A week slunk by, each day weighted with the new, brittle silence between Niccolò and Leandro. Niccolò moved through the ducal academy with a carefully constructed indifference, a mask of scholarly focus that allowed no crevice for the sting of recent memory. He pretended Leandro’s circle held no interest, that their absence from his periphery was a welcome calm, not a gaping void where critical intelligence once flowed. He maintained his appearances, sharing the polished, worn benches with Lorenzo and a few lesser scions, their chatter a dull murmur against the sharper, unvoiced questions in his mind.
His true frustration, a nettle beneath his fine woolen tunic, was the sudden blindness. Distanced from Leandro’s immediate orbit, the intricate web of courtly whispers that fed his mental maps had frayed. Occasionally, Lorenzo would toss him a morsel of news, casual as a flicked breadcrumb. So, when the itch of curiosity became unbearable, a burning beneath his skin, Niccolò would seek out Lorenzo.
Pride, a stubborn, unyielding fortress, prevented him from asking directly. He’d frame his inquiries with feigned disinterest, a cartographer noting the movements of distant, inconsequential stars.
Lorenzo, perpetually hunched over a folio of arcane Volterran fables, sketching grotesque chimera in the margins, would offer his insights without lifting his gaze. “Leandro? Oh, him. He’s out carousing again, they say.”
That answer always left Niccolò’s jaw tight, a metallic taste on his tongue. He would clench his fists beneath the table.
“A damned, uncouth brute,” Niccolò muttered, the epithet a familiar comfort. He understood the primal surge within Leandro, the raw, unbridled force. A beast, yes, but one whose movements were now obscured to Niccolò.
“Probably at one of those gambling dens,” Niccolò ventured, a bitter twist to his lips.
Lorenzo finally looked up, a smudge of ink on his cheek. “No, not this time. A formal introduction, arranged by his aunt.” He stretched, a lazy, feline grace. “Bianca di Rossi, the merchant prince’s daughter. They say she’s as bold as she is beautiful.”
Niccolò felt a jolt, sharp and unwelcome. “Di Rossi? The one who has been openly pursuing him for months?”
“The very same,” Lorenzo confirmed, returning to his sketching. “They apparently departed together the moment they were presented. An astonishing lack of decorum, even for Leandro.”
“She’s no meek maiden, then.” Niccolò’s voice was dry, a whisper of sand. “To accept such an affront to social grace.”
“Oh, she agreed without a flicker of hesitation. A true Volterran firebrand, by all accounts.” Lorenzo’s tone was laced with a derision Niccolò found oddly soothing. “A spectacle of mutual impropriety.”
For the first time since the refectory incident, a sliver of lightness pierced Niccolò’s carefully cultivated gloom. He shifted, perching on Lorenzo’s desk, a slight pressure on his shoulder. Lorenzo leaned back, clearing space, a silent acknowledgement.
Lorenzo, with his casual disregard for ducal proprieties, was the only one who dared to voice such frank cynicism regarding Leandro’s exploits. For that, Niccolò found him tolerable, almost a companion.
“They are disgustingly cool,” Niccolò observed, a faint smile touching his lips.
“Aren’t they?” Lorenzo smirked. “I, thankfully, remain uncool.” He sounded almost boastful.
“That is your station, is it not? A scholar of ancient myths?” Niccolò teased. “One must maintain a certain distance from such earthy passions.”
“Distance is learned,” Lorenzo retorted, his eyes still fixed on his drawing. “Rationality, Niccolò, is a finely honed blade, not a natural state.”
Niccolò raised an eyebrow. “Is that why your only companions are these monstrous chimeras?”
Lorenzo finally snapped his folio shut. He turned, a disarming smile on his face, and tapped Niccolò’s hand. “I shall cite you for philosophical harassment.”
“How is that harassment?”
“If the recipient feels the sting, it is harassment.”
“Lorenzo, you are an utter fool.” Niccolò’s foot, clad in a soft leather slipper, swung idly. It slipped off, falling to the flagstone floor. He ignored it, nudging Lorenzo’s leg with his stockinged foot. Lorenzo pretended to be shoved back, then casually offered Niccolò a vulgar gesture, his hand revealing a signet ring engraved with a forgotten crest. Niccolò kicked his leg again, gently.
“That crest doesn’t suit you,” Niccolò mused.
Lorenzo’s expression, for a fleeting moment, hardened. “Why not?”
Niccolò blinked. Why such sudden gravity? “It simply lacks… resonance with your character. You are no ancient hero.”
“Perhaps not. But it is my inheritance.” His voice was low. “A constant reminder of what I should be, and what I choose not to be.”
Niccolò simply hummed, letting the subject drop. He spent the remainder of the week assiduously avoiding Leandro. Whenever their paths crossed in the academy’s grand halls or sun-drenched courtyards, Niccolò allowed his gaze to brush Leandro for a fraction of a second before diverting it, a meticulous cartographer avoiding a charted hazard.
He still lacked the courage to engage directly, a strange, pathetic reluctance to admit defeat. The notion that the one who cares more loses was ridiculous, he knew, a sentiment worthy of a lovesick poet. Yet, the truth of it gnawed at him.
