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right-there-ride-on · 1 year ago

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Gyro Zeppeli and the True Man’s World

Chapter 35: True Man’s World (Part 3)

Gyro’s consistent struggle is finding a path for himself outside of his family’s shadow. His father is a constant specter in his life, even an ocean away. The Zeppeli family teachings are undeniably miraculous, yet Gregorio encourages using the spin only when it will be for an undeniably good cause. He doesn’t like uncertainty (that moment when ‘the ball hits the net’) because he feels the Spin is not something for the Zeppeli family (I.e. the spin is not to be used selfishly), but should always be used in service of something greater (e.g. the king, bringing dignity to executions).

Even when first introduced, Gyro is full of contradictions. He’s traditional, yet a trail-blazer. He’s an asshole with a heart of gold. His character arc, really, is about him learning how to be selfish. How to, as Johnny puts it, “hunger”. He needs to want things for himself, to not just be, as Ringo calls him, “a conformist”. That’s why True Man’s World is Gyro’s arc. It’s him really truly embracing the spirit of the cowboy, of individuality, of using what he has ‘inherited’ to find his own path. It’s reconciling these different parts of himself that defines the rest of his character arc.

This journey is also mirrored in Johnny. Johnny states, “That’s what I want to learn from you.” (Chapter 32: Third Stage Goal). Johnny is someone who has ‘inherited’, but he’s also someone who’s lost everything, and hence, knows how to ‘hunger’. Johnny’s position in the third stage is both figuratively and literally caught between Diego (pure hunger) and Gyro (inheritance). Gyro’s growth informs Johnny’s. Gyro’s journey is about growing past what one has inherited to become his own person, just as Johnny states the Steel Ball Run is his own journey to adulthood.

The third stage is mostly an introduction for what we can expect from the rest of Gyro’s arc. Gyro’s arc continues well into the end of the part, as he and Johnny inform one another’s development. I would argue Sugar Mountain is the key turning point in their relationship. Once Gyro realizes how much Johnny is willing to give up for him, he too realizes what he is willing to give up for Johnny.

Johnny bluntly told Gyro in the third stage that the only thing he was lacking was having his own hunger to win. True Man’s World is Gyro shedding his father’s traditionalist views due to the ‘sentimentality’ (care / love) he has for Johnny. The decision to go back for Johnny is the first time Gyro has been able to freely express his own feelings as an individual and sets him on the path to continue exploring that side of himself further into the part.

In Catch the Rainbow, we see him starting to find that ‘golden path’ (a path of his very own) and using what he’s learned he’s able to overtake both Diego and Johnny, because he has found that individualistic ‘hunger’ for victory. Yet his perfect victory is interrupted. But Gyro loses for a reason. In order to gain that ‘perfect victory’ (the golden path), he had to cast aside everything. “Even Johnny disappears.” (Catch the Rainbow (Part 2)). Gyro failed to reconcile the two paths (hunger and inheritance), choosing one over the other, and that is why he didn’t get a perfect victory. But, as previously stated, that’s not what he (or Johnny) needs to learn.

Sugar Mountain is Johnny recognizing that he’s actually not willing to sacrifice everything to satiate his ‘hunger’. Seeing this, something in Gyro also changes. He thinks about ‘the ball that hit the net’; the moment where only ‘luck’ (or, similarly, fate) can decide how things turn out. Gregorio says something along the lines of, ‘Where the ball lands, only god can decide.’ But that’s not entirely true. Johnny had a choice to make: the corpse parts (the thing he wanted most in the world), or Gyro. For Gyro, that was the moment the ball hit the net, and it was a very human decision - one born of ‘sentimentality’ - that led to his life being saved.

This idea is followed up in Wrecking Ball. Here, finally, Gyro is able to reconcile the two sides of himself. He’s quite literally faced with his mirror image in Wekapipo - a man who also knows the spin, but who has lost connection to his homeland and his roots. Gyro remembers another moment the ball hit the net - when he botched a surgery on Wekapipo’s sister. It was a moment of bad luck to Gyro, but one that saved another’s life. Gyro defeats Wekapipo through the reconciliation of his hunger and his inheritance. He’s fully committed to the corpse hunt with Johnny (even willing to give up the race and his original goal, as seen shortly after in Philadelphia (Chapter 72; Ticket to Ride)), yet it is only because of what he learned from his family - the Zeppeli faith in miracles - that he is able to move past Wekapipo as an obstacle to continue the hunt. This reconciliation finally brings to a close the conflict from the third stage, and at last gives Gyro the insight needed to be at peace with himself and his decisions, wherever they may lead.

This, I think, is what gives greater meaning to his final words. There’s Lesson 5, of course, but there’s also his parting words: “If that’s how it is, I’m fine with it.” (Chapter 89: Break My Heart, Break Your Heart (Part 2)) Gyro maintained his morals until the end, refusing to send his ‘bad luck’ somewhere else. He refused to artificially manipulate luck / fate (through Love Train) to decide the outcome of his injury. He, very humanly, accepted his death. Lady Luck had not been at his side. It was because of his relationship with Johnny (the source of his ‘sentimentality’) and all that he learned throughout the race, about himself, and what he really values, that he was at peace with himself in the end. Gyro finally found the path that felt right to him, concluding the arc started in True Man’s World.

