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wolandkyuujou2 · 2 months ago

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It's all over

I planned to post this fic in AO3, but cause of long registration and my impatience, I post it here first :"3 I used AI for translation cause English is not my native language. I made some edits but I could miss something, sorry for that! P.S.: In this story WWW will say some words that might looks rasist but they're not (because he found his opinion he had many years ago silly)

The Prague Negotiation. It feels as if it happened just yesterday. A meeting of the leading heads of government from Germanica, Vatican and Albion to decide the fate of the lands of Bohemia. Negotiation that led to the death of Pope Alessandro XVIII, one of the Vatican's representatives. The Inquisition immediately detained those it deemed guilty, chaos ensued, and in the commotion, everyone somehow forgot why they had gathered in the place. The Bohemian leadership sighed with relief. And the Vatican's people said among themselves: “Would’ve been better if we hadn’t come to that meeting at all.”

Since the funeral of His Holiness Alessandro, Brother Petros hadn’t been seen in the Vatican for several days. The absence of the chief didn't bother the Bureau's main staff much — things were actually calmer without him. No one yelling in their ears, no pompous speeches as if everyone in the offices wasn’t finishing paperwork but going into battle every day.

Brother Matthaios jokingly told Brother Andreas that Petros had transferred to the AX and had been sent off on a mission. The boy was furious that his idol had left so suddenly, but then decided that it must be Petros’s brilliant plan to blow up the damned AX from within and found the idea ingenious.

But ordinary staff saw things differently. Some looked for Petros at mass, some tried reaching him through contacts. If only someone knew where he lived, maybe they would have even gone there! But such data was classified as a "secret", so even the most zealous admirers of their chief couldn’t track him down. Until one day, it occurred to one of the soldiers who might help them find the Knight of Destruction.

“You should not enter without knocking, it's impolite” Wordsworth said sternly to the man who walked into the office but didn't even bother to look up. Not that it mattered for him now.

A few months back, as part of his duties, Wordsworth had visited Petros’s apartment to deliver some documentation from Sforza. Orsini had gone out of his way to avoid him so thoroughly that Wordsworth had to track him down and barge in — something the inquisitor later loudly grumbled about back at the department. So some of those who listened to the chief not just out of duty knew who knew the address.

“Apologies, Professor Wordsworth!” the soldier barked quickly and loudly.

Wordsworth didn’t recognize the voice, so he finally tore his eyes from the papers — of which there were now plenty, after the Pope’s death and the upcoming proseedings — and looked at the newcomer.

It was a young soldier in Inquisitor uniform, standing rigidly just inside the door. He looked nervous. William squinted slightly and smirked at the sight, like a contented, well-fed cat. A soldier from the Bureau, coming to him, a humble bookworm, and looking like that? Something big must have happened — maybe even Cardinal Medici found a matter too complex and sent one of his men to the Professor himself! The thought was flattering.

“I’m all ears.”

“We have an emergency, sir! According to our data, only you can help, sir!”

Sir. What a sweet word to hear. People hardly ever called him that.

“And what kind of emergency is this, one your entire department can’t handle?” William crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

“We haven’t been able to reach our chief for several days, sir! We received information that you know his home address, sir!”

“That’s enough with the ‘sir’, for heaven’s sake. I haven’t earned that rank,” the Professor waved him off with a grin. “As for the rest — I don’t know who told you…”

“The chief himself did, sir!”

Wordsworth cleared his throat awkwardly. Not only had he come to him over a trifle, but he wasn’t even respecting his request. He found it strange anyone in the Bureau was concerned about Petros’s absence. Only the blind wouldn’t have seen how Orsini felt about the late Pope. Naturally, some people need time to process a loss.

“Alright, fine. I’ll go and check on him, if it’s so important to you. Who knows, maybe he’s done himself in.”

“Not true!” The young man’s cheeks flushed with indignation. “The chief is a devout man! He’d never do something like that!”

“Really?” Wordsworth laughed.

Observation was one of Wordsworth’s key strengths as an AX agent. Over the years he had served the Vatican, he had studied everyone he worked with — including Orsini. After all, it was interesting to learn more about someone who never missed his lectures at the university.

“Young man, how many days has this ‘devout man’ missed mass? Three, maybe four? Forgive me, I don’t remember exactly when the funeral procession was — or what day it is today, for that matter.”

