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The Sanctilaminium Ambrosii held it’s pinnacles high above the fog. Winter was certainly here. There were no lights in the distance, nothing linking this little island to the rest of the world. Only faint glows from fires along the simple streets of the abbey’s foundation, simple oil lamps, and the moon lit up the mobile plate.
“Senior Federico?”
It was hard to make out Clément’s tall, willowy figure out from the shadows of the walls of the belfry. What Federico Giallo could see was a little shy as it approached him, dark hair loose, a handmade shawl doing little to protect the man from the cold.
Federico Giallo’s mind quickly reminded the executor that Clément Dubois had nearly tripped and stumbled over while giving the notarial hall’s envoys a short tour the morning.
That made the saint sit up straight. “Clément Dubois, we are both aware that walking around at night is dangerous. You should return to your quarters.”
A “sorry” almost bubbled up from Clément’s mouth, but he wrestled it down. “I’ll be fine. We said that mainly for you and your colleagues… The place is falling apart, and all.”
“I see. It’s unnecessary, as we’ve been trained to navigate adverse terrain. You have not. Please be careful, Clément.”
“…Can I ask why you’re awake?” Clément pivoted, smiling confused. His eyes went from Federico to the dark expanse of the mobile plate, to the familiar fog that blanketed the complex. His once-gloved hands held themselves cold behind his back, restless and almost anxious.
“I am awake to ensure there’s no attack on the monastery. Also, my circadian rhythm was disturbed by traveling, so I doubt I would be asleep even if I was not stationed here.” He paused. Why was Clément even awake and here? “Was there anything you required of me in particular?”
His eyes returned to the executor. “Ah? Well, more like… Can I sit with you?”
There was no pertinent danger, Clément Dubois seems as emotionally and physically stable as he had been during the time of their visit, and Federico was not required to move from this position until another hour and 25 minutes had passed, and his shift was to be passed to Spuria.
Additionally, he was not sufficiently convinced of the safety of an individual walking around the cathedral at night.
So Federico acquiesced quietly.
Clément didn’t want to disturb the executor or block his view, if you could call it that, so he sat quietly on the cold lip of the long-gone window behind him. It was still quite dark, but he could see with the faint light of a nearing dawn warming the heavy fog that lay below them, faint specks of light dancing on the edge of the two ready-at-a-moment’s-notice shotguns at Federico’s side. The cold wind was mostly blocked by the crumbling flying buttress that still held up the walls of the top of the chapel.
He didn’t want to disturb him, yes, but Clément still found himself running his mouth.
Federico didn’t “do” small talk, but he understood it was a necessary part of his duties to maintain a rapport with those involved with his assignments. He also recognized that some individuals utilized it as a manner of calming themselves. As they sat there, Clément gently asked about the executor’s life, Federico would answer to the best of his abilities, and eventually the topic arrived at the responsibilities of the Notarial Hall.
“Isn’t it… dangerous, to explode buildings? We’ve had people hurt by falling debris before…” Clément gingerly asked. Federico made a mental note to look above him when entering dilapidated areas of the abbey in the future.
“If sufficient notice is given, the Notarial Hall will accept a majority of voluntary demolition events.” Federico paused, recognizing the lack of context he had provided, and then continued. “It is often done ‘for fun’ or ‘as a release.’”
“For fun, huh…” came the unimpressed reply. Destroying their shelter was not a luxury residents of the abbey were afforded.
Federico frowned. “I personally do not see the appeal in destroying buildings. Please don’t be mistaken, Clément Dubois.”
Clément smiled something quiet at that. “Don’t worry, sir. You didn’t strike me as the type of person to enjoy it.”
Federico continued to answer his questions. Clément softly laughed once or twice, but Federico had not intentionally repeated anything humorous he had heard in the past, so he was unsure why the gardener was amused. And he never asked anything in return.
If he were to draw it, if he had held a pen and paper in that moment, Clément’s emotions contained “circles” fatigue and “triangles” entertainment and faintly, “rhombus” joy.
In a place like this, he had wondered how an individual could find room for “joy” or to laugh at all. Federico lacked the tools, so he just quietly and imperceivably traced the shapes onto his own palm as the sun finally came up.
When Federico was little, his mother was very patient with him.
“Federico,” she’d softly say. “Others will enjoy it when you ask them questions. Will you give it a try?”
