Chapter Text
Foolish always felt empty after he finished a sculpture. Well, that’s not exactly right. No project ever felt completely “finished” per se. There was always something he could improve, some detail to smooth out. This was especially true when it came to a project as extravagant and all-encompassing as the XD statue had been. But there comes a point in every job where he just has to stop.
That’s where the trouble comes.
Three years of his life and the blood of his hands were poured into the XD statue. Now, it was real, and the marble and gold monstrosity towered over him as it blocked the setting sun. The statue reflected blinding light right back at him while the celebration of its completion rang in the background. The murmurs of partygoers sounded muffled in his mind. Their whispers of how good the statue looked should have filled him with pride, and while there was a little of that, there was also an itch to get started on a new project as soon as he could. His hands felt wrong without a chisel and hammer. He wanted to get back to the drafting table and sketch out something. The next thing needed to be bigger. Needed to be better.
After his apprenticeship in Milan, this was Foolish’s debut piece. He shook his head thinking about the chaos of his master’s studio. His training had been haphazard, supplemented heavily by his own talent and single-minded dedication. His master, while highly respected, was more of a creator than a teacher. This job was his chance to prove himself as an artist, to make a name for himself outside of his master’s shadow.
He looked up at the ethereal form of the statue, his statue, and tried to feel something other than a weary exhaustion. The hooded figure of XD, hidden behind a mask, extended its wings out in a glorious display as it stood proudly in the courtyard outside the equally ostentatious church. It’s beauty seemed to mock him. His mind still felt clouded with the ghosts of math figures, sketches, and deadlines while his lungs choked with phantom stone dust.
He grimaced as he pulled his attention from the statue to the crowd and saw Father Arturo schmoozing and shaking hands with other important nobles. The man had been the one to commission him initially, and was the liaison between him and the other church higher-ups. Lots of proxy discussions were had as he tread the line between aethetics and biblical accuracy. Father Arturo had been polite to him throughout the process, but his sometimes overzealous ambition was off-putting. He clearly saw the statue as a feather in his political cap. Foolish had no doubt he’d see the man again if he ever took another job for the Church of XD in Barcelona, however long in the future that would be.
Foolish wouldn’t say that he hates working for the church, their pockets tend to be deep with no problem funding whatever he imagined, as long as he delivered a final product that lined up perfectly with the church’s vision. However, they were…intense to say the least. He thought about the recent executions, those who were bloodied and beaten for practicing their religion which just happened to not include XD. Those same officials who pronounced death were standing around his statue, admiring it with wine in their hands and laughing.
It left a bad taste in his mouth that he couldn’t wash away with wine.
The whole situation had gotten worse after Spain finally took Granada. More killings, less compassion. Barcelona had felt safer than the more southern regions until recently. The whole atmosphere of the peninsula felt like it was building towards something that he had no desire to be a part of.
“I think I’m going to leave Barcelona, Bad,” Foolish confessed with a sigh as he watched his friend perform simple - for him - acrobatic feats. Bad’s hooded guise was only mildly sacriligeous in its similarity to XD as he twisted into knots and performed jumps that made him seem lighter than air. A gentle tinkling of bells accompanied him. The golden trinkets were tied around his ankles and wrists with red ribbon that fluttered with his moves. “Maybe I’ll leave Spain all together,” the melancholy sculptor continued.
“What?!” The flexible troubadour flopped over mid-handstand with a discordant jingle alongside applause and laughter from the small crowd he had been entertaining. Kids, who thought his dramatic flop was all a part of the act, threw coins into the troubadour’s hat with squeals of delight.
“But you can’t leave!” Bad whined while scrambling up from the ground and bowing to the crowd before collecting his earnings and finally facing his friend. “You only just got here!”
BadBoyHalo, despite his harlequin appearance, was the leader of the Commedia dell’Muffin, a travelling troupe of players that brought fun and life wherever they went. His sizable operation featured jugglers, musicians, puppeteers and acts that even Foolish had to admit were very entertaining. A few of them were at the celebration, dazzling the crowd.
Foolish shook his head at his friend’s dramatics. “I’ve been here for three years, Bad. What are you talking about?”
Bad was the whole reason he had come to Barcelona. Through the entertainer’s connections - his troupe had quite the popularity in Italy, France, and Spain - Foolish had gotten the original contract with the church, despite his young age. It didn’t take much convincing on Bad’s part, however, to earn the job. The young sculptor’s skills were undeniable and the recommendation of his master opened many doors for him. It wouldn’t be hard for him to find another job after he left.