Gyro was both an inheritor (the Spin) and an individual who learned to hunger through the pursuit of goals that would improve him as a person - partially because he knew the corpse hunt could help him grow, but also seen in his refusing to back out at the end due to his affection for Johnny. In Lesson 5, his parting words to Johnny, Gyro thanks him for teaching him how to hunger and grow into himself, just as Johnny thanks him for teaching him how to inherit and once again see value and beauty in the world around him.

Sometimes I see takes that say Johnny and Gyro switched protagonist roles halfway through (the arc I would point to being A Silent Way). I would argue that’s not an accurate description. They informed each other’s development throughout the part and even well into the climax. It’s because of Gyro that Johnny too learned how to reconcile inheritance and hunger, allowing him to fight against alt!Diego on his own (the very embodiment of the corruption of ‘hunger’). They taught each other how to ‘hunger nobly’ and find the best of both worlds. They really do have a beautiful relationship and I’m disappointed when I see it mischaracterized.

Ultimately, Gregorio was half-wrong. Sentimentality was the downfall of Gyro Zeppeli, but it was also the cause of his greatest triumph, allowing him to find peace with himself in the end. The art of the spin was passed to Johnny, and everything Gyro embodied lives on through him.

Thank you for reading, I would love to hear your thoughts as well :)

#Gyro Zeppeli #Johnny Joestar #steel ball run #sbr #jjba #a bit of #gyjo #for flavor #does this also count as an analysis of the ball that hit the net? maybe #my posts #sbr analysis #steel ball run analysis

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slowd1ving · 10 months ago

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PENDULUM ✦ . 　⁺ iv.

CHAMBER OF REFLECTION (MAC DEMARCO)

"Understand that when you leave here, You'll be clear among the better men." wc: 7.3k

JOJO'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE MASTERLIST

PENDULUM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART ・゜NEXT PART

Duty comes before all else; do not bite the hand that feeds you .

In Gyro Zeppeli’s humble opinion, some scepticism was healthy when dealing with the commands from the King of Naples. He was loyal – of course he was loyal – and there were none who could refute that very fact. Was it treason, then, to wonder about the thoughts that filled the mind of the young King? He couldn’t begin to imagine having such power at his fingertips; was it whim or reason that sentenced the next person to death?

It is not the job of the executioner to question the King .

Unbidden, his father’s voice echoed in the caverns of his mind. Same cadence, same neutral tone: even now, he could never really tell what his father was thinking. Years of learning about how the body worked – each muscle, each organ, each bone , all etched into memory – and he still couldn’t decipher what lay beneath the impassive flesh and sinew of Gregorio Zeppeli.

Focus . He inhaled evenly, then turned to the man bleeding out on his operating table. It was a nasty wound; the farmer had dislocated his shoulder while falling off a ladder and stabbed himself with a wooden gardening stake. The poor fool, not knowing any better, had wrenched it out of his shoulder – then had subsequently passed out after seeing just how much blood cascaded from the flesh. Even through his mask, the coppery stench had filled the entire room and overpowered the ethanolic aroma that usually lingered in the air.

Surgeon or executioner: we must apply ourselves with the same precision to both, in service of the Kingdom of Naples .

Gyro hadn’t grown up listening to the holy scripture every Sunday. Unlike the eldest son of each Zeppeli generation, civilians and his siblings were free to step foot in the house of God – free from the burden of daily training to carry on the family legacy, and free from the taint that sullied any faith he had. Sure, his father had no issue trespassing in the local church, but any prayers that escaped Gyro’s lips withered as soon as they left; what God would listen to a man who broke Commandment after Commandment for another who wasn’t him?

Unlike his siblings, Gyro Zeppeli had only the words of his father as the Bible.

“Tweezers,” he barely looked away from the mangled flesh as his mother handed him the silver instrument – with the mask strapped across his face, he could only pick up the faint scent of iodine amidst all the metallic reek. Against the macerated carmine tissue, the pale timber splinters in the farmer’s arm were clearly visible. Through his thin gloves, the dark blood slowly staining his fingertips was uncomfortably warm. “Any damage to the vital structures?”

“No – nerves, vessels and tendons are all undamaged, but any less luck and he would’ve pierced his subclavian artery,” his mother supplied with clinical precision. Clear for sutures . As he deftly picked out the offending shards, the farmer stirred with a groan of pain.

“ Mamma , prepare the anaesthetic and some saline,” he urged. Whatever spirits his father mixed into the concoction knocked the very soul out of patients for a very precise fifteen minutes – and Gyro would get this job done in ten. Trained by the best, and a doctor by twenty . He wouldn’t fail.

He wouldn’t fail Marco, either.

It was just as he predicted. Within a few seconds of swilling down the anaesthesia, the man was practically a corpse – not even a twitch as Gyro patiently irrigated the wound with the saline. There was nary a tremor in his hands as he felt the weight of the forceps in his steady grasp; muscle memory had taken over, leaving only an icy calm where his mind was.

Focus – breathe out with each suture. Clean, cover, then use the Spin to set the shoulder back in place .

I know, babbo . Seriously, what was with his old man adding his input everywhere Gyro was? He gritted his teeth beneath his surgical mask, and exhaled through his nose forcefully; still, the forceps and needle didn’t even wobble through the frustration.

