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henryzhxng · 5 years

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22.12 | THE CASTELVECCHIO RUBBLE | 1 AM.

Henry was amazed it wasn’t crushed by the bomb’s fall-out. To most, it was just a tree near the Castelvecchio. To him, it was a place for him and Rafaella to hide. Eventually he’d shown Hector, too, but this place was sanctuary from his father’s demands for a long time. Only when he realized he couldn’t escape, when he’d fully given in, did Henry stop using this place and the shadow of neutral territory to protect him from the truth.

The note complicated things. Tainted a place that was meant to be sacred. He felt his hand tighten into a fist around it, where it lay innocuously in his pocket, nothing more than fragile paper.

Fragile as the skin around his bones, fragile as his heart had felt ever since the video of Hector had released. He’d moved on autopilot, knowing he was being watched, knowing he would be expected to prove his loyalty in the wake of Hector’s betrayal. Even with his “death” he would be carefully monitored whenever he left his home; he constantly swept for bugs within, and the biometric security would ensure relative safety, but carelessness was unaffordable.

His eyes were still red-rimmed as he took the flask from his pocket, draining it dry. It hadn’t taken much to make the grief real; he’d been imagining Hector dying for real ever since the video came out. Leaving his vulnerability out for everyone to see had been the perfect alibi. Henry, reserved and detached, dramatic and cool at once, crying where someone could see? Surely not, but there it was.

It felt like cutting out his heart for Damiano, but it was a willing price to pay. There was no price too high where Hector was concerned. He would beg, humiliate himself, crawl across the floor and kiss Damiano’s boots if it meant Hector could live even one more day.

He only needed one more before he could get him out of the country. One more day, and for the first time in over a decade, he prayed.

It was a bit of a climb over the rubble, but eventually Henry got to the base of the Castelvecchio. There were no workers helping to clear things this late, but it was only lit by the waning moon, and his pen-light shone rather obviously when he used it. Sighing, he switched it out for the lighter in his pocket. It provided far less light, but it was less noticeable from above, as well.

Most of the branches had been cleared from the tree by fallen stones, and he looked around for any sign of deliberate disturbance, hunting in the flickering yellow-orange light for a sign. There was a hollow around the roots of the tree, probably because they were prioritizing wildlife preservation if anything could be salvaged, maybe 3 feet wide around the roots, but there was nothing there.

Maybe it had been a prank. Some trick by one of his low-level soldiers, or even Grace. He wouldn’t put anything past her.

None of them would’ve known about this place, he rationalized, fear crawling up his spine. The note had discussed his sins. Who that knew of this place would betray him?

A creeping suspicion began in his mind, one he was loathe to consider. It didn’t matter how many people had told him he should try. Instead, he brushed his fingers over the crumbled stone, searching for something. He stopped at a flash of white, turning abruptly back to where he’d moved on from.

The corner of white cloth stuck out just barely from the stone. It wasn’t noticeable if you weren’t looking for it, but it may easily have been discovered if he’d let the note sit for even one day. Henry suppressed his horror in favor of clearing the stones from around the area, lifting the one above the cloth to reveal more fabric.

It was the only pure white corner on the handkerchief, for the rest was near-soaked in dried blood.

Fingers trembling, he did not yet reach for the handkerchief, instead pulling a second flask from his other inside pocket. He took a healthy swig out of it and shook his head, almost like a dog shaking water from its fur. There was something familiar about it, something he didn’t want to look at. Henry’s first instinct was to tightly shut his eyes.

With effort, he opened them and tucked the flask away, reaching out with now-steady hands toward the bloodied half-memory. He’d seen that thing before, sticking out of the pocket of a well-tailored suit. He’d seen it a thousand times.

He snatched it away, looking for the monogram he knew he would find. A. The letter was blood-red even without the blood; he could see it perfectly in his mind’s eye. Years of watching his father walk side-by-side with the man wearing it were plenty fresh in his mind.

Temples throbbing, he shut his eyes, overcome with a memory he wasn’t aware he had. Dark hands that had ruffled his hair as a child, darker eyes that were horrified by what he was saying.

❝ He trusted you! ❞ ❝ Please, Henry, listen to me. Let me help you.❞ ❝ Like you helped my father ? ❞

He felt his breathing accelerate as panic set in. This wasn’t right. He would have remembered something like that. It would have dominated his worldview, eclipsed everything else in his life. He’d been searching for his father’s killer for months...

Another memory assaulted him, for that was what it felt like. An assault from within his own mind, against his soul itself.

❝ You shouldn’t be here. ❞ Maybe not, but liquor tasted just as good anywhere. Without a break in his father’s case, maybe he deserved what he got. ❝ You’re lucky. Foolish, but lucky. ❞ ❝ Maybe you’re the fool. Maybe Damiano sent me to kill you. ❞ ❝ You can barely stand. Why should I have anything to fear ? ❞

Henry held his liquor very well. He knew, in that moment, that he shouldn’t have felt dizzy, or nauseous, or any of the other things he felt. He remembered trying to stand, but quickly remaining in the stool. He remembered Cosimo Capulet placing a folder in front of him, remembered the sound of his voice, quiet but firm in the low din of the bar...