Leandro’s familiar, brutish retinue often spoke to Niccolò, perhaps because he was the only one who responded with a semblance of civility. But Niccolò saw the new bruises blooming on Elias’s face each day – a purple shadow beneath an eye, a scraped knuckle, a swollen lip. It was clear Leandro, like a territorial beast, continued his torment of Elias in hidden corners, far from Niccolò’s eyes. Niccolò frowned, a knot forming in his stomach. Elias caught his gaze once, then quickly turned his head, attempting to conceal his injuries.
Four more days passed, each a slow crawl. One quiet morning, alone in the scriptorium, Niccolò buried his face in his hands. He wanted no part of the wretched play unfolding around him.
The distance between him and Leandro grew starker, wider. What had begun as a mere crack in their rapport had now become a chasm, unbridgeable and despair-inducing. Opening his eyes felt like inviting the rift to swallow him whole. The fresh bruises on Elias’s face were as glaringly obvious as a ducal seal on a decree. Niccolò wanted to avoid both of them, to disappear from the suffocating courtly air.
Then, as if a minor saint had finally heard his silent prayers, Elias ceased coming to the academy. The Master of Scholarly Pursuits, a gaunt man named Maestro Vittorio, called it an absence, but the hesitation in his voice betrayed the truth: truancy. Niccolò almost cheered aloud, a shameful, private triumph.
Leandro, in stark contrast, spent his classes fidgeting with a small carving knife, snapping irritably at his retinue, or even landing a swift, open-palmed slap on one lackey’s ear for an ill-timed jest.
A part of Niccolò felt a smug satisfaction. Another part savored a strange, intoxicating sense of superiority. He convinced himself that soon, once Elias officially departed Volterra or simply vanished for good, Leandro would tire of his distant torment and turn back to Niccolò. Confident in that thought, he waited patiently for the moment to arrive.
A few more days drifted by, like leaves on the Arno’s current.
“Leandro seems rather subdued,” Lorenzo remarked one afternoon, not looking up from his myth folio. Niccolò’s heart thudded a heavy rhythm in his chest. He wanted to pivot immediately, to scrutinize Leandro’s profile across the sunlit hall, but he couldn’t. When it came to matters of emotion, he was a coward. All he could do was listen to Lorenzo’s words and construct an image of Leandro’s melancholy from memory.
But nothing shifted. The day wore on, classes ended. Niccolò convinced himself there would be another chance tomorrow. These things, he thought, rarely moved so quickly. He waited, gathered his scrolls, and as he slung his satchel over his shoulder, Lorenzo spoke again, his tone strangely direct.
“You quarreled with Leandro, didn’t you?”
Niccolò turned reflexively, his spine stiff.
“Indeed.”
“Still no resolution since that unsightly display in the refectory?” Lorenzo raised an eyebrow, a slight, knowing curve.
Niccolò remained silent.
“That’s lasting longer than I would have thought,” Lorenzo said, shrugging, his hands shoved into his pockets. Niccolò avoided his gaze, muttering a carefully crafted excuse.
“To be frank, Leandro pushed too far. I despise seeing individuals subjected to such cruelty. It’s… distasteful, don’t you agree?”
“Distasteful how?”
“Elias is a young man, a noble of respectable lineage, however minor. The manner in which Leandro treats him is… unseemly. A disquieting display. He should cease.”
“Oh, Niccolò.” Lorenzo’s voice was dripping with something akin to admiration, but with a sharp edge of mockery.
“...”
“You are destined for paradise.”
The response to his carefully worded compassion felt like a sneer. Annoyed by Lorenzo’s malicious tone, Niccolò glared at him. Lorenzo merely smirked, unconcerned. Seeing that expression, Niccolò felt an uncomfortable warmth bloom across his face, as if some hidden motive had been laid bare. Quickly, he turned his back on Lorenzo, ignoring his mocking grin, and strode out of the classroom.
He hurried down the hallway, intent on escaping the academy’s confines, when a hand suddenly gripped his shoulder. Assuming it was Lorenzo, Niccolò spun around, irritation bubbling, and tugged his arm free. But it wasn’t his cynical acquaintance—it was Maestro Vittorio, the Master of Scholarly Pursuits. Startled, Niccolò quickly adjusted his expression.
“My apologies, young Moretti. Did I alarm you?”
“Oh, no, Maestro, not at all. Merely… surprised.”
“I see. I am truly sorry, but… might I trouble you for a brief moment of your time?”
“Maestro?”
“Just a second. Please.”
The venerable Maestro’s face, usually a mask of weary wisdom, was etched with an unusual seriousness. Niccolò nodded.
“Today, Leandro approached me,” Maestro Vittorio began, his voice cautious. “He inquired about Elias’s whereabouts. His family’s residence, specifically.”
“Leandro?” The name felt like a brand on Niccolò’s tongue.