“Sharps bin, gauze and bandages, then a Steel Ball, mamma .”

It was more of a ritual for him to rattle off the equipment needed; Maria Zeppeli had worked through countless surgeries before with his father, and would likely work countless surgeries with him after. Perpendicular to the skin . At his even exhale, the needle pierced through the farmer cleanly and came out past the gaping chasm of his wound. Gyro’s hands moved in a paradox of haste and relaxation to tie off the thread – and another, and another , until a jagged row of pristine knots met his critical eye.

His hands were bloody; the congealed liquid staining the thin material of his gloves was something he could never fully get used to, even after a decade of being in the operating room. He still remembered being fourteen and becoming an apprentice surgeon: his clammy palms in the too-big surgical gloves that threatened to drop the equipment he nervously handed to his father; the bilious film coating his tongue and throat that wouldn’t go away, no matter how much he swallowed; and fear-widened eyes that couldn’t mimic his father’s professional expression.

Despite the initial horror that festered in his gut that day, he was a prodigy. Just like every eldest son in each Zeppeli generation, he easily found his rhythm of the back-and-forth training of his bloodline and excelled in being sword and scalpel for the King. The two-faced coin was something he felt flipping and teetering from birth itself. Perfection was the base standard for each servant of the King – something he adjusted to on a molecular level. How could failure even be an option when your duty didn’t allow for it?

Life-saver, life-taker .

This honour wasn’t lost on Gyro. Yet that first day he started his duty, he’d heaved and dry-retched in his room that night. How could he not? Those medical journals he read as bedtime stories could’ve never prepared him for this : flesh mangled beyond repair, lacerations that exposed a person's viscera itself, cleaved and hacked-off sinew that resembled a butchered carcass rather than a living, breathing human .

He wasn’t Gregorio Zeppeli.

That unflinching resolve didn’t come easily – he had to claw for it desperately, greedily , all to prove himself worthy of the family duty. Sure, he could argue that the movements of his limbs were instinctual , and came as naturally as breathing. He followed orders – meticulous, precise – but he was only human. He was human , but his father was not.

Beneath his fingertips, the bandage concealing the sutures neatly adhered and tucked itself away. Clean gloves . Had he changed them? Had he just mechanically bandaged the man’s arm? He gave a perfunctory glance to his left – there was his mother, standing nonplussed. Nothing out of the ordinary: save the thoughts clouding his mind. Focus .

Your biggest sin is your inability to fully dedicate your mind to your birthright .

I know, babbo , he repeated bitterly. He wasn’t like his father; the questions that plagued his mind – with every swing of his sword, with every severance of a head, with every spin of the steel ball – had boiled into one writhing entity that ate away at his brain like larvae. Why ? Why did this person die, while he saved that person? He had long learnt to let the protests rot away, but something had changed recently.

Why was that child sentenced to death ?

In his fevered palm, the perfect green sphere cradled there was frigid. It crackled with icy life when he flicked his wrist; rapidly, it spun with a blur until the lines marring it were invisible to the human eye. Inhale . His eyes flew over the farmer’s shoulder – it slumped low on the table, as if it were about to fall off the man’s torso.

Gyro could feel the electric whir of the Spin thrumming through his veins; every capillary, every nerve, every cell was present to feel the energy that pulsed at his fingertips to use at a Zeppeli’s will. Bear witness to the Spin . Carefully, he let the steel ball hover over the man’s clavicle, before driving it into the skin that dipped into the valley of his shoulder. Sure, it was better if he flipped the man over and did this where the scapula tapered off, but he couldn’t aggravate those fresh stitches.

Under his expectant eyes, the skin twisted and warped clockwise in an infinite, spiralling ripple of flesh. There – with a sickening pop , the bone adjusted back into place, and the ball returned to his palm. Once again, it had returned to being inanimate. Once again, the only indication it had been used was the residual crackles of energy flashing through his palm. Once again, he’d completed the procedure flawlessly; and with a perfunctory glance at the clock, he had five minutes to spare.

“Go clean up for dinner,” his mother had disposed of the bloodied equipment when he glanced away from the clock. Already, he was peeling his gloves off at the sink methodically – the warm water and soap suds cascading over his skin did wonders to get rid of the oily sensation of congealed blood. There were only a few hours left of this routine.

A few more grains of sand through the hourglass, and I’ll be gone.

. 　⁺ ✦

Family meals weren’t something that Gyro particularly looked forward to. In fact, they were something that he’d actively go out of his way to avoid – maybe through pushing up a particularly intense operation so it conveniently occupied the day, or even scheduling a tryst with a pretty lady to take him out of town. Regardless of his dilemma, when Maria Zeppeli asked you to do something, you did it . And in his unfortunate case, this meant ditching his scrubs and getting ready for dinner.

If they were any other family, he was sure the modest dining room would have laughter and conversations bouncing off the stone walls. Maybe they’d have tasteful paintings, or richly embroidered tapestries, to soften up the area and let in some colours. As it stood, his father didn’t believe in such pointless trivialities to waste money on, which meant that neither did the household.

Frivolities like these distract one from his duty .