“That doesn’t count,” Bad argued. “You were here, but you weren’t here. I doubt you’ve seen anything of the city besides that teeny-tiny studio of yours.”
He thought back to the months spent at his draft table, hunched over and eyes straining by candlelight, then the years spent in that very courtyard making sure every fold and feather was as smooth and perfect as can be… Foolish couldn't deny his world had been limited for a very long time, but fat chance of him actually admitting that to his friend who had intense mother-hen tendencies.
“I had a job to do, Bad,” he pouted.
“And now it’s done!” The colorfully dressed entertainer grabbed his friend’s arm and directed Foolish towards a food vendor in an attempt to distract him, bells jangling with every gesture. "We can have fun! See the sights!" He flipped a coin to the kind-looking seller and shoved a fried - something - in Foolish’s mouth. It was delicious, but he wasn’t going to say that.
Seeing that Foolish looked less than convinced even as he chewed on the snack, Bad switched tactics.
“You have to stay at least for my noble friend’s son’s birthday next week.” Foolish’s head spun at the rushed description, but Bad just powered along. “My troupe is the main attraction, and it is going to be spectacular. Dapper has been practicing his knife throwing. He’s been itching to show off to you~”
Part of Foolish wondered if Dapper wanted to show off to him or practice knife throwing on him. But as much as he and Bad's kid gave each other a hard time, it would still be good to see him without the lingering statue deadline hanging over his head. Plus, the acts of Commedia dell’Muffin that were here today only served as a taste that made him eager to see them go all out. It was always an impressive sight to see.
Something in Foolish still wanted to deny the request. A bad feeling settled in his stomach urging him to leave sooner rather than later. Or maybe it was the emptiness again, souring any thoughts about the future that didn’t have to do with chiseled stone. But, Bad did help him get the job, after all, and he wouldn’t have to worry about money for a while. Maybe he could relax a little and not rush to the next big thing so quickly.
“Okay, okay,” he finally relented allowing himself a wide smile. “Don’t say I don’t ever do anything for you.”
“Yay!” Bad did a few backflips to scattered applause. Foolish just rolled his eyes with a fond look.
“Are you going to keep staying in that cramped studio the church gave you?” Bad questioned with genuine concern that still managed to sound teasing somehow. “I know a nice place above a tavern. Good food, nice music. Could be good to have some life around you after you’ve been tucked away for so long.”
Bad knew his taverns well, so this was high praise coming from the well-traveled man. Foolish had met the wandering entertainer during his apprenticeship in Milan. Since then, he’s seen Foolish at his highest highs and lowest lows which could, admittedly, get messy. His friend sometimes seemed like he knew what Foolish needed better than he did at times. Maybe he could do with a little excitement.
“You know, that actually sounds pretty nice,” he decided to trust his friend. Plus, it was only a few more days.
What could happen?
—
The Grand Inquisitor needed to die, and as the leader of Barcelona’s sect of assassins, it was Vegetta’s job to make sure that happened when the man made his way to Barcelona within the next week. His job right now was to listen in for any changes in plan as the clergy talked at the unveiling of the church’s newest monument to XD, their lips loosened by wine.
Every day more and more innocents were judged and killed. Those who want to leave, should be given the option to, at least, that was his, and the Order’s firm belief.
Spain was at a pivotal moment, and the assassins were weakened. They couldn’t stop the Church entirely, they simply did not have the manpower, but the death of the Inquisitor would at least stall the killings enough to get more people out. At least that was the hope.
Like many of his fellow assassins, Vegetta’s view on death was a bit blaise. He killed some so that more can live, and at any moment he too could be killed. It was a macabre dance he played with the lives of his own men and with the lives of people who got in their way.
That isn’t to say he was frivolous with life. It was a heavy burden to bear and in a perfect world no one would have to, but he was realistic.
Besides, Vegetta told himself as he circled the statue, admiring how it caught the light, folds of XD’s robes amplifying rather than disguising the sculptor’s knowledge of anatomy, being close to death gives you a better appreciation of the beauty of life.
