13. Painted Hearts
CHAPTER 13
Painted Hearts
Florence 1487
F lorence was painted in shades of gold and terracotta as I made my way through streets already bustling with life. My fine clothes marked me as nobility despite my attempts at discretion – silk and velvet in Medici colors, impossible to truly disguise. But today I barely noticed the usual deference of passing merchants and artisans, my mind focused entirely on my destination.
I'd first seen his work in the church of Santa Croce – a small Madonna that caught the light in ways that made my heart stop. There was something about his technique, about the way he captured human emotion in divine subjects, that spoke to something deep in my soul. The art world had been whispering about this new talent, this Elia Montari whose paintings seemed to glow from within.
The studio occupied the top floor of an old building, its windows catching the best morning light. I'd walked past several times, watching him work from afar – the total focus in his expression, the grace of his movements as he mixed colors and applied paint with careful precision.
The studio door stood open to catch the morning breeze, sending the scent of oils and pigments spilling into the street. The space beyond felt alive with creativity and warmth, half-finished canvases catching light like captured prayers.
Elia looked up as I entered, and for a moment I forgot the carefully prepared speech I'd practiced. His eyes were green-gold in the morning light, bright with intelligence and gentle humor despite his attempt at professional distance.
“My lord Medici,” he said, offering a perfectly correct bow. “This is an unexpected honor.”
“Your Madonna has caught the attention of my family,” I said, finding my voice. “We would commission something... larger.”
“You're too kind.” His modesty wasn't false – there was a genuine humility about him that made my carefully maintained noble poise want to crack. “Though I fear your family's usual artists might be better suited...”
“I know what I want,” I interrupted gently. “Show me what you're working on. Please.”
He hesitated only briefly before gathering several sketches, spreading them across a table beneath the largest window. Our hands brushed as he pointed out details, and I tried not to notice how the contact made my pulse jump.
“The play of light here,” he said, indicating a study for a Nativity scene, “I want it to feel like dawn breaking. Like hope made visible.”
I leaned closer, breathing in the scent of paint and possibility. “It's beautiful,” I said simply, honestly. “You see light differently than other artists.”
A faint blush colored his cheeks at the praise. “Light is everything in painting. It's what gives life to mere pigments and canvas.”
His apprentice arrived with wine – a courtesy for an important patron – and I caught myself studying his profile against the morning light. He moved with such certainty among his paintings, such quiet joy in his work. It made me want to stay here forever, just watching him create.
“The commission,” I said, forcing myself back to business. “The family chapel needs something significant. Something that captures both divine and mortal truth.”
“That's a heavy burden to place on paint and canvas,” he replied, but his eyes had that spark that suggested he welcomed the challenge.
“You'll manage it,” I said softly. “I have faith in your vision.”
He looked at me with slight surprise, as if unused to such direct praise. “You speak as though you know my work well, my lord.”
“Alessandro,” I corrected gently. “Please. And I've studied every piece of yours I could find. There's something special in how you paint. Something real.”
The morning light caught his profile as he turned back to his sketches, and I had to stop myself from reaching out to trace the line of his jaw, the curve of his neck. He was so beautiful when he worked, lost in the joy of creation.
“This will take time,” he said finally, indicating the scale of work we'd discussed. “Months, at least. The family may not wish to wait...”
“Time,” I replied, letting myself smile slightly, “is something I have in abundance. Take whatever you need to make it perfect.”
He nodded, already reaching for fresh paper to sketch new ideas. His fingers moved with wonderful precision, creating beauty with careful dedication that made my heart ache.
“Return tomorrow?” he asked, then flushed slightly at his own forwardness. “That is, if my lord has time to discuss the composition further...”
“Alessandro,” I corrected again, gentler this time. “And yes. Tomorrow.”
I left him there in his paint-scented sanctuary, morning light turning his workspace into something almost sacred. The street below felt colder somehow, less real than the warm space I'd just left.
But tomorrow... tomorrow I would see him again. Would watch him work, would listen to him talk about light and color and truth. Would fall a little more in love with the way his hands moved across canvas, the way his eyes lit up when discussing his art, the way he made the world more beautiful just by being in it.
For now, that was more than enough.
Weeks flowed like paint into months, each day bringing me back to Elia's studio with new excuses to linger. The other artists whispered about my frequent visits – a Medici patron spending so much time with a relatively unknown painter. But I couldn't stay away. Watching him work was like watching sunrise, each brush stroke revealing new beauty I hadn't known to look for.
