#Josep didn't know by selling their souls to the Master the four are immortal

[sins-of-the-sea]

💢 (looking at josep. *oh boy*)

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Late July 1521, Ca'Vespucci, San Marco District, the Republic of Venice

The scraping noise was tangible, a heat felt in the fingertips through the ears. Boiling blood was pumping through his veins, a certain ringing blocking out all sound. A seething flame amidst the dense fog forming in the miserable midsummer night, with heavy plodding for footsteps across the watery streets.

He is untouchable. Barring the blades that scraped along the rails and walls here and there. But he does not care. Un. Dos. Dues espases. A saber in each hand. One for the elder. One for the younger. Premeditated. Planned. But it would not be enough. A life for a life. But he knows full well that these two have killed more than their youngest brother more than once. More than twice. More than ten times.

Ten years. Ten whole long years living a lie. A life taken by his own hands to a lunacy that could have been prevented. And with the blood red moon full tonight, more blood shall be spilt in an unfathomable vengeance.

Entry into the house was unchallenged. Enough of the black fog billowed through the walls prompted some to flee for their lives. A wise decision. There were those who attempted to strike at the mysterious intruder, but none of their own weapons connected. The decision to flee as well was swift. Excellent. Because he didn’t come for their lives.

He came for their masters.

He spotted his first victim. One of the brothers was there at the parlor. The younger brother–full of vibrancy and life, a man of merrymaking and pleasure. How dare he party away, wantonly carousing while a small child was locked up in a moldy cellar, constantly hungry and unclothed as the acqua alta would threaten to take his life before starvation does. The brother panicked at first as the intruder called out for him, the black fog billowing so thickly that the parlor became darker than night. But the panic subsided quickly. Instead of begging for his life, the young man spun around with his arms stretched out… laughing. Crying. Embracing his doom. As though he knew it was coming to him.

Hadn’t Josep been blinded by his rage for Giovanni’s suicide, he would have chosen a far crueler fate for Lorenzo. Life. Life to wallow in his sins, to allow his guilt to destroy him. To devour him from the inside out. But no. This man is smiling upon seeing. Even if the smile was to embrace death. Is it for his shame? His guilt? For penance? It didn’t matter. All that did matter was that Lorenzo was smiling. Happily. And he would not stand for that.

Even if he wasn’t begging for mercy, he made sure he screamed. Josep’s saber went through Lorenzo’s torso at first, the sword making sure it cut through flesh like a butcher knife to meat. He ensured the tip of the blade would pierce, and he dug in deep enough to feel resistance as he twisted the sword. Slowly and surely. And he’d do it again. And again. And again. Blood on the floor, blood on the walls, blood on the ceiling. Cast off on the parlor table, onto the chairs, onto the carpeting. The smell of iron was wafting across the room like stuffing as Josep kept swinging, stabbing, and twisting. He couldn’t stop. Even if Josep wanted to. 

This was unlike when he stabbed that nobleman in Barcelona. As Josep kept on assaulting his cousin, he could feel his soul separating from his body, as though he was watching everything from the side lines. Disassociating. The smell of blood was reaching him in ways he thought it wouldn’t in many years. But instead of feeling fear and anguish, he felt rage. Anger. Wrath. All Josep could think of was unloading so many years of pain unrelated to the Vespucci Brothers onto Lorenzo, channeling all his fury into a single cause. Vengeance.

And he kept on going. And going. Stabbing. Slashing. Harder. Faster. Until the man was almost thoroughly decapitated and his body akin to smashed up pulp.

And as Lorenzo said his last words…

“Finalmente sei arrivato. Grazie, Angelo della Morte, per aver reso giustizia per quello che abbiamo fatto.”

It only sent Josep to a rage he didn’t know he could rise even further into. Through his cousin’s mouth, Josep continued to stab and mash over. All until what was left over was a layer of red congealing into black across the parlor floor.

…..He is not done. The other brother must be in the study. The study that belonged to the one and only grown adult Josep ever loved and trusted during a time he needed one. And now, the other brother sat on Uncle Antonio’s chair. He is not. Josep is far from done. He picks up his second saber, the first fully spent as it stuck onto Lorenzo’s mutilated corpse. He is ready.

His warpath is not complete.