The Mosaic

Chapter 36 | Harbinger

Dedicated to @ashes_and_nesryn for their sweet words of support and encouragement -- while sounding like a poet! Thank you!

The angel was void of any colour.

Anyone else would've looked sick, dead -- he looked pure. As if colour would only taint him.

He was the shade of mountain air. Where colossal summits, snow and glaciers met thin clouds brushed over a white blue sky. Where the sun shone brighter and the air was colder.

He was slender, not as tall as Alessandro (but that giant was the hugest thing that had possessed the audacity to trample into Giacinto's life and just stick around), but still taller than Laelia (who had dared to grow half a head taller than Giacinto last year).

He had quick eyes, the palest of blue, like ice at noon. It was the only hint of colour on him. Even his lashes were white. Skin like snow, hair like spun white gold.

Giacinto wasn't the type to sing hymns to beauty. He could see the beauty of a flaming sky over a bronze sea in the evening, but he wouldn't waste time gaping at it. He did have to admit Laelia was beautiful, but he wouldn't risk that (Why would he? A pointless battle was none  he'd fight.). He could even acknowledge that Alessandro wasn't too ugly.

But this man? Only 'angel' would do him justice. As if mortal bodies, dirty and flawed, could not have created this being. Only a divine hand could breathe life into stars, shape light itself.

"You're staring," Laelia whispered.

"So are you," Giacinto hissed back.

A face that could start wars – would start wars, if it wasn't for the deep black silk and satin shrouding him behind smooth dignity. Cassock, shoulder cape, a sash wound around his waist. A priest. A large silver cross hung around his neck, over his chest, and Giacinto knew at the first glance that the bright gem in the middle was a diamond. Apart from a seal ring on his finger, it was the only adornment. Even the black robe was plain, no embroidery, nothing. It ripped the man from all earthly desires, placed him next to an altar at God's feet.

The priest stepped closer. He looked amused.

"Jesus Christ," Giacinto said.

"I'm afraid not," the man laughed, "Marius Fromm. I'm the archdeacon of Florence."

Fromm. German. Giacinto searched his mind for a translation (numbers were easy, words were stubborn, they never did what he wanted). Pious? Talk about true to their name. He had no accent giving him away -- must be living in Italy for a long time. "Giacinto Marinos," he said.

"I know," Marius said. "... don't stab me for that, please."

Laelia giggled.

"What are we doing here?" Giacinto asked. Beautiful people shouldn't be trusted. Especially not any high ranking clerics.

Pretending to serve god. They only served themselves. The devil at least had a superior motive, freedom and pride. The church basked in blood and gold, promising eternity to the poor to take today for themselves.

"I went to your villa to contact you, but unfortunately found it empty," Marius started.

Empty? Hadn't Alessandro said he would stay home?

"So I went to your bank and on my way, Miss Laelia ran into me."

"So you thought 'hey, helpless girl, I'll take that one home'," Giacinto said.

"I have sworn an oath of celibacy."

"That's what they all say," Giacinto sneered. Funny, how a man praying every night spoke like a heretic. But the cold in him would extinguish any flames at the stake.