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From birth, you are a part of a set.
A lesser part.
Your cousin is born a couple days before you, just a couple days. He has flames a couple of orders of magnitude stronger, just a couple of orders of magnitudes. He has, quite obviously, a heterogametic set of chromosomes.
And this? This decides it all.
Women are not that important in this business. Why, there is a theory, even, that to achieve purer flames in a child the foetus has to be of mother with no flames at all; she is unlikely to survive, then, but - civilians are only protected by Omerta, and it’s rare for it to stop people from trying; you are aware of that practice, so it so easy to come upon!..
Women are not that important in this business - this is a paradigm. You are born to the world of the traditions, and, regretfully, not a single one of those- let it go, for a while. No need to get so grim, yet.
Of course, for every rule, there are exceptions.
There are the Black Lillies - they are free, somewhat; there are small nondescript famiglie who don't get much scrutiny and do whatever it takes for them to stay afloat, from making unsavoury deals with stronger ones and with each other and to utilising every single human that is useful; there are small nondescript famiglie who can’t afford to care and like that, pretend they have never even thought of caring.
(It can’t be anything other than their weakness, though. They can’t genuinely not care.
It would ruin so much of what your world stands upon, knowing that if, by a simple chance, you have been born somewhere else, anywhere else, it would’ve been different.
Realising that yes, you would not have the access to the knowledge (do you have it now, though?), you would not have the resources a famiglia that is proud to be founded by the descendants of the Thunder Guardian of the first generation of the Crown has (do you have them now, though?), but - you would have been free.
…they all are just too weak to be like the Bovino.
This has to be it.)
Well. There can be some exceptions found in the big, notorious famiglie, too.
(There are some women that do not get married off at all, for example, simply because they did not want to and their Dons decided that is an incentive enough. Why, Veronica Serra is a mist, and not the least talented one, but all she does is dance at the balls, and smile, and make little illusions of the flowers that are grown in her famiglia’s illustrious greenhouses.)
If a woman’s flames are powerful and if her Don is invested, it would be foolish to use an asset simply as a machine that has a chance to produce children as strong given the right match- but you are not that, are you, now? Your flames are… not abysmal, but more of sparks, and your Don certainly only has use for your mind.
And that mind under the thick black curls in tight twin ponytails, at first, and an equally tight bun, later, and all the ideas that sprout from it, is only of use when it is for the benefit of his son.
You are not enough.
You wonder, if you ever will be.
Still, you are smart.
Too smart for your own good.
It has to be cold for one to be able to perceive aurora borealis - there is a reason any and all sightings of them are around the poles.
So - you have to be colder, sturdier, to make it.
Consider this, though: you want to fit in, you try to fit in with other donnas, once you give up on your famiglia (is it not cruel, to stop considering a single chance of finding understanding within people who share blood with you?). You want it desperately, to the point of tears veiling in your eyes.
Consider this: you seemingly can't.
Consider this: you are too loud, or too brash, or too aloof for them to consider you a part. For them not to consider you apart. You are too pessimistic, too obsessing, too intense. You count the number of strings of text you read and let your eyes move down only when you hit seven, you get interested in obscure things no one wants to hear about, you are excited about what freaks them out because they do not understand. You know too much, you know too little.
Humans aren't like that.
(And you are human, for, if you are not, well, who you are then? What is left for you then?
Consider this: you don't know better, you don't have a grasp on what they do, you don't get it - you try to, of course! and you fail each time, some worse than others.
Sometimes they see. Sometimes you slip up and tell them. Sometimes you try to ask for advice, some point of reference (or you try to figure it out on your own from observation only: they don't think these are questions that should be asked).
More often you do not.)
Consider this: you want to fit in. You try to fit in.
(You cannot.)
Until you do not.
You do what you know how to do. Well, you know science plenty.
You are deadingly cold on the inside, you feel deafeningly silent, you want to cry and rage and break things, but you don't concentrate on those too much.
You try to, at least.
What good is in speaking when no one hears you?
(Right?)
(And consider this, at last: none of this should have ever happened.
None of this should have ever happened, but you are eighteen and alone and a weak flame with a toxic family and no support network to rely on.
I can see why it would. I can see how it would.
I see why it did.
So - choke on tears, watch aurora borealis, and don't feel too much. You can't identify what it is what you feel two-thirds of the time anyway, you can't modulate your voice to be of acceptable volume and you can't converse with people, so what use is there in trying further?)
Oh. Yes. You are eighteen.