Lately, the baritone voice of Gyro was sounding more and more like Gregorio’s when he was younger. It was moments like these that he questioned whose monologue ran through his head; was it his father’s teachings echoing the chamber of his mind, or his own ideas? No, that was stupid. He wasn’t going to adopt his father’s personality. Well, if he was being honest, it was probably considered a severe lack of one.

Even when the sun hung cheerfully in the sky, it was hard to mask the oppressive atmosphere of the dining room; it looked unlived in, with only a shelf of scientific journals that decorated the room, besides the dull brown dining table and chairs. Frankly, it was dour and much too sombre in his opinion – but what idiot would try to lecture Gregorio Zeppeli on furnishings , of all things? It wasn’t as if Gyro spent a lot of time here anyway; there really wasn’t any point in complaining.

Becoming older didn’t mellow his father out, nor did it dull the weapon he was. He was imposing as ever as he sternly eyed his family from the head of the table. From a young age, it was clear to Gyro that his father held no paternal affection towards his children, or even his wife. Everything he did was out of duty – carrying on the Zeppeli family name included. Sure, he knew the man loved his family in his own way; but it wasn’t a way that was ever externally expressed.

Sentimentalism begets weakness .

Any feeling – any attachment – interfered with the loyalty to the crown. It didn’t matter what he felt; Gyro’s duty was to the King and to the King alone. His body was made to be a puppet to the Kingdom of Naples: the sickle of a reaper, and the scalpel of a doctor. His father had perfected the art of quenching any emotion, but his son hadn’t quite yet become the automaton that was expected of him. Sometimes, that honour became a burden. There was nobody he could talk to about it – knowledge of the Zeppeli duties was only privy to each oldest son and his spouse, then the next oldest son. It settled on his shoulders and refused to feel any lighter; with each step forward, he wondered if he would ever feel the same impassivity his father did.

In the end, it wasn’t the terrible decor or his terribly imposing father that dissuaded him from participating in dinner the most. It was the awful silence: a horribly dense lack of chatter or feeling of companionship. No, the most he got was the scrape of utensils against porcelain, and that was if he was lucky; even Mariano, the youngest, knew not to raise the ire of his parents by clinking a knife against his plate too loudly.

Any prayers before dinner were spoken in one’s head. Gyro was content to sit back and watch; he didn’t think any prayers he had would be heard, even if he shut his eyes with reverence and confessed his sins with the utmost piety he could muster. There was the flat set of his father’s mouth as he also forewent a blessing, and the loose clasp of his mother’s hands as she closed her eyes – this was mimicked by each of his four siblings (faithful lambs that they were).

When Gregorio had sampled from his plate, it was time to eat. Fried baccalà with potatoes and onions decorated the porcelain before him, and he stifled a grimace. Salt cod really wasn’t that high on the list of his favourite foods; he’d have to wash it down with the dry wine beside him to neutralise the flavour. That’s what I get for skipping the last few weeks of family dinners.

He chewed the salty fish as fast as he could without looking like a total buffoon, making sure to pile up plenty of potatoes on his fork to provide a makeshift buffer. Already, the pale wine was half-gone – but he simply chose to ignore the possibility of running out before he finished off the plate.

Gyro groaned internally at his luck; of course this had to be a Sunday meal, where there was significantly more food to be eaten. Of course it wasn’t enough that fish was served; he now had to spend double the time in this prison while more courses came out. If he tried leaving now – even with his plate now cleared – his father would no doubt turn his disapproving gaze his way.

At least the peperoni ripieni was the next course; it was relatively quick to chow down as long as he bit into the pepper properly to avoid indigestion. The meat and rice inside would get rid of the salty cod residue that refused to budge from his tongue – something he was infinitely grateful for. Unlike his siblings, he didn’t scoop the filling out before carefully eating the emptied pepper; he sliced the whole thing into eighths so both the sweet pepper and salt of the meat balanced each other out. And unlike his siblings, he put as little of the zucchine alla scapece on his plate as he could; the sour, minty zucchini would probably disagree passionately with his guts later on in the day, especially with how liberally the royal kitchen added vinegar to the dish.

He valiantly fought back the urge to pick out the herbs that he felt between his front teeth – no doubt it would make an already painfully awkward meal even more painfully awkward. It wasn’t like he could just strike up a conversation with any of his siblings either; the next oldest, Luisa, was a good eight years younger than him and he’d been relatively isolated from anyone else from the year she turned five. There was no common ground – especially with the looming presence of their father at the table.

Finally, ( finally !) the bread and cheese was uncovered – with such a filling and carbohydrate-heavy course, it was unlikely there’d be another one. After his father served himself, Gyro reached out for a thick, herby slice of crusty bread and a ball of mozzarella di bufala . A quick drizzle with olive oil, and he could now tear into it with his teeth as elegantly as possible (he wouldn’t let Niccolo look at him with that disgusted look of derision again, not after the last time he bit the cheese too hard and the milk inside spattered over the table cloth).

As he chewed contemplatively, he allowed his eyes to observe the room once more. This was likely the last time he’d see his whole family before departing Naples; it filled him with a mournful nostalgia that clawed its way into his very heart. Even if they weren’t particularly close, he’d miss his siblings.