The young soldier visibly paled and now seemed uncertain. Still, he tried to protest, though it sounded far less confident.

“He still wouldn’t take his own life. That’s not his way.”

“Then you don’t know your… chief very well,” William said with a shrug. “I’ll check on him when I get the chance. Now I’m curious myself. In the meantime, I’m afraid I’ve got too much work.”

The soldier gave a small nod, clicked his heels, and left as quickly as he had entered. Wordsworth took another document, studied it like a child’s messy drawing, sighed wearily, and covered his face with his hands.

He didn’t like to delay promises, so he tried to finish as much paperwork as possible. Service to the Vatican wasn’t his only responsibility. A couple of days earlier, he had dealt with crucial documents regarding the upcoming proseedings of Caterina Sforza and the involvement of AX and its agents in the Prague incident. Now, with some time freed up — or rather, a good excuse to escape the office — he went to Petros’s apartment to see if he was alright. Or if there was anything left to find out.

It wasn’t that late, but the streetlamps were already switched on and the sky had turned nearly black. Exiting his car and shutting the door, William looked up at the windows to see if the light was on in Orsini’s apartment. No — it was dark. Maybe he wasn’t home? Time to find out.

He climbed to the right floor. There it was: the sturdy metal door with a lock no one could break — no one but him. He knocked. "Damn." — he remembered the soundproofing was terrible. No matter. He pulled out a lockpick set from his coat pocket, took out his glasses from the inner pocket, and crouched down, carefully working on the lock. Someone from the floor above came down and stopped behind him.

“Special services. Conducting an investigation,” William said without looking back, in a stern tone.

The person kept going.

Finally, the lock clicked. A few more turns, and the door was open. Almost — the chain was still on. That didn’t take much effort to deal with either.

William stepped inside, quietly closed the door, removed his coat, scarf, and shoes, and left them in the hallway before stepping into the apartment, mentally preparing for the worst. But thankfully, his hopes weren’t in vain: wrapped in a blanket, the apartment’s owner lay on the sofa, turned to the backrest. The kettle on the stove, steam slowly rising from it, suggested he was alive.

The silence was heavy and oppressive.

William didn’t know what to do. It’s not every day he's asked to visit someone possibly in deep depression. So he did the only thing he could think of — knocked on the nearby chest of drawers. That worked: Petros flinched, then raised up and turned toward the sound.

“Evening,” the professor greeted him with a warm smile.

“You?! What are you doing here?! On what grounds?!” Orsini barked, advancing in his typical manner.

“You haven’t been to work. I came to check on you. So I…”

“I asked on what grounds!” Petros was now on his feet, slowly moving toward the uninvited guest.

“Grounds? What grounds? What do you mean by grounds?”

“Don’t play dumb! How did you get in here?”

“Through the door.”

“How. Did. You. Get. In. Here?!” Petros snapped, clearly irritated. “Answer directly, or I swear — you got in, but you won’t get out!”

That last shout wiped the smirk from William’s face. Orsini, usually noble, didn’t look it now. Disheveled hair, rumpled clothes, unshaven face, and reddened — clearly it's because of tears — eyes. Knowing the context, William had no trouble understanding the reason for his appearance. But not his attitude.

“I picked the lock… with a lockpick,” he answered calmly, with pauses.

“Who gave you the right?” the inquisitor growled through his teeth.

“No one. But…”

“No ‘buts’! Get out! I don’t want to see you again!”

“Please, listen to me—”

“Let me die in loneliness!”

That final statement broke something inside William. Typical for a sentimental man like him. Normally, he’d deflect with a joke, but this time it would be cruel and out of place. He was silent, visibly shaken — and Petros noticed.

”You will find the exit by yourself."

He returned to the sofa and buried himself under the blanket completely, as if cutting himself off from the world. He didn’t have the strength or will to argue. He hoped that “warning shot” would be enough.

The Pope’s death had hit him hard. He had made a promise. He swore that ill-fated day that nothing bad would happen — that he wouldn’t allow it. That he would protect him.

And in the end, he stood aside, enforcing according to the charter and ensuring the safety of the rest! Maybe he could’ve helped, had he not been bound by those damned regulations. He’d ignored the Pope’s unease, thinking it stemmed from the importance of the event. And by the time he realized that His Holiness wanted to warn him about an attempted murder on this…this g -... Blanchett… it was already too late.

He broke his word, his oath. One he had given to a man whose life he would’ve given his own for without hesitation. Maybe that moment had finally come.