Vegetta stood ramrod straight in his ornate party clothes, all rich maroons and golden inlays. He swirled his glass of wine in one hand as he inspected the statue. For all the Church of XD’s crimes spearheaded by the Templars, or known in their circle as the Federation, they knew beauty. And the statue was truly beautiful.
Vegetta heard the sculptor was young as he eavesdropped on conversations floating around the celebration. The statue was completed in only a handful of years. It was an impressive feat. He hoped the youthful talent found work outside the church and stayed out of the crossfire to come. If things don’t go to plan, it could get messy real quick.
And there was a high chance of things not going to plan. Especially now.
The taking of Granada had been disastrous for the Assassin’s Order. Vegetta could feel the headache forming as he recalled receiving the letter on his desk of the King’s surrender from his spies in the other's court.
I cannot blame him, Vegetta thought gloomily. To die or to live was the choice he was forced to make. It had happened suddenly. The Spanish troops betraying the ceasefire in an organized, deadly massacre. I cannot blame him. Vegetta recalled the number of dead in the report. Even so, Spain was now firmly in the hands of the Federation, and the violence was only just beginning to ramp up.
At least we retrieved the artifact before it all went to shit. He mused finishing off the wine in his glass and setting the cup on a servant passing by with a tray.
Guiltily, Vegetta realized that it was likely their theft of the artifact that spurred the Federation to finally get serious about Granada. Will it be worth it? All this death? There was a time when the scales seemed so easy to balance, but not anymore.
“Señor Vegetta,” a voice called out pulling him out of the past.
Vegetta turned to the voice with grace and only slight annoyance. Not just anyone would call out to him so informally, and the ones he'd tolerate knew not to interrupt him when gathering intelligence for the upcoming job even if he had drifted off from his mission with doomed thoughts.
He arched an eyebrow at the approaching priest who strode over with a purposeful but slow gait, like a big cat stalking through the grass. While others of the clergy were loaded down in gold jewelry and flushed with wine, this priest was more subdued. He offered a second glass to Vegetta, which he declined. Like hell he would accept a glass from someone in this den of snakes. The priest shrugged and waved over a servant to take the cups so he could embrace the man.
“Padre Rodrigo, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Vegetta angled for politeness as he stiffly returned the hug, but he had a feeling this conversation would derail quickly. “The last I’d heard of you, you had retired to a friary in the countryside.”
“It’s Confessor, now, my friend. I was called away from the friary by the Archbishop.” Even the harsh life of the friary couldn’t smother Confessor Rodrigo’s pride at the statement. “The Lord saw it fit that I would serve her Majesty personally and help guide her spiritual journey. I go where XD wills.”
That can’t be good, Vegetta thought bitterly. Padre Rodrigo, now Confessor Rodrigo apparently, was known for his strict religious asceticism. Vegetta had known him when his father was still around and took him to mass, even if it was just for appearances. The man was known for his visciousness against “heretics” as he called them. If he had the ear of the queen...
“I felt the need to greet you before you ran off,” the holy man continued words dripping with reprimand. “You’re a hard man to catch, fliting around the peninsula like a wayward soul as you do. I wish I could see you in church more often.”
It was a threat. If you weren’t “pious” enough, you could be judged and persecuted. Vegetta was well-off and connected to the royal line, albeit distantly, so he and his were generally safe. Still, a threat was a threat. Vegetta felt his eyebrow twitch, “You know how it is, Padre - excuse me - I mean Confessor. Work takes us many places. Perhaps your concern for souls should stay within your own congregation.”
“The world is my congregation, child,” his words carried a knowing weight. “You’d do well to remember XD’s light is father to all.”
“Vegetta!” he was saved from the uncomfortable conversation by a call from a familiar voice. You have my thanks, Bad.
“Excuse me, Padre,” he could hardly disguise his relief, “but I must go make arrangements for my son’s upcoming birthday. Good day.” He marched away from the confessor without so much as a backwards glance.
To Vegetta, Badboyhalo was a strange man. He was talented, for sure, knowledgeable and kind. Bad even helped the Order on more than one occasion. Vegetta considered him if not an honorary assassin, a valuable ally. However, Vegetta’s instincts were attuned to danger. As he approached the leader of Commedie dell’Muffin, he couldn’t help but feel he was jumping from one trap baited with threats into another baited with smiles and a handsome face.
“Bad!” He wrapped an arm around the man, mimicking a kiss on either cheek. “What a surprise to see you here! You saved me from a boring conversation, my friend. But I am confused. I thought you tried not to take jobs from the Church? And who is this?”