With a pang of sorrow, he observed Mariano curl his chubby little hands around his knife and fork. How old is he ? Nine ? He’d missed so much – there was an easy companionship that existed between his siblings that he could never insert himself into, even though they still showed him affection in small ways: like making fun of him sneaking off with whoever caught his eye, or stealing the pastries he went out to buy. He felt like an intruder when he watched from a distance: a stranger .

His eyes refocused back onto his youngest brother. Even in the sombre setting of the dining room, there was still that boisterous spark within him. A nine year old should be filled with curiosity for life . A nine year old should be treated with the mercy that befits a child. What if his brother was in Marco’s place? At that thought, his nails dug into the slice of bread with anger.

A nine year old shouldn’t be executed for treason .

. 　⁺ ✦

From what the guards had told him, it had all begun when a baron named Rippi was arrested for conspiring against the Kingdom of Naples. It was immediately put into effect that his entire household be brought to trial – in a flurry of motion, they were all sentenced for treason. His family, his servants, and anyone unlucky enough to be caught inside the house: any threat to the King was to be eliminated.

“ The boy told us his job was cleaning hats and shoes for the Baron .”

When the kid was questioned, he confessed that he came from a line of servants to aristocrats. Just a few weeks into his humble service, the military police had stormed into the manor and seen him – shining shoes and repairing the hats of the Baron and his guests.

“ There is no doubt that he knew about it ,” the court had decreed. “ It is clear he is part of the Baron’s family .”

The decision of the state was absolute; the boy would be beheaded.

In actuality, it had all begun when Gyro was thirteen. Before that pivotal age, he’d been blissfully unaware of what exactly the Zeppeli duty entailed – all he knew was that his father ran the local clinic. All he knew were the halcyon days of childhood: years spent playing games with his younger siblings, teaching little Carlo how to toddle after him on unsteady legs, and the joyful feeling of the eternal summer of being a kid.

“How old are you, Gyro?” the King’s Servant had asked on one of his monthly visits to the clinic. On these days, Maria Zeppeli would prepare a small meal for his father: he’d eat the fish and loaf of bread in silence, before washing it down with red wine. Then, she’d kiss his cheek quietly – on these days, Gyro came to know that his father was being summoned to the King’s Court for a duty he’d never talk about.

“Nine years old, sir,” young Gyro had piped up, but that singular question was all the King’s Servant would ever ask.

That year, Gregorio Zeppeli called his son into the study. In his weathered palm was a shiny, green sphere – the challenge was to take it out of his father’s hand. “ No cheating or dirty tricks ,” Gregorio had scolded when Gyro attempted to knock some books down as a distraction, and failed miserably to wrench that stupid ball into his own, weak hand. “How will you take it from my fist with rotation ?”

“Listen, Gyro – it’s fine that you like to ride horses, and read novels and comics,” his father began in that serious baritone; it immediately piqued Gyro’s curiosity. “But you will have to learn about the Spin of the Steel Ball; by the time you are thirteen, you need to learn everything. Just like his father taught him, your grandfather taught me – just as I will teach you.”

“Why, babbo ? What does a steel ball have to do with anything?” Gyro’s eyes followed his father’s closed palm. Even as a young child, the penchant for seeking answers thrummed in his veins.

“The men of the Zeppeli family have always done this, as you can surely do as well,” his father dismissed him. Through the closed door of the study, he could still hear his father murmur to himself. “It is easier to place something in a hand than take it away.”

When Gyro opened his small hand, there was that green steel ball – spinning and rotating in his palm as if it had a life of its own.

“ Gyro, how old are you now ?”

As the thirteenth year of his life began its course, everything changed. One morning, his mother made two such meals: two fish, two loaves of bread, and two glasses of wine. He ate in silence with his father, copying the meaningful way with which Gregorio bit into the bread and swilled down the wine – as if it was his last meal. In a way, it was. A last meal that was dedicated to the dying embers of his childhood. Just like his father, his mother kissed his cheek quietly. Just like his father, he donned the crest of the royal family that day.

“Listen, Gyro.”

That was how every teaching began: the command to listen .

“Every man needs a map – a map in his heart, to ride across the wilderness.”

Later, Gyro would come to realise that this map was duty and honour : two words that had previously meant nothing more than a faraway dream. To swear on your duty was to swear on your honour; but in that moment, those words were just that. Words , that thirteen year old him couldn’t fully grasp.

“Listen, Gyro – you’re the eldest son of the Zeppeli house – you need to protect your family, since that is where true happiness is found,” his father had continued in the carriage taking them through the gates of the royal palace. “Protecting your family is like protecting your country. For your family to fall apart is to scorn both ancestor and descendant. Never forget that .”

He had sat in silence (and slight bewilderment) as his father spoke. And he watched in silence, as his father hung his cloak up in a simple brick room with bars on the windows.

“From this day on, you will be my assistant – performing the duty given to us 380 years ago, for generations and generations of kings by the Zeppelis.”

It was at that moment when Gyro felt that something wasn’t quite right. In the courtyard where he stood, why were all the doors made of those imposing bars? Why were there guards everywhere? Why was there someone shouting and yelling for Officer Zeppeli?

“Gyro, you wait here; listen for my orders.”

He was frozen to the paved ground as his father donned his hood – his face was completely concealed with fabric, with only his hard green eyes staring back at his son.

