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crimsongodss · 5 years ago

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BASIC INFORMATION

Full name: Juliet Leon

Age: 32

Gender: Cisfemale, she/her

Sexual orientation: Probably Heterosexual

Birthday: August 11th

Zodiac: Leo

Hogwarts House: Gryffindor

Personality type: ESTP - The Entrepreneur

Affiliation: The Chicago Police Department

Occupation: Interim Superintendent of Police, former Marshal (discharged)

Current Residence: Lives the Leon house.

Financial Status: Middle class

Education Level: Undergraduate Degree in Psychology. Graduate Degree in Criminology

Familial Connections of Note: Of The Leon Family. Adoptive child of the recently deceased superintendent.

Pets: one gray / silver cat named Sylvia.

TRIGGERS: death, violence, cops

OVERVIEW

A cop who is just a little too trigger happy. Used to work as a marshal, but got let go from that position a few years ago after shooting down her biological father because of a personal vendetta. Her adoptive father (a Leon) was able to get her a job on the Chicago force as deputy superintendent. Juliet’s an old west gunslinger who’s been born into a different era. Above all she’s about putting bad guys behind bars and protecting good people.

She was recently promoted to Interim Superintendent of Police after the last one (her adoptive father) was, you know, unjustly executed by the gangs.

BACKGROUND

Her father was a Voloshyn and that meant he was a part of the Ukrainian mafia that existed in a certain corner of the world. Her mother? Didn’t live in this corner. Alice Shepherd had been planning on leaving Alexi Voloshyn for quite some time and when she became pregnant, she decided there was no point in waiting any longer. She fled to her childhood home in Chicago, where she planned to have her children.

When Alice passed away during childbirth, with no father in the picture, twins Juliet and Julian were placed into foster care. They were ultimately adopted by the Leons.

Chicago was a decent enough place to grow up. Like any city, it had its dark underbelly. The Leons did her best to keep both Julian and Juliet away from it, but the two grew up a part of the city as much as anyone else. It’s where Juliet picked her first fight, had her first kiss, got drunk for the first time. And Julian? He was her best friend.

Alexi re-entered the children’s lives when they were 12, and both children were ecstatic to get to know their birth farther. However, it was evident right from the start that Alexi was interesting in getting to know his son and had little to no interest in his daughter.

Juliet, of course, was bitter about this. But she did her best to swallow those feelings.

Things changed once more when the twins turned 18. Summer break rolled around and, all of a sudden, Julian was whisked off with Alexi to spend the summer in Odessa. Since Julian was officially an adult, there’s not much their adoptive parents could do in response to this. Every summer after that was the same. Julian would leave in the dead of night and Juliet would get left behind. This went on for three years. It became increasingly obvious before long that Alexi was grooming Julian to step into his shoes. Juliet hated this. Every August, Julian would return just in time for university to start with nothing but a “It was fine” as a reply to Juliet’s “Well? How was it?”

And then, the her summer of senior year at college, Julian just didn’t come back.

News sources eventually revealed that Julian’s body had been found at the scene of shootout - and Alexi’s was conveniently missing. While this was technically inconclusive, any sadness Juliet had for her brother’s death was swept away with the resounding notion that her father was a fucking coward.

Juliet joined the CPD fresh out of college and quickly climbed the ladder to the rank of deputy sheriff.

She continued on up, leaving for the state department and eventually landing in the federal sector. She spent some time as a firearms instructor in Glynco, Georgia at the U.S. Marshal’s training center before she became a full-blown Marshal herself.

During her time with the Marshal’s service, Juliet was assigned to several different field offices across the U.S. She gained a reputation for being trigger happy and was thus stationed in increasingly remote stations. (It seemed she was still, in many ways, her father’s daughter.)

But one winter, when Juliet caught whiff that one Alexi Voloshyn was making the journey from the Port of Odessa to the Port of New Orleans, Juliet caught the first flight she could to Louisiana.

CUT TO: two weeks later. Juliet. Run out of New Orleans by the Ukrainian mob for publicly killing Alexi Voloshyn.

Juliet has been lying relatively low in in Chicago ever since the incident five years ago at the insistence of her U.S. Marshal Chief and her adoptive father. The Leons with their influence on the CPD, were able to get her a position on the force though her father was insistent that she work under him in a more administrative position.

Juliet, of course, hated this. But being halfway in was better than being all the way out.

Juliet eventually worked her way up to deputy Superintendent of Police.

PRESENT DAY

After serving as deputy Superintendent of Police, Juliet was recently promoted to Interim Superintendent of Police at the Chicago Police Department after her adoptive father/boss was UNJUSTLY EXECUTED BY THE GANGS.

Criminals infest the city and Juliet has done her best to stay above it. She has a rigid view of most things. While others see the world in shades of grey, she sees it in shades of black and white.

OTHER

JUST GINNY WEASLEY MAYBE?

hardcore Gryffindor aesthetic

an old-west gunslinger born into a different era

trigger happy

deep seeded anger towards the criminal underworld of this city. All about putting bad people behind bars and protecting good people.

holds a mother-fucking grudge like no other.

crime never sleeps and neither does she.

Has a smile like the sun. has often been described as cheeky.

has a good head for criminology

loves being active, hates being bored. big on team sports and camping

is always down for a game of pool

has a heart for adventure and travel

is a hugger

bit of a daredevil, will do stupid shit while drunk

natural flirt

listen to her podcast! follow her on soundcloud!

WANTED

Debts! - Did Alexi owe your gang member a debt? Congrats! Juliet now owes YOU. Have fun with that.