“Why?” He replied.
His mother would smile and say “People very much enjoy sharing parts of themselves with others.”
Federico, at the time, didn’t understand. He could apply this knowledge to his everyday life, use it as a tool to navigate, but he couldn’t understand the root- the instinctual meaning of this principle. The act of answering a question has never been the key to understanding or being understood by other people for him. It had always been a pointless hurdle to, without fail, cross. It had never fit in the lock.
Clément understands this concept better than I, he thinks. The gardener was fourteen and a half minutes into a gentle, staccato spiel consisting of the details of the monastery’s meek library, quotes from an old book on flower language, a small tirade on loanwords from Gaulish, and finally apologizing, shivering in the cold, repeatedly, when he realized the executor hadn’t said a word in quite a while.
“I do not mind. You seem to enjoy talking about this, and I do not mind facilitating it.”
The two of them had found themselves on the roof in the dark again.
Federico had been told that his presence was too eerie for nigh watches around Richele, and had been quote unquote “exiled to no-man’s land” which was an unusual name for “the only suitable vantage point to monitor activity from outside the abbey.” and “the only location with access to a bell loud enough to wake residents in case of emergency.” He didn’t understand why Richele was so resistant to take up important assignments such as these, but realized it was most likely a work-ethic problem rather than it being a job that Federico was particularly suited to.
He has also realized that Clément Dubois may have developed challenges in maintaining a proper sleep cycle due to recent stressors.
“Well, no one else wants to listen. Anyone younger than me doesn’t really care all that much about… well, since the flowers aren’t..” His face fell as he seemed to remember what had happened only half a day ago. Federico didn’t know what to say.
He recalled his mother’s words.
“I will ask you questions to continue to facilitate conversation. Where did you learn Gaulish?”
Clément wasn’t surprised at the bluntness of his comment, and only melancholically smiled. “It’s a little painful to talk about. My parents spoke it at home. I’m not fluent, apologies if I caused you to think that.” Neither of them said anything for a moment. “I can’t practice with anyone here, and we only have one or two books that are written in it… My pronunciation is likely dwindling.”
Federico felt like he had picked the wrong ending in one of those “pick-your-own-adventure books” that children seemed to enjoy.
“…My apologies. I didn’t intend for my questions to impose…”
“It’s fine. It’s unavoidable.” Clément chuckled.
“…I’ve been told that I am difficult to have conversations with. I appreciate your patience.”
As if it had spontaneously appeared, a thought found itself in Federico’s mind and stayed there, and he couldn’t stop himself from voicing it. Clément was about to reply, his dark eyebrows furrowed as Federico hoarsely said the word “difficult.” The executor did not let him. The words came out like it was the last chance he’d ever get speak them.
“You said those flowers are a special breed. I suggest you name them using your mother tongue. When you return to Laterano, you can apply for a species-specific agricultural permit through the Third Tribunal. They… will live on in that manner. They can be studied.”
Clément looked down, his ledge dizzyingly high above the monastery’s steps.
“If there’s none left,” he said, slowly. “Then what’s the point in naming them? Studying them… If they’re all gone…”
“My opinion may not factor into your decision-making process, but I would like to be able to address them by name.”
“Hm… So you want me to name it for you?”
It, a single flower left. One broken and only preserved with a small glass of water.
“Yes.”
The veil of pain Clément had been wearing all day and all night lifted, just for a moment. He smiled, a little baffled.
“I’ll give it a try, then.”
Clément looked cold, and so the executor took the stole that lay over his shoulders and placed it on the other man’s neck. All without thinking.
That was the last night. He could only stare. He needed to confront his ‘distant cousin’. He needed to go. He had a mission. He had to complete the next objective.
All of this ran through his mind as he stared down at the gardener. There was… there was no point in staring, now that he’s gone, but Federico couldn’t move. “Couldn’t” doesn’t appear in his vocabulary often.
Clément never answered him.
“Wouldn’t you say so, Federico?” Arturia then asked Federico a question, once the two faced each other again.
The muzzle of the gun pointed at her head barely shook. Imperceivably shook. Yet still shook. He read her the extension of her sentence, in the name of Laterano’s Curia. His left hand joined his right, trying to steady his grip. Force the tip of his gun to remain firm. To not crack. She only looked at him. “Teardrop,” pity.