(And alone, and a weak flame, and-)
You turn eighteen, and your Don is throwing a party and inviting guests because it is due, and you do not even share it with your cousin, for once, but you hate the dress, and you hate the elaborated braid wrapped around your head, and you would much rather have back your lab coat and reagents, you had an idea-
You turn eighteen, and at this party you do not wish to be a part of you meet the most striking woman you could have ever hoped to meet.
You turn eighteen, and she looks divine.
She wears pristine white with gold; her hair is shorter than you remember yourself having, only reaching the middle of her neck, bangs cut just above her eyebrows, and her eyes are vibrant blue that comes to associate with the depth of skies - actual skies - for you. She can’t be much older than you, maybe by a handful of years at most.
She smiles with you and is not repelled by your words - you do not mince them, because you are still seething and would prefer anything to this - though, perhaps, as long as it still means you get to meet her. She only comes because it is proper, but she is glad to find a kinship here in you.
You are glad for that, too.
Maybe it is bearable, after all; you spend the entire evening next to her, and almost feel normal by the end of it.
Your Don does not scold you, for once.
She is Donna of the Giglio Nero famiglia, elusive, mysterious, unknown, leagues above the appropriate company for one like you.
But if you could have a Sky - the Sky, your Sky, - it would be her.
You would like it to be her.
(Never meet your heroines and idols, they say; always meet your demonesses.)
Is there a way to link a point of time with another through the connection of the same location? Or the same person? What would be required to achieve it? Something to anchor, that’s for sure, but what can serve as a tool to prompt the exchange?..
Aliens come to you days after that, showering you in praises; you are smart, they say, smarter than most, and incredibly talented. It would be a shame, they say, to let such a gift wither, to let such a spark extinguish.
(To let such a tool dull, is what you hear instead.)
There are three of them, but the one who speaks to you is the one the other two defer to. He is old in a way few within the business get to get.
You decline.
You are still full of this childish hope, are you not?
(Meeting Donna Giglio Nero truly has shaken you to the very core, is it not so?
Oh, what dark times have been awaiting the Bovino, for one appearance of one woman showing the modicum of kindness to leave an impact as such in her wake - though she is kind, insomuch as she can afford to be.
She is a prisoner too, and oh, Pirina. Oh, don't you feel it in your very core.
And don't you know not to speak up about this, too.)
(Whose prisoner - or, perhaps it's better worded like this, a prisoner of what is she, the seventh Donna of the Black Lillies? Do you dare to wonder?)
They leave without a complaint.
No one seems to know they were here at all.
The duty of a Thunder is to redirect the danger, is it not? To take it upon oneself, to accept it and not let it hurt anyone? (Else. Anyone else - but that is a dangerous line of thinking. It may even lead to considering yourself to be mistreated.)
You are doing just that by giving up all of your thoughts, ideas and concepts for the sake of your Don’s son, for sure. (Nevermind that the idiot cannot get the difference between geno- and phenotypes- oh, for the name of Magalena! He does not know what sets time apart from space!)
(The answer is tangibility, measurability.)
(He may be a victim in his own way, perhaps, sheltered, nurtured to believe he is capable and unique, having no doubts at all that he is.
Eventually, he earns none of your sympathy.)
Aliens come to you again, this time days before you turn twenty three, their words stay the same, their faces change. You do not see that old man this time (though it's expected: he was almost ancient then, it is no surprise for you that he would pass away or, at the very least, become unable to- enact proper persuasion tactics, at this point) or his companions, no, the ones that approach you look like brothers - twins, to be precise, similar down to their crooked noses, no doubt broken and healed incorrectly.
The underlying message is even clearer this time.
(They are- a curious pair, you have to admit; not one, but two impure Skies working in a tandem? Not encroaching on one another's territory, but - though, it may be just that you do not see them in their natural environment, even impure Skies have to have some bonds- perhaps the blood relation may play part in-
Oh. Oh, no. You are not interested, you maintain this firmly.)
You still decline.
You trust them even less, now, and you are not that desperate for recognisal.
Yet.
(...two impure Skies working in a tandem. Why, it almost looks as if they were put together manually by a third party.)
They leave, vaporise as the mist on the coasts in the morning light.
Don Septimo marries.
So, there is this woman. Grass-snake.
First time you see her, she is inviting Donna Giglio Nero for a dance on the ball in the name of- it matters not, in whose name the ball is. You are angry, there, but - not even at the Grass-snake. Another one of your projects has just been shut down because your cousin wants to buy a horse from Cavallone (to have anyone else as a seller is beneath the heir).