“ Babbo ?”

But his father didn’t answer. Instead, he grasped a heavy sword that a guard – with the same mask over his face – handed to him. And at his hips, swinging by leather holsters, were green steel balls: just like the one he saw in that study all those years ago . Through the bars, Gyro could see his father walking to where someone struggled and flailed underneath chains. Through the bars, he watched as his father drove one of those rotating spheres into the shoulder blade of the despairing person – watched as they stilled those pitiful movements – yet the cries of fear never stopped.

“Be still! Silence your heart.”

It was like time itself had come to a juddering halt as Gregorio lifted the sword above his head. It was like something straight out of a novel when he heard that comical swish through the air – of course it wasn’t real. Of course babbo wouldn’t do that, not the local doctor, not the man who had stressed the importance of saving those he could: rich or poor, old or young . So why was there that sickening crunch that followed? Why did those terrified cries cease? Why was babbo walking back to him with a sword drenched in red liquid that smelled horribly metallic ?

“You will sanitise the sword,” at that distorted instruction, time seemed to resume again. “This is the beginning of your duties.”

As it turned out, it wasn’t a dream. The executioner must know everything about the human body: vital points, where a sword can easily cut through, every muscle and tendon . That fateful day, the coin was flipped – Gyro was finally privy to both sides. The steel ball exists for peace, not pain . In less than a minute, his entire world had flipped on its axis.

“ You are to be my successor .”

It was little over a decade later when he made his first significant mistake. Just a month ago, there had been a prisoner detained for multiple murders: nothing more than a slight bird of a woman, with a pretty face – Gyro’s weakness . She attacked a guard, but he’d restrained her far too late; the damage had been done, and that guard’s fingers wouldn’t grow back. In the struggle, she tore off his collar; it drifted – forgotten – to the prison floor.

“This accident was caused entirely by you, Gyro,” his father delivered calmly. “Take responsibility.”

“I was the one who calmed the woman, babbo ,” he defended himself. Though, in his bones, he knew the rebuke to be true – it was his hesitancy to act that cost the guard precious flesh.

“‘ The woman is beautiful, and she is quite small ’,” his father echoed the thoughts that raced in Gyro’s mind when it happened. He felt the trickle of shame blossom into a rearing monster that forced him to bow his head. “Was that not what you were thinking?”

When his son didn’t respond, Gregorio continued. “Listen, Gyro – it was your own sentimentality that caused this, not ‘failure’ or ‘carelessness’. No matter someone’s face or age, it is all the same – shame on you! Without the sentimentality clouding your heart and interfering with your duty, you might’ve stopped her biting the guard’s fingers off, and avoided losing your collar with the royal crest.”

“ Sentimentality begets weakness .”

It was with a heavy heart that Gyro went back to his post in the prison a few days later. Only this time, there was a disturbance in the air that threatened to break the burdensome tranquillity that was so hard-won.

“ We’ll make you speak! This is a needle – where the hell did you get it ?”

There – sitting on the stone slabs marred with dried blood – was a young boy. When Gyro rounded the corner to the row of cells, he could feel those huge, dark eyes turn his way – and his heart sank . For the first time in his line of duty, he felt an indescribable dread that weighed down each of his limbs; it was all he could do to stand upright. No , he couldn’t give in to the sentimentality that turned his clear resolve a murky grey.

“ Attempted jailbreak – what were you planning on doing with this? Look – under his bed is a guard’s collar! Now he’s done it; it’s an insult to our country! ”

In the angry grasp of the guard was Gyro’s collar, all freshly stitched up from where it was torn off his neck. Consciously, his fingers reached up to brush his neck, and the young boy noticed .

“Back to your posts , ” Gyro spoke up coldly; it took every fibre of him to conceal his shaky stance and assume one of authority as befitted an officer. “I’ll talk to the ragazzino myself.”

He snatched the collar of the guard as the two of them left, and he was left alone with the too-young prisoner. Focus . Warily, he eyed the iron clamps around the boy’s thin wrist – the area around the skin was chafed and an angry red, and those cuts would likely get infected within the week.

“So, ragazzino ? What’s the deal with the needle and collar?” Gyro gritted out. Stop . Don’t talk to him any further .

“I… made the needle – out of a fish’s bone, sir – and that collar, sir, was ripped off by a woman and fell into the drainage – and I picked it up and fixed it… I’m sure it’s important,” Gyro should have turned away as the boy started explaining. Yet, there was something compelling him to stay; he already knew exactly what it was. Sentimentality . “Please return it to its owner – I hope that he will like it… my father taught me that if I do my best, I’ll be accepted, someday!”

A mounting feeling of dread surged within his gut; it churned and writhed with a fervour impossible to quash. Turn away . If he turned away, he could still pretend that this boy didn’t exist.

“Is it your collar, sir? If you don’t like it, I can fix it again – I can sew anything!”

“ Stop ,” Gyro began through clenched teeth. Enough . The hand that gripped his heart was interfering with duty. Babbo was right . “Don’t speak to me .. ever again – got it?”

As he left the cell, his hands were unreasonably clammy against his collar. Stray strands of hair escaped from the shadow of his hood and stuck to the cold sweat tracing his face – in comparison, his mouth was unbearably dry with the stricken feeling of despair.

