Chapter Text
The main road into the village was cobbled, worn from decades upon decades of traffic, horses and carriages alike beating the stones into the ground over lifetimes. It was a road Giorno knew well, with all its twists and turns, all its potholes and all its cracks. He would travel down it often, once a week to sell his farm’s goods at the market, and in the days in between to shop, to explore, to escape. He found solace in those cobbled streets, and to him, it was home.
His actual home, the farmhouse, was the picture of rural fantasy. It sat atop a hill, though the house didn’t overlook the village so much as it dwarfed it. Below it were forests, and below those were valleys, and on those valleys sat the beautiful village, with all its picturesque brick houses and ruddy brown roofs. Giorno longed for life in the village, yearned for it like nothing else, but he was content here. The farmhouse, its wraparound porch and its old American Southern-style architecture, it was the ideal home for someone like Giorno. It was safe, and it was home. And his stepfather would protect him, always.
The road into the village from the farmhouse was paved with dirt; it was more of a path than anything, really. Giorno was not to stray from it under any circumstances, and so he didn’t. There were ferocious wolves hidden on either side of the path, tucked away in the dark, sprawling boscage of beech trees, and lest Giorno want to be ripped to shreds by their prying claws and fangs, he was to stay on this path and keep his eyes duly ahead.
Except, today, the forest came to him.
The first thing that Giorno heard was a rustle in the bushes. Altogether, not a big concern— rabbits and deer roamed through these woods just as the wolves did, though at a far greater peril. The problem was the scent, the heady, acrid smell of dog that held Giorno’s senses in a vice grip and refused to let go. Instantly, the boy was paralyzed. He knew he had to run, screamed at his legs to move, but they remained glued to the dirt path, useless and leaden. He knew he was making a scene, too. He knew that he smelled of fear, that anything, anyone, could ambush him at any given moment— he was not safe, here, and he knew it just as well as the forest did. The bushes only rustled harder, the scent impossibly stronger, the approaching threat padding closer with each slow, agonizing step. Giorno shielded his face and neck with the wicker basket he carried in his hands, prepared for the worst.
And then, something… strange happened.
A puppy, perhaps a juvenile from the mottled brown and gray coloration of its fur, bounded out from the underbrush and at Giorno’s feet. He let out a yelp, the sheer energy emanating off of the pup enough to bowl him over alone. Giorno looked down at the pup, and at once he could tell that it wasn’t fully wolf— it was far smaller than any wolf pups he’d ever seen (which was none; he’d never seen a wolf pup before, he could only guess at how big they were, but he figured they were far larger than this… well, runt), and its smell was off. Old folk tales rang clear in Giorno’s mind, told to him once upon a time by his mother, and they all spoke of the vitriol that wafted off of wolves in a thick miasma that hung heavy over the forest. Wolves didn’t have a scent so much as they had an aura, and it was one that burned red with hatred. But this one… Giorno sniffed the air. This one had that same bitter odor that wolves had, but it was far fainter. Tinged with something… like citrus, maybe? He shook his head free of the thought— the only orange grove in the whole village was his very own, and he refused to believe that his stepfather would ever let a wolf onto their property, regardless of how admittedly cute it was.
And Giorno couldn’t believe how lively the little thing was, as well; it was as if someone wound him up like a toy and sent him running. And, to Giorno’s surprise, it was friendly. Entirely docile. It lapped at his exposed ankles, occasionally pawing at the boy’s leather shoes and yipping excitedly.
“Here, boy,” Giorno beckoned the pup closer, offering his hand for it to sniff.
And then—
“Damn it!”
The pup had bit him and scampered away.