First time you see her, Donna Giglio Nero accepts her hand.
You don't know what Donna Giglio Nero finds in her - she doesn't look like she is important. She deals in information, true enough, but that does not require genius - just street smarts.
You don't know what Donna Giglio Nero finds in her, what makes Donna brighten upon noticing her even if they are not going to interact during this gathering, or the next one, or the one after that; what in her brings out a small smile on Donna's face, what Donna sees where everybody else - you including - sees only a snake or, possibly, Echidna, nothing to lose and nothing to prove.
You don't know. The chance to learn scares you - how unlike you, to be frightened by knowledge rather than be seeking it voluntarily! But you don't know and you don't want to know, you would go on without ever crossing your path with hers - and yet here you do sit, under the roof of Ai Tre Garofani.
And yet here she is, leaning against the back of her armchair situated right next to the wall (dislikes baring her back? Forget, you are not here to analyse, you're here for-).
There is a table separating the two of you.
Here you do sit, under the roof of Ai Tre Garofani, your mind swimming with thoughts. You know how to make the identification process better, more effective, less consuming, it would be easy enough to channel all the force used to power this into another source, to-
You know you won't voice any of your ideas for they will not be accepted, not from you, not like this.
You know you are unwilling to give them up for someone else to present, this time.
You do not know if anyone will miss you. You do not know if anyone will feel sorry for you. Or - you know there will be no one.
(You are wrong, but that - that, you do not know as well.)
Here she does sit - across you, posture lax, facial expression relaxed, eyes indifferent, and waits for you to voice your question.
She does not care, and it's good, you don't need her to. You need her not to.
Though, maybe it would've been even easier for you to hate her if she had cared.
She doesn't. It's good.
(If you tell it to yourself enough times, you may even believe in it.)
She looks in your direction - oh, dear, do you hate it with vehemence.
You feel seen-through, those roentgen's waves.
You hate it.
“What is it?” you demand from her, making your voice firm the way you have learnt to. “What makes him better than me?”
This is not the question actually plaguing your dreams, but you suddenly lack the power to ask others (isn’t what you hate the most the lack of knowledge? Why are you willing to stay ignorant just after one gaze from her?
…why, is it that you are still scared? Of what? Of a phantom, a mere information trader with nothing but street smarts?)
And she looks at you with that sliver of compassion when she answers, “He is the heir because he is a man,” which you know, “his flames are potent,” which you also know, “and he is a direct descendant.”
You don't need to ask her, whose.
(It just comes as an unpleasant discovery, does it not? That not only does the descendancy define it - you knew, you've always known, after all, the impact hereditary traits have on one is difficult to discard, but- that it's still here. That it hasn't waned out, extinguished itself in seven generations, that - that you have not enough of blood (or too much of it, in a different perspective) in yet another way.
It almost makes you wonder, will you ever not be too much, can you ever not be too much, would you ever not be treated as if you are (and you are, in that, you have an utmost assuredness) too much.
Almost.
This is no time and place for that, you don't, don't care, and - and you can't let her see that.
Not her.)
(Oh, do you hate her.)
(Do you hate her, do you wish desperately for-)
You are careful to never deal with her again.
You are careful to never make a deal with her again.
(The two of you might have understood each other, you admit hours later ruefully in a rare moment of honesty (of misconception), had you changed yourself to the core, dehorn yourself, - but it is what makes up your self.
And so, you did not even try to.
And so, nothing changes.)
(I wish you would have reached out.)
Aliens come to you the third time, the last time, for all important things come in threes (because they will not offer again, indeed, - but not due to their ability to finally understand those who deny them). They are represented by one - a peculiar pattern, is it not? Almost makes you wonder what would happen the fourth time; would there be a zero value? Would the fifth attempt grant a negative? Would… no use in speculations, though.
It is a woman, stout and slow, deliberate in her words.
(The words change, too.)
She speaks not of your talent, of the way your famiglia shuns it, of how you, frankly, ought to seek fame for what you are able to do; her flames are weak, so weak she would’ve never been shown to anyone but closest relatives had she been born to a current Don, for a child like this a shame upon the whole family. It’s but the smallest of flickers of yellow, and bright, and immensely cold light.
She only asks you a question.
“What do you want?”
You want the world, everything, anything, the knowledge, the means to make your research, the peers that would be able to keep up or, at least, not hinder your efforts by their inability to understand - you want to learn, why. (It is unimportant, at this point, why what - you are long past the point of caring.