It was that very morning that he learnt of the boy’s crime – treason – with a penalty that no one could change. Execution by beheading . Marco, nine years old, sentenced to a quick death . And the one chosen to carry it out was none other than Gyro Zeppeli, as his first official duty as he came of age.

For the first time since he became aware of this duty, he questioned the court outwardly. A written complaint was lodged, but the decision of the state was final and absolute.

For the first time in his life, he heard his father raise his voice at him.

“What you did was useless, Gyro,” the finality and anger thrumming in his tone were enough to send a racing shiver across Gyro’s skin. His father’s hair was grey, and there were lines across his face that betrayed his age – but the sharpness of his eyes hadn’t changed. “Our family’s duty is not to decide whether someone is innocent or guilty!”

“ Babbo ,” he could feel the protest rising in his throat, and he expelled it from his larynx like a wave of vomit. “I only want to complete my duty with consent.”

“There is no consent , Gyro! Even towards the worst criminals – our duty is carrying out the orders of the King. The law is the law! This discussion is over. You will fulfil your task, and never speak of it again.”

Deep in Gyro’s heart, he knew that he couldn’t shirk his duty – treason wasn’t something that let the perpetrator live. There was nothing he could do for that child: nothing at all, save a quick death.

“ How old are you now, Gyro ?”

“You know how old I am,” Gyro replied bitterly. In the fine mist of late April rain, the stone walls of the courtyard smelled like the lilies planted nearby; it was all he could focus on, all he could comprehend, except for maybe the sorrowful grey of the sky. “What did you call me out here for?”

“Aren’t you the one concerned about that boy?”

He froze then – never had he heard the King’s Servant ask another question, in all his years of living. Under his incredulous gaze, the wizened man simply gave him a prompting look.

“I will take the place of my father – that hasn’t changed, nor will it – but I just want consent!” he had forced out. With closed eyes, it was easy to pretend the man wasn’t there; only the light drizzle of fog made itself known on his clammy face. “Guilty or innocent! Pride and honour cannot exist without consent – I will put my life on the line for it – but not all laws are justice!”

It was then that he could feel the full depth of his feelings; all the resentment that had slowly built up over the years brushed its ghostly fingertips over his mind, before becoming all too tangible and heavy .

“Isn’t there another way?” Gyro’s voice cracked as he opened his eyes again. “This boy had nothing to do with the assassination plot.”

“ Would you put your life on the line for that boy ?”

“What?”

“I’m making sure,” the old man peered at him with a tilted head; it was much too sinister – coming from that wrinkled visage – to be even remotely comforting. Gyro couldn’t breathe, let alone think . No, that was incorrect; he had too many thoughts racing through his mind to try to grasp. “You would be willing to risk your life if the boy could be innocent?”

And there – held in the Servant’s gnarled fingers – was a newspaper announcing the Steel Ball Run. And Gyro Zeppeli understood: if he won and brought prestige to Naples, the King could grant the ragazzino amnesty in exchange.

For the first time in his life, it was Gyro Zeppeli who could make that decision: to take a life or save it.

He just had to leave everything he knew behind.

. 　⁺ ✦

In the late afternoon, golden light streamed through the high windows of the library, and illuminated the copious multitudes of swirling dust motes. As a child, Gyro would waste whole days there: just lying on his stomach on the worn leather couches, reading whatever he could reach off the tall shelves. Now, it was a treat to savour once or twice a month – no one really encroached upon the modest space, save for maybe Luisa or his father.

When there was nobody around, he could carefully drop the needle for the gramaphone Maria Zeppeli had insisted on buying. There were only one or two records available to actually play in the house, but he appreciated the tinny strains of doleful, crackling music nonetheless. If he closed his eyes, he was in another life; if he were born more than a century prior, he might’ve heard the warbling tones of this Handel composition in person. If it were a century prior, would he still be marked out by fate to serve the King – or would it fall upon some other unfortunate fool?

America was his chance to unshackle himself from the weight of duty dragging him into the future. Even if it was only for a few months – even if he died along the way – it was the first time he would be able to ignore the pressure looming over him. The arrangements had already been made; he’d board a cargo ship from Genoa on the first night of May, then sail for the States with his beloved Valkyrie.

For the first time, the lies he told everyone would be consequential. Sure, he’d lied before – but sneaking out to visit whatever pretty thing caught his eye was hardly criminal behaviour. But this was different; he couldn’t possibly explain this away. A letter ? He chewed his lip thoughtfully as Handel’s work thundered and crackled in a blistering crescendo. No, babbo never writes back . He could address it to his mother, maybe, or even Luisa. A note ? No, that was too risky – if it were found before he left port, he could be detained by the military police.

Already, the adrenaline catalysed his rapid heartbeat at the very thought of leaving Naples. He’d be bound by carriage to the north, and that would take several hours. With the help of the Servant, it would be easy enough to state that the King’s business needed Gyro – it technically wasn’t even a lie, since it was His Majesty’s business.

With each mournful pause that dotted the piece, he could feel the pangs of regret already. Any pride Gregorio had in him would likely rot away at his actions – it was inconceivable that a Zeppeli son could even think this way. And what if he died? Would Luisa, or even Niccolo, be forced into something that might’ve never concerned them? The aftershocks of his departure would no doubt bring his father to an unbearable shame; this was undoubtedly one of the biggest sins he could commit.

