Lacrime d'Oro: A Golden Wind Epilogue

Chapter 2: Fedeltá

The sun shone brightly through the garden windows.

Fugo had awoken in the early morning, laying in a large, soft bed of a well furnished, elegant guest room. As he had gotten up, brushing sleep and hair out of his face, he had noticed that all of his injuries from the scrap with the guards had been healed – where there should have been dull pain was remarkeable regularity. He had taken that as a sign of benevolence. And indeed, not even an hour later, he was bathed, fed and on his way to his audience. Throughout all of this, he had been chaperoned by two guards, neither of which were part of the group Fugo had clashed with.

In Italy, most houses or even apartement complexes are called "Pallazzi", regardless of their actual size or resemblance to any noble housing. This estate however truly deserved to be called a palace: A massive central castle-like structure, four stories tall and build in the rustic italian style of old, surrounded by six smaller buildings, with an outer ring of guard houses and posts, all of this surrounded by an enourmous garden estate, booming with life. As Fugo was led down the hallway in the first floor, the windows lining his way gave glimpses of the bountiful flora blossoming outside. Him and his entourage walked down this sun drenched interior boulevard for a surprising amount of time, before they finally reached their destination.

The room they entered had, at one point, most likely been a dining hall: A vast, central space, windows on the side facing the gardens, lined with voluptuous crimson curtains. The table opposite the door resembled not any fit for a meal, but rather a heavy buissness desk – it's dark polished wood clashing with the bright rustic colours of the walls. But Fugo wasn't concerned about the desk at all. Instead, his attention was seized by the figure sitting on the other side of it.

Golden blond hair flowed down his shoulders, as the braid Fugo had known was no more. As it twirled upon his head, it only marginally distracted from the soft features of his face. The gentle curve of his cheeks and the arch of his slim lips evoked imagery of ancient greek depictions of masculinity, while his slender body betrayed that notion. But not all was as Fugo remembered. The black velvet covering his body, the green ladybug broaches , the jewelery – those were differences, absolutely. But what truly stood out were his eyes. The friendly, bright gleam of green was still there, but it remained clouded by a mist of something else, something darker. Fugo recognized the look – he remembered seeing it on some older Passione members. It was the fog of clarity, the blinding burden of experience. While his eyes had certainly not been dull last time they met, Fugo could tell that Giorno Giovanna had changed.

Fugo approached the desk slowly. He had no idea how to really initiate a conversation, especially as Giorno was staring off into the distance of the window beside him, his eyes transfixed on something beyond Fugos sight. However, as he came closer, followed by the guards of course, Giorno snapped out of it and shifted his gaze onto Fugo, who immediately froze. As Giorno got up from his seat, the guards left the room and Fugo tensed up. He had understood what coming here meant. They may have parted under the pretense of no judgement, but things had undoubtedly changed. After all they had to have gone through after Fugo left, he doubted that he would receive a warm welcome. That was alright. Fugo had resolved himself to whatever would happen to him. His life didn't really matter to him as much as closure did.

As Giorno walked around his desk, eyes glacing at Fugo, his hand stroked across it, slowly, gently. There was not a hint of hostility in his movement, yet Fugo prepared for the worst. Giorno was not to be underestimated or taken lightly, and the comraderie they had shared had been brief enough to easily be shattered by the absence of resolve and help Fugo had demonstrated in Venezia. Fugo clenched his fist.

Take a deep breath.

Whatever happens to you, you deserve this.

Giorno came closer.