You repeat this to yourself almost daily, now.)
“We have a deal, then, Pirina Bovino,” she tells you. “What are your thoughts on the Primo generation of Vongola?” Oh, you have plenty. “Do not answer yet - there will be time.”
She leaves.
You lay on your bed late at night and consider what you just did. You should’ve refused. Any honourable scientist would.
But, but, but. All those honourable scientists did not have their inventions paraded around under the name of someone who-
She does offer you a way, and that - and that, you would be a fool to refuse. It is rather a time to come clear about it, don’t you think so?
After all, the only failures you had ever encountered had names of people.
…After all, there is a need to admit and there is no need to hide: you are going to do great things with them - with their funding, their facilities, their subjects.
Yes, you accept.
(You don't know what Donna Giglio Nero would say has she ever found out - but maybe, somewhere between being appalled, or disgusted, or horrified, she would secretly be happy you have found a place where your progress isn't stunted.)
(You don't know who else has done great things like you would - you have no way to know about the way he has actually worked rather than the neat and clean, distilled version that has been fed to people for centuries, - but even if you did, that would not stop you.
(Oh, he was a clever one, that man; a genius born once in a thousand years.)
(Oh, he went mad, that man, and died all alone long after killing the only human who would burn the world for him - and turning away the one that would watch after the both.)
(Oh.
Oh, oh, oh, answer: is history bound to repeat?
…It’s too soon for this, though; there are decades of time left before a young boy slaughters his way out of- too soon, well.
Do not bother yourself with this.)
(You will not change a single of your decisions anyway.)
You know who else did what you are about to - but far be it for unethicalness of what you are doing to stop you.
Though, that being said, you have some dues to pay.)
There's rosemary, that's for remembrance-
But, regardless of what she might have felt has she known, Donna Giglio Nero is troubled by her flames and her bonds, you are aware of that much, you can notice how she forces down what she feels, sometimes, and how she says too much to you, sometimes - a single word, a single syllable, but not something she would let slip otherwise.
You want to find the solution, and - you know not humans, and you dislike these unknown quantities, these uncharted waters, but you do know their bodies, and, after all to come and go, Donna Giglio Nero is still a woman the same way you are one, so what little of the weight she bears is biochemical, it can be influenced.
Yes, it is extremely difficult to erase the cause through erasing its consequences. Some would say, it is impossible, but - but it can help alleviate the headaches at least, you think, and-
And it matters not if this warns your Don, or anyone, of what you have been doing for so long, for you do not intend to stay.
You go to her. You know it may not suffice, you know you are not enough and too much, depending on the perspective, but you would never forgive yourself for not trying - you would never not try.
(Where is that woman?
This thought sneaks up upon you, cruel and unneeded.
Where is that woman, what good did Donna Giglio Nero’s willingness to believe in her bring her, what use is there in seeking people when in the end they leave you alone?
(You know, though, and it is hard for you not to - oh, it is hard, is it not? You see her, that woman, Grass-snake, and you know what she is doing. You - you see her, keeping to the shadows behind Donna Giglio Nero’s back, but in the way that would imply that she merely happens to be in the same place to anyone unconcerned - which, to be honest, seems to be anyone nowadays, period.
Some are dead, more are gone, the rest are on their way to either; there is no one left to understand.
You know, though, where she is and what she is doing. You see her.
But, well.
You see it all too late for it to matter, for you have signed what you have and for you would not change this anyway, not even for this.)
There is no use.
It is this simple.)
Donna Giglio Nero declines, and says it cannot help, and she is kind, so kind still, attempting to erase your burdens while convincing you to ignore hers, and - and it hurts.
You think it does, at least.
But you cannot say you have not made an attempt and are able to recognise well enough when you have to stop (something your famiglia has been good for, finally).
And like that, there is nothing holding you back anymore.
And like that, you leave.
And like that, you arrive at a place full of people with minds like yours, sharp, and searching, and demanding (just like her gaze has been-), and you can finally fit in.
(Hey. This woman laid bare on the table before you, marking for cuts planned clear on her body. She was a human, one with the past and the present, she had her life and her choices, those very choices that led her to find you, once, to bring you here.
She is no more.
Do you ever think of it?
Do you ever struggle to go to sleep?)
…you are too good at what you do, you are told eventually. Too effective.
There is a reason any and all sightings of aurora borealis are around the poles, they say.
It is a lie.
Some of the most powerful aurora lights appear around the spring and autumn equinox, but… that changes nothing now, does it.