“Go ahead, take me away. I’ve got nothing left to do here. There’ll never be another Vicar of God on Earth as pure in soul as him. I won’t accept any other.”

It took a while before William found his voice again.

“Please, listen to me,” he began in a calm, almost gentle tone, “I know what you’re feeling—and I understand.”

“What could you possibly understand,” Petros replied barely audibly, as though the emotions washing over him were once again choking him.

What could he possibly understand? So that's how it is.

Wordworth frowned in indignation, wrinkling his nose slightly. Just look at him—the tragic soul, the one and only! To help this man had become a matter of principle for him now, so he firmly decided not to leave. Even if it meant getting thrown out the window. William walked confidently into the kitchen, grabbed a chair, brought it over to the couch, set a chair down beside it, and sat, crossing one leg over the other. He was determined to prove that Petros’s pain was something he could relate to on a personal level—that his words weren’t just empty talk or formalities. He truly wanted to help, even if he couldn’t offer a solution or ease the bitterness of loss. But he could understand. And support.

“I told you to leave!” the inquisitor grumbled from under the blanket.

“Let’s make a deal,” William said with a smile, even though he knew Petros couldn’t see him. “I’ll tell you a story, and then you can decide whether I stay or go. What do you say?”

There was no response.

“We’ll take that as an agreement. So…” Wordworth clapped his hands. “Let’s begin. In the country I’m from, there’s still a tradition—rare, but still exists—of betrothing future brides and grooms well before they reach adulthood. I wasn’t spared that fate either. When I was about… five, I think, I was introduced to a girl my age. Obviously, she was meant to become my wife someday. At first, I wasn’t too thrilled about her. But over time, she became the only person I could easily talk to. She could understand me without words. A gesture or just a look was enough. We had a lot in common, and in many ways, she surpassed me. And somehow, even though I was studying in a boarding school, I saw her far more often than I saw my own parents. Eventually, as I reached adolescence, I realized I couldn’t imagine my life without her—she had always been there. Her presence was as natural as the sunrise and sunset.”

Here Wordworth paused briefly and, with a deep sigh, continued.

“We graduated school early—at sixteen. Then we enrolled in the same university. If not for her, I would’ve chosen a different institution: Oxford or Cambridge—something more prestigious. But in the end, I followed her to Londinium University, and I don’t regret it. By the time we turned twenty, we’d completed our bachelor’s degrees and defended a joint project that allowed us to start working at the university itself. We continued doing so while working on our master's degrees. It all seemed just fine. We saw each other every day, talked about everything, and, as I thought, had no secrets. We even seemed like we were looked like engaged—at least, that’s what I believed... And then I found out she loved someone else.”

William let out a short chuckle—it was bitter, not amused.

“To say it hurts... that to say nothing.Then for me, who didn't know the life of a kid, it was as if the world has collapsed.. I actually considered snapping that guy’s neck in a dark alley somewhere. Just imagine—me, from a noble family, educated, good-looking—at the time, at least—with plenty of accomplishments in science and more. And him? The baker’s son. An immigrant's child from what was once India. Barely finished secondary school, if that. What did she even see in him?*

Funny thing is, she never saw how I felt. Or didn’t want to. She didn’t notice how I glared holes in his head or how I constantly tried to keep her in my company alone. One day, she introduced us and said, ‘The love of my life.’ I wanted to shoot myself right then. She gutted me without a knife! And day after day, whenever we met, she talked about their relationship. Isn’t that a reason to jump off a bridge? The girl who had been the very purpose of my existence had chosen someone else. But I hoped she’d change her mind. Like the last fool.”

Still, after half a year of torment, I decided it would be best to let her go. That’s what love is, right? Wanting the one you love to be happy. If the person you love is happy, you’re happy too. I chose to give her the freedom to decide: if she was better off with him—so be it. And if something went wrong, I’d always be there. I even helped them plan their wedding. Yes, it was hard, yes, it was painful, but her happiness mattered more to me. And every day, she seemed to shine brighter! But with him, not me. To be honest, it humbled my ego. And trully, I was glad to see her like that—even if it was someone else who made her that way.”

A long pause followed.

All this time, Petros had been listening, though at first, he disliked the idea. He listened out of inertia—he had no strength to interrupt, nor the will to speak at all. Do as you like, he thought: one story and then be on your way.

