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When you can't trust in angels, you turn to the devil for a pact.
Alessandro Steno is Venice's living legend. Trying to wash old blood off his hands, he hunts the city's...
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AN: Hello, wonderful human! Welcome to Renaissance Italy, an era of golden intrigues, roaring empires and wine red romance! Genius artists, kings and popes, it's all there. And you'll meet it all in 'The Mosaic'. This is a very rough first draft and English is not my fist language, but I'll try my best not to let you down! You're awesome and made my day just by clicking on this chapter! I hope you'll enjoy the read! Without further ado --
Venice, 1382.
He didn't have enough time.
Sweat was running down the man's face, sticking grey hair to his temples and forming thick drops above his upper lip. The salty taste filled his mouth when his nervous tongue darted out to catch them. Alvino was crouching on a wooden platform, high above the marble floor of a large entrance hall.
He didn't have much time now. Not enough time to sing his little daughter her lullaby and tug her into bed. Not enough time to kiss his wife good-bye. Not enough time to laugh with his friends over a ten year old joke over a glass of wine.
Not enough time to warn the others.
He had time for one thing only. Run and save himself -- live. Or hide a message, hope others might continue what he started -- and then die.
Alvino shot one last, longing glance to the high, arched windows and into the endless night behind. Then he tore his eyes away, taking a deep breath.
The flames of long candles sent nervously flickering light through the hall, making shadows dance like creatures of the night. Even the silence was tense with anticipating dread.
There was no escape. They both knew.
His heart, his muscles, his love for his little daughter, they all screeched and begged to run.She needed a father. His wife needed a husband. Yet he stayed. The city needed him more.
Death ... he walked so slowly ... as if he had all the time in the world.
Alvino knew he had. The artist knew the man. If he even was a man. Infallible as he was, like the angel of death himself. The assassin had appeared out of the long shadows between the marble columns. Tall and thin like a skeleton, wrapped in a long cloak, with narrow eyes gleaming like hell's greeting from under the hood.
A human reaper.
Alvino hadn't been able to see his face, but he hadn't needed to. He had seen him before, once -- knowing when they would meet again, he would die.
The formerly black hair would be grey now, like his own, his face still as harsh as ever, with features sharper than his knifes, and eyes that were cold, black, little pebbles that mocked the world from their seat in sunken sockets.
He didn't want to die, clung to life when he knew he should let go, when he should happily give it for all those it might save. What was his life against that of thousands?
