty promises. There had been enough of those throughout the years. And now, with the farmers laughing off the distance, on a bright summer day, he stands in front of cold gravestones. He reads the words, inscribed in the lifeless stone.
GIACOMO BARTOLOMEO LEONE
BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER OF THREE
1803-1864
CLAUDIA SOPHIA LEONE
CHERISHED WIFE AND SISTER
1827-1864
NICOLA ISIDORO LEONE
TRAITOR
It had been a year since he had spoken to any of them, before they died. He could barely remember their faces, their voices. They were not supposed to be dead. None of this was supposed to happen. They were supposed to forget their troubles, come back to their homes. Forgot what divided them.
They were supposed to be a family.
A woman bleeds to death, slowly, in the cold basement. She whimpers, mumbles prayers. Her husband stands next to her. He averts his eyes. He tries to not notice. Another man walks up to the pair, offers his assistance. The husband snaps. His wife does not need help. She doesn't need help. She doesn't need help. She goes silent. The breathing stops.
He laid three flowers on each grave and mumbled a prayer. He wondered if he truly believed that his brother would ever be offered Heaven. Perhaps it was blasphemy to ask such of a traitor. His father had sinned as well. He was never sure what he believed. But he knew his father had brought militias to the front, ready to fight. There was no virtue in violence. His sister, alone, afraid. There was no sin in her death. Yet, he could never condemn them, nor find any more anger. They were family. They were those he had loved above all else. He just wished it was different.
A large, muscular man stands at a tree in the corner of the graveyard. He watches, and then he walks. Approaching the lone, broken man closing his eyes and wishing upon the morning drops that lightly tap against his coat. The large man stops before he stands in front of the graves, just out of reach. The broken man opens his eyes at the sound of trampled grass, and watches the new arrival. He stumbles for a word, but the larger man interrupts him.
''Their passing was… unfortunate. You have my condolences.'' A slight German accent. A pin in the form of a bronze Roman eagle pinned to his chest. Who is he?
''I do not recognize you.''
''I am… was a friend of your brother.'' Those are dangerous words.
''Many were. Few would admit so now.''
''You loved your brother.'' The words catch him off-guard. They are the truth. ''I offered him assistance. Consider me a friend.'' The broken man hesitates.
''No. I'm not sure I will.'' The larger man seems shocked by the response.
''You'll find our friendship very profitable, perhaps. There is always power in the right friends.'' A glimpse of understanding appears in the broken man's eyes.
''I remember. You were at the ball. You spoke to my brother.'' He turns back to the gravestones. ''I understand. But I'll ask you to leave.'' Bowing his head and closing his eyes. ''Power… has not brought much to my family.''
The larger man brings his hand to his chin. He ponders what to do. The broken man looks at him for a second. He is not armed. He is on Leone land. How could he then appear so threatening? The larger man smiles.
''You are not as your brother were, then. Fascinating. Then I shall take my leave. But first.'' He procures a letter out of his jacket, and stretches it towards the broken man. With an unsteady hand, he takes it. ''It is something your brother wished you would see.'' The larger man leaves. He stands alone now, with a letter from a dead man, in a sunlit graveyard. It is terrifying.
The flames consume. The explosions shake the very ground. Gunfire drowns out the world around them. As the roof collapses in onto them, crushing the poor few who watched the streets outside, a barricaded door breaks open with the sound of an axe. A man calls on them to leave and the survivors rush forward. The smoke burns in his throat. He can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe. A young boy collapses beside him, draws a final breath. He pushes on. He lives. A woman desperately tries to wake a baby lying wrapped in cloth in her arms. Their saviour runs towards the docks. A small metal eagle is pinned to his chest.