The commissioned piece grew slowly, transforming from sketches to underpainted forms to something magnificent. Though ostensibly a religious scene for the family chapel, I saw our story hidden in every detail – in the way light fell across upturned faces, in the tender gestures between figures, in the healing hands of saints that matched Elia's exactly.
“The light changed,” I said one evening, another excuse to stay as the sun painted his studio gold. “You should wait until morning to finish that section.”
Elia smiled without looking up from his palette, hands moving with practiced grace as he mixed colors. “You said that yesterday, my lord. And the day before.”
“Alessandro,” I corrected automatically, loving how the informality made him blush slightly. “And perhaps I simply enjoy watching you work.”
His hands stilled briefly on his brushes, that lovely color rising in his cheeks again. “You must have more important things to do than watch paint dry.”
“Nothing more important than this.”
The words came out more honest than I'd intended, making him look up finally. Evening light caught his profile, turning him into one of his own paintings – all perfect angles and warm colors and grace that made my heart ache.
I'd taken to bringing him small gifts – the finest ultramarine pigments, brushes from Venice, candied fruits that made him smile. Today's offering sat unopened on his workbench, wrapped in silk that matched his eyes. He treated each present like something precious, though they were nothing compared to what I wished I could give him.
“You've painted yourself as the wounded saint,” I observed, studying the massive canvas that dominated the studio's north wall. The figure's face was technically different from Elia's, but I saw him in every line – in the gentle hands, in the upturned gaze, in the way light seemed to radiate from within.
His brush stilled. “And you as the healing angel,” he replied quietly, then looked startled by his own admission.
The studio was empty save for us, Florence's evening bells creating privacy with their bronze song. I moved closer, drawn by a smudge of paint on his cheek that I ached to wipe away.
“The resemblance is remarkable,” I said carefully, not wanting to spook him. “Almost as if you've seen that scene before somewhere.”
Elia's hands moved restlessly over his palette, mixing colors that perfectly matched the sky outside. “Sometimes,” he admitted, “when I'm painting, it feels like I've done this before. Not painting, exactly, but... creating. Making something from nothing.”
I watched those beloved hands, the precise way they held brushes, the careful attention they gave to every detail. “Perhaps we have,” I said softly. “Perhaps some souls are meant to find each other, meant to create beauty together.”
Elia's brush traced the angel's wings – my wings, though he didn't know why he'd painted them that way.
“You speak strangely sometimes,” he said, but his voice held warmth rather than accusation. “Like you're from some other time entirely.”
“Do I?” I moved to stand beside him, close enough to smell paint and oils and the essence of him. “Or perhaps you just understand me in ways others don't.”
He turned slightly, and suddenly we were too close, the space between us charged with everything unsaid. The paint smudge on his cheek begged for my touch. His eyes held questions he wasn't ready to ask .
“I should go,” I said reluctantly, though everything in me wanted to stay. “It's getting late.”
“Tomorrow?” he asked, like he did every evening, though we both knew I'd come regardless.
“Tomorrow,” I promised. Always tomorrow, always another chance to be near him, to watch him create beauty with those perfect hands.
The streets of Florence embraced me as I left. Above, his studio windows still glowed with lamplight while outside all the lamplights were dimmer.
Tomorrow I would bring him more pigments, more excuses to stay, more chances to fall in love with the way he saw the world. And maybe, eventually, he would understand why his hands shook when our fingers brushed, why his heart recognized mine across a crowded room, why every angel in his paintings wore my face.
For now, it was enough to watch him work, to be near him, to see him falling in love with art the way he had once loved healing. Everything else would come in its own time.
Florence's night air carried the scent of jasmine and possibility. Somewhere in the city, bells tolled the hour, their bronze song marking another day of finding him, watching him, loving him from whatever distance he allowed.
Tomorrow. There would always be tomorrow.
Florence turned to liquid gold in the hour before sunset, painting everything in light that made miracles seem possible. I found Elia where I always did – in his studio, hands stained with pigments, completely lost in his work. But today was different. Today the massive canvas was finally complete, and the story it told took my breath away.
Every angel wore my face. Every saint held his hands. Our love story written in sacred imagery, hidden in plain sight for anyone with eyes to see .
“It's finished,” he said softly, not turning as I approached. “Though I don't know if I'll ever understand why I painted it this way.”
I moved closer, drawn by the paint smudge on his cheek that I'd ached to touch for months. “It's perfect,” I whispered. “It's us.”
He turned then, those beloved eyes wide with something between recognition and revelation. “Alessandro,” he breathed, and my name on his lips was both prayer and permission.
I cupped his face between my hands, thumbs brushing those impossible cheekbones as his paint-stained fingers clutched at my fine silk doublet. When our lips met, the whole world condensed to this single point of contact – this kiss that felt like coming home, like finding something I'd lost lifetimes ago.