❝ Alvise killed 爸. ❞

His tongue had felt too thick for his mouth, the empty glass swimming in his vision before it cleared again. He read the words again, some transcript of... communication. What communication? It was fuzzy, like his mind had been layered with holes. Even as he began to remember, things still eluded him. What had convinced him to believe Cosimo in the first place?

The thought of his name sent rage through him, and Henry began to see. The Capulets had new drugs on the market. It was possible they’d seen something in development.

As the thought came, so did a fragment, not a true memory but enough of a piece for him to latch onto. Maybe it was hope, or maybe desperation. In any case, Cosimo’s voice filtered back through his head.

❝ You may feel nauseous. Please give a verbal warning if you do. ❞

His own toneless response had been a simple affirmative. They had gone through the file again and again, and each time, it had filled Henry with blinding rage. He’d nearly thrown his glass at the wall, before Cosimo Capulet caught his wrist and told him to save his strength in that same calming tone.

Henry had never known anger like that. Impossible to see through or understand. Unrelenting and violent, and absolutely unfamiliar. Cosimo’s hands were cold on his shoulders as he pushed him down into the back of a nondescript car. There was something cold in his hands, tucked back into the holster at his side after he nodded along with something Cosimo was saying.

He looked down at the divot in the rubble and saw the pistol, and something inside him broke entirely.

❝ I loved your father. ❞ Stop talking! Henry was screaming in Chinese. He hadn’t noticed the switch. ❝ I want to find who killed him too. Henry, we can do it together, if you — ❞

He’d unloaded every single round in the pistol. Again and again he’d pulled the trigger, listening to the click with a vicious sort of satisfaction. He’d avenged his father, done his memory proud. The anger didn’t abate, but something in him had settled. He had done... what he was meant to do. The thought was strange, and he’d pushed it from his mind at the time, focusing on exiting the building. The silencer had done most of the work for him, but he couldn’t be seen here.

Henry calmly walked back to the car. He took the clothes offered by Cosimo Capulet, similar to what he’d been wearing, and traded in his, which were splattered with blood.

His head felt blissfully empty. The anger had been poured out of his head, and it felt good to be calm. He could not remember what peace felt like. Maybe this was close.

They’d taken the gun from him at some point, though it had been his. Was still his. He was deposited in the same stool, poured another drink, and barely had enough wherewithal to call Hector before his head hit the bar and he was dead to the world.

His last instruction had been do what you always do. At the end of the night, if he couldn’t walk, he had to call Hector.

It was the only thing that had broken the dizzy haze, the thick, sweet taste on his tongue, and the beginning migraine.

He remembered waking up from that night before he remembered the other things. He’d put it off at the time as a particularly bad hangover, thinking he must’ve gone past his limit somehow. He couldn’t remember anything after 11 that night, but he had chalked it up to a particularly good night and forgotten all about it.

Henry had felt guilty, afterward, that he hadn’t been there to help Alvise. That he’d been carousing while Alvise was dying.

He felt very dizzy, and when he put a hand to his chest, Henry realized it was rising and falling very quickly. I can’t breathe. He took the gun in one hand, knowing it would be empty of bullets, and the handkerchief in the other, scrambling down the stone toward the roots of the tree.

When he was mostly hidden by the rubble around him, he crumpled, his head thunking painfully against the trunk. He used breathing exercises to get over the attack, though how long it took, he wasn’t sure.

I killed Alvise Vernon.

It didn’t matter that he’d been drugged and pushed by Cosimo Capulet. He’d held the gun in his hand and felt a sick sense of satisfaction watching Alvise crumple to the ground. A man he’d called uncle, someone he thought even loved him, in his own twisted way. He didn’t notice as tears streaked his face, pulling his knees up to his chest. He thought of the grief and pain on Lawrence and Odessa’s faces, how he’d held Odessa so often after the death of her father. How he’d mourned with her, commiserated with her, shared her pain. How he’d promised her he’d kill the man who took her father from her.

A promise is a promise.

He’d tried not to break them. It was impossible to know if he succeeded, all things considered. He’d certainly broken promises to Damiano, and more than that. But he’d tried.

This one he could certainly uphold. It would be easier than the others, in fact.

Whatever monster did this, I’ll find them. We’ll find them.

Those words held a delicious irony. What could he do when the monster was him?

He sat for a long while. Until the tears dried on his face, his eyes bloodshot and grim. Until he heard the sounds of traffic in the city once more. Until the sun peeked out at him around the rubble piled above his head, dawn breaking over a world quite different than the one he thought he’d been living in. As he sat, still and quiet in the remains of one of Verona’s most sacred places, a plan began to form. It was new, barely born, yet it showed a certain promise.

Henry would keep his promise. The monster that killed Alvise Vernon would die.

But he would not die before doing what he could to make it up to those he’d hurt, and not without sowing the seeds to taking a few other monsters with him.

#♛┈⛧┈┈•༶ CUE | DECEMBER 22.#♛┈⛧┈┈•༶ ACTING OPPOSITE | SELF.#( first of all pls don't kill me )

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