Our family’s duty is not to decide whether someone is innocent or guilty .

No, Gyro needed to do this. In the future, would there be another Marco? Would there be another child, looking up at him with widened eyes as he swung the sword down? Those open, accusing eyes – through which he could see another innocent soul about to be untethered much too early. No . No matter how much he’d regret altering the Fate given to him, he’d regret not breaking the cycle more.

In such a matter like life and death, he couldn’t rely on the King to play God.

A man couldn’t possibly hold the impartiality of justice.

It was strange; he never gave this much thought. Duty begets honour , his father would’ve argued. Honour allows you to protect your family . What if it had been Mariano, then? A child – chained up in prisoner’s racks, just waiting for the sword to finally swing down in an inevitable pendulum of motion. Family . If he kept quiet, he wouldn’t ever be able to look at any of his siblings again. Marco was just a child: subject to the most unfortunate of circumstances, and nothing more. He was no traitor.

Gyro wouldn’t fail him.

“Gyro?”

He started from the couch he was languishing on as he spotted his mother in the doorway: making sure he swung his too-long legs off the armrest as to avoid looking overly ill-mannered. Had she seen him? Probably, though it was best to not dwell on it for too long.

“ Mamma , were you looking for me?” he played it off, sounding far too natural for someone about to escape the country tomorrow. That was a lie, actually – he sounded as awkward as if he had just been caught kissing someone in one of the clinic’s halls. Painfully embarrassing .

“You’ve been unusually sullen these past few days,” she replied. Outside the operating room, Maria Zeppeli’s voice was milder: less clinically accusatory, and more mellowed . And he barely saw her at home, so the sound transported him right back to the eternal summer of childhood. In this frozen moment, he wasn’t an executioner – he was just a son .

“I’m sure it’ll pass,” he lied. Despite any misgivings the guards had about her, she practically rivalled Gregorio in her ruthlessness. He could see her clearly now: arms crossed in a picture of staunch incredulity, concern and exasperation warring in her raised brows, and a flat line where her mouth was. Older age hadn’t softened her – the steel-grey of her hair looked more like the glint of a knife than anything. Although, even through her annoyed stance, he could see the question reflected in her eyes: are you alright ?

“Gregorio doesn’t tell me of his work,” her words were tainted with tired resignation. “You know how your babbo is, Gyro – all that’s on his mind is duty, duty, and honour – and I have to figure things out for myself.”

At this moment, he could read right through her; she was completely unlike his father in this regard. He could see the prompt in her eyes: a chance to explain himself before she did. Gyro kept silent – it wasn’t like the words were trying to escape his clenched jaw with any particular haste.

“When the papers came out – only this morning , can you believe it – I didn’t know what to think,” she pinched the bridge of her nose: a habit that Gyro inherited from her. “To sentence a child … even in the clinic today, that farmer had heard about it – and I already knew what your babbo would’ve said to you.”

Something clicked. The frustration that radiated off her stiff posture was never targeted towards him in the first place.

“ Mamma ,” did she notice the tiny shake in his voice? “Is sentimentality really that bad?”

She looked at him for a long moment. “I’m not going to try to go against what Gregorio has taught you.”

“But,” she cut off Gyro as he opened his mouth. Despite the exhaustion lacing her shoulders, she kept her head up. “It’s perfectly understandable that you’re upset about this. I know how he is – this is something that he considers essential to maintain the family honour – and..”

It was then that she pressed her lips together, and let her shoulders slump. No longer did she appear imposing; the set of her tremulous expression conveyed the frailty mirrored in Gyro’s very soul. She came over to him, and held him within her arms – and it was all he could do to prevent tears spilling from his eyes.

“What should I do, mamma ?” he whispered into her shoulder hoarsely. He felt vulnerable ; for the first time since he began treading this blood-soaked path, he’d spoken the words aloud.

“Whether you choose to do your duty as a Zeppeli – or as a doctor – know that both paths will bring you honour ,” the words were said so quietly that he wondered if he had imagined the stirring of his hair. “I can’t tell you what to do.”

She drew back and studied the morose expression that had settled on his face. Her dark eyes roved over his features – searching and searching for an answer he wasn’t fully sure of. No , that’s a lie ; he already knew exactly what he was going to do. Maria Zeppeli recognised the look of resolution glinting in her son’s eyes, for her face broke into a serene smile. “Seems that you’ve decided.”

“Yes.”

And that was all he needed to say. Every preparation, every clandestine packing of clothes, every lie that he wrenched from his lips – it wouldn’t be for nothing. I’ll do it . He could see it now; the duty that plagued his heart was the silt marring his clear resolve. For his honour, for justice , he couldn’t bring down the sword on that child.

When she headed from the room, it was only then that he felt the crackle of a newspaper in his palm. Boy given death sentence for treason . Execution in September . And just below that, the familiar loop of his mother’s handwriting along the wrinkled paper – had she gripped it angrily as she wrote? Did her eyes narrow upon seeing those words?

“ I’ll keep my mouth shut about your decision .”

She knew all along.

Babbo, I’m sorry .

. 　⁺ ✦

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