“I know you,” he whispered against my mouth. “I've always known you.”
The confession broke something open between us. Suddenly we were clinging to each other, kisses turning desperate with the weight of too much time apart. His hands left paint stains on my clothes that I would treasure like badges of honor. My fingers tangled in his hair, memorizing its texture all over again.
“Stay with me,” I breathed between kisses. “Stay with me this time.”
He pulled back slightly, confusion flickering across his face at my strange phrasing. But before he could question it, a shadow fell across the studio floor.
My heart recognized the threat before my mind could process it. Valentino stood in the doorway, his cardinal's advisor robes blood-red in the evening light. His eyes held something dark and ancient as they took in our embrace, the painted evidence of our love surrounding us.
“No,” I whispered, already trying to push Eli behind me. “Not again. Not this time.”
But Valentino's face held no triumph, only a haunted understanding as he gestured to the guards waiting in the hallway. “I'm sorry,” he said softly .
Everything happened too fast after that. Guards flooding the studio. Accusations of heresy. Elia's paintings – our beautiful story – torn from walls and burned in the street below. I tried to fight, tried to use my family's influence, but Valentino had built his case too carefully.
“The paintings are blasphemous,” he declared to the hastily convened church council. “Look how he corrupts sacred imagery with mortal love. How he twists divine truth to serve earthly desire.”
But his eyes held no zealot's fire – only a desperate certainty that he was somehow protecting us from something worse. Like he remembered fragments of older patterns but couldn't quite grasp their meaning.
They took Elia away in chains while I watched helplessly, my wealth and power suddenly meaningless against the Church's authority. The last glimpse I had of him was his face turning back to mine, those beloved hands reaching out before guards yanked him roughly forward.
I spent days plotting rescue attempts, calling in every favor my family name could command. But Valentino's influence ran deeper than I'd known, his accusations spreading through Florence like poison.
When they finally let me see Eli in his cell, he was already changed. They'd kept him in darkness, but his hands had found ways to create even here – our story scratched into the walls with stolen charcoal, my eyes drawn over and over in desperate repetition.
“I dream of you,” he whispered as I pressed against the bars separating us. “Not just here, not just now. I dream of other times, other places. Why do I dream of you?”
“Because we've loved before,” I said, no longer caring who might hear. “Because we'll love again. Because some souls are meant to find each other, no matter what tries to keep them apart.”
His paint-stained fingers threaded through mine through the iron bars. “I wish I understood why this feels like goodbye. Like we've said goodbye before. ”
“No goodbyes,” I promised fiercely, though my heart was breaking. “I'll find you. I'll always find you.”
But we both knew what was coming. The Church's judgment had been decided before the trial even began. Valentino watched from the shadows as they pronounced sentence, his face a mask of grief he didn't seem to understand.
The end, when it came, was both swift and eternal. They took him at dawn, while Florence's bells sang bronze hymns to the rising sun. I wasn't allowed to be there, but I felt the moment he was gone – felt it like my own heart being torn from my chest.
Valentino found me in my palazzo afterwards, his presence both unwelcome and somehow necessary. “You don't understand,” he said softly. “I had to. The pattern must be maintained, or something worse...”
But he couldn't finish the thought, couldn't explain what drove him to destroy what he didn't fully comprehend. His hands shook as he reached for explanation he couldn't quite grasp.
I looked at him – really looked at him – and saw the weight of centuries pressing behind his eyes. “You remember, don't you? Fragments. Pieces. Enough to know you've done this before, but not enough to know why.”
He flinched as if struck. “The dreams... the memories that can't be memories... I thought I was protecting...”
“You were wrong,” I said simply. “You've always been wrong. And you'll always be wrong, until you remember enough to break the pattern instead of maintaining it.”
I left him there, surrounded by wealth that meant nothing without Elia's paint-stained hands to give it warmth. Florence's golden light turned to shadow as I walked empty streets, each step taking me further from the love we'd barely had time to reclaim.
But I would find him again. I would always find him again.
Even if it took a thousand lifetimes to break this pattern. Even if I had to search through centuries to bring him home.
In his cell, they found the walls covered with our story – angels wearing my face, saints with his hands, love stronger than time itself carved into stone with desperate devotion. Valentino ordered the cell sealed, but couldn't bring himself to have the drawings destroyed.
Some loves, after all, refuse to be erased.
Even if their ending is written in shadow and separation.
Even if the pattern holds for now.
Even if goodbye feels like forever.
Until next time, beloved.
Until next life.
Until I find you again.