Saturnino dei Luni
A powerful, raw light, golden and incandescent, swam across his vision.
Saturnino opened his eyes, his blood pumping, a riot in his veins.
He fell to his knees with a low moan, his limbs lighter, more fragile.
The scent of smoke plunged into his nose, making him gag.
Dimly, he was aware of the noise surrounding him, people calling out the names of their loved ones, the sound of boots smacking against stone, the clink of armor.
Scores of people cried out for water, for help.
His eyes were blurry, and he blinked rapidly until they finally sharpened to precision. Moonlight illuminated the flames devouring Santa Croce, crackling and snarling as it smothered buildings whole. Ash coated the night; he could taste fire in his mouth.
It hurt to breathe, as if his lungs were working for the first time.
He sucked in air, coughing when he took in too much.
His black hair fell around his face in long, heavy locks, brushing against the tops of his hands.
A wave of emotions crashed over him, and he let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
He was joyous. He was incredulous. He was alive.
He felt. He felt. He felt.
Tears dripped down his cheeks, touching the corners of his mouth. He tasted salt on his tongue. He brought his hands to his face and he cried, embracing the way his body trembled, flooded by the overwhelming sensation of relief and joy.
And he understood now that time was precious, finite, fleeting.
A sense of urgency bloomed, spreading like fire to his lungs, to his heart.
One thought after another swam in his mind, making his head spin until each drifted off, chased away by the one thing, the one person on this earth who made his heart beat, beat, beat.
He clung to her with every fiber of his being.
Her courage and humanity, the bright gaze, hopeful, dreaming, curious. Her devotion, true and eternal.
“Ravenna,” he whispered.
When he was in control of his breath, his limbs, he surged to his feet, stumbling a little. But his next step was strong, and he pivoted, searching—
There.
Ravenna stood not ten paces from him, ash-covered, torn gown, tangled hair. A tremulous grin stretched her lips, arms lifting, reaching for him.
His heart, his love.
“Saturnino,” she said.
He was already moving toward her, scooping her up into his arms. “I have you,” he said against her hair. “I have you.”
“Saturnino,” Ravenna sobbed, wrapping her arms around his neck.
Saturnino brushed his hands over her face, his heart thumping hard against his ribs. She stared up at him with her unusual amber eyes, bloodshot, filled with tears. Her arms were a vise around him, as if she never wanted to let him go. “Saturnino, you’re alive. You’re here, free.”
Saturnino tugged her up, and whispered against her parted lips, “I’m yours.”
Neither of them noticed the witch gazing at them with a mixture of satisfaction and pride.
She glanced once more at her son, still directing the crowd, before turning away from the fire and smoke that clung to the buildings in the piazza.
She’d meddled enough for now; the humans had things well in hand.
She’d taken only a few steps before realizing how much the cloak itched her skin, how the cobbled stone hurt her bare feet.
A rueful smile tugged at her mouth. Her father really did know her best. Simonetta said a quiet spell under her breath and with her next step, transformed herself into a black cat, who went off in search of milk.