“Oh, you know me,” the entertainer demured. “I’ll deal with the devil for the sake of a friend…”
The harlequin smiled, but all Vegetta could sense was how true that statement was. He was so glad that Bad wasn’t an enemy.
“...and this is one of my best friends! Let me introduce you to Foolish,” He gestured to the handsome man that stood next to him.
“Well, ‘friends’ seems too strong,” Foolish quabbled, “We are more acquantinces, or enemies…frenemies.”
The way Bad immediately fell into acting mode, hands clasped together dramatically, as he fell into an theatric aside-
“...woe is me! That my second best friend in the world would cast me aside…”
-told Vegetta that this was a familiar song and dance for the two. Vegetta let Bad go on for a bit while he observed Foolish more closely.
It was rare to see someone the same height as Vegetta. Foolish was tall with a medium build. He was young, but more man than boy despite how cleanshaven and clear his face was. He had callouses on his hands that Vegetta could tell weren’t from a sword and sharp features that were softened by large brown doe-eyes. His hair was dark and swopped low to frame his face artfully. His clothes were neat and fine, but not gaudy and leaned more practical even though the occasion called for something more refined. Everything about him seemed pristine, effortlessly so.
“Well,” Vegetta interrupted the troubadour before a crowd gathered thinking it was an impromptu act, “a friend of Bad is a friend of mine,” Vegetta shook his hand politely and clapped his shoulder. He could feel the muscle there roll beneath his hand and marveled at the strength of his grip. “What brings you to Barcelona, Foolish?”
“Oh, you know,” he shrugged, “nothing too special, just passing through, seeing the sights,” Foolish smiled like he knew a funny secret and his eyes disappeared into cresents. Vegetta couldn’t help smiling as well despite not being in on the joke. Something about the man was disarming…and addictive.
“Oh, he’s just being humble,” Bad scolded, “He’s a sculptor. He made this amazing statue!”
“Truly?” Now, Vegetta was impressed which was a hard thing to do. “I could see some choices similar to a certain polymath from around Florencia. Is your master-?”
“Yes,” Foolish inclined his head politely. “I finished my apprenticeship with him in Milan a few years back.”
“You know, he’s a good friend of my friend. My daughter even bears his name,” Vegetta looked to Bad and arched his eyebrow.
Does he know? Vegetta asked soundlessly with the simple gesture. Does he know about our world? One of secrets and shadow and death? Even his master brushes the edge of it.
Bad just shook his head almost imperceptively, “I was thinking Foolish could stay in the flat above Roier’s Taqueria.”
Roier’s place? Bad must really trust this man. The tavern could be the safest part of the city, or the most dangerous depending on who you are. Vegetta looked to Foolish who seemed to listen on politely, but concentrated on Vegetta like he was taking note of his proportions, calculating how he’d capture not his life, but his likeness.
A civilian in a den of assassins and master thieves…how curious.
“I must admit, I’d love to hear about how you two met. A jester and a sculptor? Seems an odd pair.”
“Troupe leader, not jester,” Bad corrected, “And funny that you should mention that,” Vegetta could imagine a devil’s tail swishing back and forth as he talked, “I’d like it if Foolish could come to the villa for Roier’s birthday next week. This barely counts as a party, and I’d like for him to see what Barcelona has to offer before he leaves Spain soon. Maybe you two can talk more then, after the performance of course.”
“You are leaving, Spain?” Vegetta didn’t hide his disappointment. Why did that seem like such a waste? He looked at the sculptor directly, pulling the man’s concentration to the present instead of whatever he was creating in his mind. Foolish seemed surprised at being addressed and embarrassed at being caught staring.
“Oh, well, you know-” Foolish hemmed and hawed, obviously uncomfortable with bearing the brunt of Vegetta’s attention. “Nothing against anyone here, I’m just going where the wind takes me, you know?”
“I see,” Vegetta looked over the man consideringly. “You know, many find the coastal breeze here to be refreshing. Maybe I could tempt the wind to keep you here a little longer?”
The sculptor smiled, wide and bright, and Vegetta answered in kind.
“I’d like that.”
Vegetta warmed at the answer, but couldn’t shake the feeling that he had played right into Bad’s hands. The worst part was, he didn’t think he minded.