But as the story went on, he began to realize—it wasn’t just some tale to pass the time. He was being gently led to the understanding that others truly could relate to his pain. A simple truth, yet one that had felt so distant right now. No, there was someone who had been through a greater nightmare than his own. Sitting just behind him—the very man Petros had tried to send away only minutes ago. Now, he mentally thanked him for staying—for being so stubborn! Even if it was just out of principle. Still, Petros was grateful that Wordworth had chosen to share something so personal, his pain. It made him feel… lighter. People rarely opened up to him like this—unless it was in confession. But that was different. That was ritual. But now, This—this was from the heart. Genuine.

For the first time in days, the emptiness in his soul stopped feeling like a blade.

Of course, unrequited love was one thing. Losing a friend—being responsible for the death of someone who had looked to you as a protector—was something entirely different. But as the story paused, uncertain whether Wordworth would continue, or even whether he was still there, Petros raised up and turned toward the Professor. He was still sitting across from him, slowly turning his cane in his hands, as though studying it.

“And… what happened?” Petros asked, with urgency.

William gave a faint smile, though it was mournful rather than warm.

“She died,” he said.

Orsini hadn’t expected that. He now looked at the guest with unhidden astonishment. But the story’s direction suddenly made perfect sense.

“An accident, a miscalibration of the equipment,” William lied.

It was far from an accident. And what happened back then had been his fault—largely his fault. But that was his burden, his cross to bear, and he wasn’t ready to share it. Not yet.

“More than twenty years have passed… Every day, hundreds of people die—of age, disease, random chance. But to us, these deaths are just numbers, statistics. Sadly, one day we too will become part of that statistic. Just another number without a story. And those close to us will too. If I could, I would do anything to stop it—to make sure they lived as long as possible, forever even! But it’s not within our power… When she died, I thought my life had ended too. I had no one left to live for, no one to follow. The one I had been willing to sacrifice my happiness for—gone. And with all my knowledge, all my ambition, I couldn’t fix it. She’d never walk down the aisle, never have a family, never know life’s storms or its stillness. Never build a career or a name, nothing. All this is not about her anymore..."

“If your life ended then, if she was your purpose—why are you still here?” the inquisitor asked, as if trying to strike where it hurt most.

“A good question,” William smiled and looked him in the eyes. “But a predictable one. She was a believer. Not in any particular faith or denomination, but she held a firm belief that those who leave this world still watch over it ‘from above.’ Naïve? Maybe. But it suited her. And that’s why I’m still here. And that’s why you, Petros, should be here too.”

Petros gave him a confused look.

“His Holiness was also a man of faith. Christianity teaches of eternal life after death, doesn't it? If it’s true, would she be happy watching me suffer because of her? No. Then what right do I have to cause her pain? And whether or not there’s something after doesn’t really matter. I decided to live in a way that, if her faith was true, I wouldn’t be ashamed to look her in the eyes and say: ‘I lived a happy, full life.’ I chose to live despite everything, even if it means defying the odds. And if her faith was wrong, then I still have nothing to regret—I do what I can. I realized I’m not God. I can’t save everyone. And that’s okay. It’s okay to be weak, to make mistakes. And to lose is as natural as to gain. The real question is why we lose. Whether it’s just parting ways, becoming enemies, natural death—or something sudden and sinister. No one enters our lives for no reason. In losing her, I found others—not replacements, but people just as precious to me. Even if they don’t always feel the same. Her death taught me a lesson. And Alessandro’s death will surely do the same for you. But your life goes on. One day, you’ll meet those you’ll be willing to give everything for. Of course, if you want that. Now tell me and yourself: if there is something after death, and His Holiness is watching you—his loyal soldier and friend—would he be at peace seeing you suffer and torment yourself because of him? Didn’t he protect Blanchett to die a hero? To act nobly? To earn your respect? So that you, his model of faith and loyalty, would be proud of him?”

Silence. Heavy. Frightening. A frequent visitor in this house. The nightlight glowed dimly in the living room, and a draft stirred the curtains from the slightly ajar window. The steam from the teapot had long since vanished.

Two people—host and guest—sat across from each other. And the one whose name once struck fear into his enemies now, like a child, clung to his guest and wept into his shoulder, unafraid of judgment. And the guest embraced him gently, understandingly, in return.

“It's all over. Now everything is going to be all right. Everything.“

#trinity blood #fanfic #petros orsini #william walter wordsworth

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