It was clear that Maestro Vittorio, as the academy’s chief tutor, could not possibly be unaware of the bullying that permeated the younger noble ranks. Yet, he lacked the boldness to confront the toxic atmosphere directly. Still, he was not so cold-hearted as to completely ignore it either. The fact that he came to Niccolò, of all people, to speak of Elias, proved that.
“I am not accusing, nor am I blaming Leandro, but…”
“No, Maestro, I understand. It is not an uncommon occurrence,” Niccolò replied quickly, forcing a calm tone.
“Well, since you have often shown a… certain solicitude towards Elias, I was wondering if you might consider accompanying Leandro to his residence. Do you comprehend my meaning?”
Niccolò could not answer immediately. His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.
Leandro’s strange, brutal fascination with Elias began to creep towards Niccolò, a tide of cold dread washing over his feet, holding him in place. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. He could not stand idly by.
“Could I… obtain Elias’s messenger address, then?” Niccolò asked, his voice carefully neutral.
“Ah, yes, of course. Here, allow me to retrieve it. It would be prudent to send a messenger first.” Maestro Vittorio offered a relieved smile.
“Indeed. I shall send word to him. Worry not, Maestro.”
“Excellent. I am counting on you, Niccolò.”
“Yes, Maestro.”
On the surface, Niccolò presented a picture of perfect composure, but internally, a frantic scramble had begun. Maestro Vittorio handed him Elias’s home address from the academy’s registry, a parchment yellowed with age, then departed the hallway, looking oddly relieved.
He had to stop Leandro from meeting Elias. He absolutely had to prevent Leandro’s strange, obsessive attentions from escalating further. The moment the Maestro was gone, Niccolò hurried to the nearest scribe station, requesting an immediate messenger. His leg jittered nervously, and he kept clenching and unclenching his hand as he penned a swift, urgent note to Elias. The messenger, a quick-footed boy, was dispatched without delay.
“To Elias Visconti, with utmost urgency!” Niccolò instructed, pressing a few extra coins into the boy’s palm.
The message contained a carefully worded warning. He detailed Leandro’s inquiry, urging Elias to feign absence or, if possible, depart the city for a few days. He waited, his stomach a coiled knot, for the messenger’s return.
Hours later, the boy returned, breathless, with a sealed reply. Niccolò tore it open. Elias’s shaky script filled the parchment.
“Master Niccolò! This is Elias. Why… how… how did you ascertain my address? Did you… already possess it?”
Niccolò scoffed softly. “No, fool. I heard from Maestro Vittorio that Leandro inquired about your family residence today. Thus, I secured it.”
“...” The reply grew even more agitated.
“I merely wished to caution you to exercise extreme prudence.”
“What of you, Master Niccolò? Are you well? Even though you endeavor to intercede…”
“Do not trouble yourself on my behalf. Focus on your own safety. Should you require further absence from the academy, dispatch word to me. I possess a certain standing with Maestro Vittorio, believe it or not.”
“...My sincerest gratitude.”
“Should Leandro attempt any further harassment or physical affront at the academy, apprise me immediately. If direct confrontation is too much, a simple nod or a discreet gesture will suffice. It is always more arduous to mend matters after they have already transpired.”
“Understood.”
“Honestly, a temporary departure from Volterra would be your soundest course.” Niccolò slipped that in, hoping the urgency would register.
“...”
“In any case, give it thought. For now, either feign absence from your home or seek refuge elsewhere.”
“I… I will.”
“Very well, I shall cease this correspondence.”
“W-wait.”
“...?”
“Thank you, Master Niccolò.” After a long, drawn-out hesitation, Elias’s voice, relayed through the parchment, was soft, trembling slightly. Niccolò felt an immediate prickle of discomfort.
“T-thank you for your constant aid…”
“It is nothing of import.”
“I merely… wished to express it. Thank you. Until we meet again.”
“Indeed.” Niccolò scrawled a curt confirmation.
“...Farewell.”
“Farewell?” Niccolò didn’t bother to write a reply to such a superfluous parting. He simply resealed the letter for the messenger to return. The tenor of Elias’s gratitude, even distilled through ink and parchment, sent a faint shiver down Niccolò’s spine, leaving him thoroughly unsettled.
What truly transpired at Elias’s home that night, Niccolò never knew. All he could confirm was that from the following day onward, Elias returned to the academy. And within a week, the faint, peach-like flush characteristic of his youthful skin began to show again, unmarred by new bruises. Elias also ceased his abrupt attempts to converse with Niccolò, his demeanor shifting dramatically to one of polite, distant respect.
The abrupt alteration in Elias’s behavior planted subtle seeds of suspicion in Niccolò’s meticulous mind. And when all the bruises on Elias’s face finally faded completely, Niccolò couldn’t help but feel a faint, unlikely sense of hope bloom within him.
Then, two weeks later, Leandro approached him out of nowhere, his shadow falling across Niccolò’s desk.
“Niccolò.”
Niccolò froze, his hand suspended over a half-finished chart of the river Arno.
“Niccolò Moretti.”
He did not look at him, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, on the intricate bends of the river. But his lips felt as though they might split open with a silent, sharp gasp at any moment.
Could it be? Had Leandro finally tired of Elias?