Former friends, exes, frenemies - Maybe she lost touch with them, maybe she didn’t. If your character grew up in Chicago, there’s the chance they knew each other. Maybe they had sleepovers, maybe they were childhood enemies, maybe they dated. Bonus points if they lead lifestyles she disapproves of now! (open)

Hate-sex - they hate it but they gotta get it on. (open)

Drinking buddies - dear god, Juliet consumes so much whiskey. (open)

The Hunted - they’ve crossed paths in the past and she’s got a vendetta against them (open)

Ex-husband - He joined the criminal underworld. She left him. Simple as that. (open)

Co-worker - Other police department friends. (open)

#UPDATED majorly here we gooo o #crimson.intro #LOL

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onceabluemoonwrites · 7 years ago

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Hallelujah - Chapter 1: Sunday Child (Complete)

Summary: ‘’There is blood on Giotto’s hands; The type you can’t scrub off.

The first had gone down with a thud. The second with a howl. He didn’t keep count after the third. Giotto hates himself; The ease with which he ended lives makes him sick to his stomach.

(He had been in a haze while killing, but he’s certain: He intended to do it)’’

Giotto’s life: A tale of loss, love, religion, betrayal and learning to love yourself.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Katekyo Hitman Reborn.

FF.net | AO3 | Tumblr: 1, 2, 3, 4

My fic master list here.

‘’The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.’’

- Proverb

Chapter 1: Sunday Child

Giotto is born with a smile on his face, his wails joyous instead of upset. His aunt laughs and claps in her hands. ‘’Maria, hear, hear! He’s not even Christened yet and already singing hallelujah!’’

His mother strokes his nose and sighs happily. ‘’A blessed Sunday child, don’t you think?’’

They walk to the church singing, the baby nestled in the crook of Maria’s arms.

‘’Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace, Wednesday's child is full of woe, Thursday's child has far to go, Friday's child is loving and giving, Saturday's child works hard for a living, And the child born on the Sabbath day Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.’’¹

Their small, seaside town is not a kind one. They live on crime-riddled streets and poverty is a disease no-one can cure. Maria manages to feed her son, and while not necessarily becoming a beacon of strength, the boy grows willowy and hardy.

They need the money, so Giotto begins to work the minute he can, just like the other children his age. His hands become rough and his skin darkens in the sun, but his wild hair doesn’t lose its shine. Nor do his eyes, and his mouth always has a smile left to give. He’s a pretty boy, a dangerous thing to be in the darkest corners of the streets. But sunlight is free and even the sea becomes a black hole at night, only to sparkle when dawn breaks once again. Giotto doesn’t mind. Pretty boys learn to punch twice as hard, as far as he is concerned, so it evens out.

Maria watches with uneasy eyes, but he knows what he’s doing. ‘’Don’t worry, mama! I only fight in defence! I won’t shame the Lord’s teachings of love!’’

His eyes sing hallelujah.

Maria lets him go with a heavy heart, watching her son run off again. He uses violence as a means, but only when there is no other way. He is kind, generous, not afraid to defend others as readily as he defends himself.

He is good, there is no question about it, but Maria remembers being good doesn’t come without a price. She’s afraid of the day it will cost his smile.

It arrives when he fifteen.

He’s out with that gang of his, a red-head on either side and their comrades in arms behind them. He comes home with blood on his hands and hollow eyes. But still, hoarsely it falls from his lips: ‘’Hallelujah, mama. Hallelujah.’’

It scares her witless and she stares at the scratched kitchen table for a long, long time. The clock ticks on the wall, as a shadow falls upon her heart.

Where has her Sunday child gone?

Giotto is thirteen when he meets Cozart. He likes him. He’s steadfast, calm and confident, a mischievous smile in the shadow of his black cap. His hair is fiery red and his passion is just as great.

They team up, together with Giotto’s best friend G, to help out the people in their neighbourhood.

They’re fourteen when it isn’t enough anymore. The crime is not just stolen goods now. The outlaws are hurting people and the police are no help at all. Giotto is afraid that if they don’t do something, there will be no one left to save.

Then Franco is beaten up in front of their eyes and Giotto can’t take it anymore. ‘’I refuse to sit around quietly, watching as they take our town!’’

It happens in the middle of a bustling street.

Cozart is the one who voices their thoughts. ‘’We could be vigilantes.’’

Giotto clenches his fists and nods. ‘’If no one else will help us, then we’ve got to defend the town ourselves. However, governing that kind of group will require great leadership. And rain, nor storm, nor sun will be able to keep us away, once we have that. Just like the sky.’’

The group shuffles around, silent, shooting each other unsure looks until Cozart speaks up again. ‘’Giotto, there’s no one but you.’’

Giotto swallows. He doesn’t condone violence, but there’s a fire burning in him, so he straightens his shoulder and meets Cozart’s gaze. ‘’All right,’’ he says, ‘’All right.’’

With those words, he creates the Vongola, Cozart the first to trust Giotto with his life. Responsibility has never felt heavier.

They fight the monsters on the streets, darkness cloaking their youthful features. They’re only fifteen, but rule a reign of terror. They steal their enemies’ supplies, knocking them out before they know what’s happening. Their invisibility creates a bloodcurdling reputation.

After their latest raid, they sleep in a warehouse. Giotto wakes up with the smell of smoke invading his nose, Cozart, warm beside him, still asleep. Flames lick at the door opening, the heat unbearable. The air is thin and the world is spinning.

He shakes Cozart and G. ‘’Wake up!’’

‘’Wazzit- Fire?!’’

Giotto’s eyes dart around. Where is the exit? No, they’ll have to take the window.

The three boys have to crawl, but they get there. Giotto swings his legs over the ledge. The ground is awfully far away. He swallows, eyes darting from the splintered frame beneath his hands to the street stones far below. But G and Cozart already jumped and a broken leg is nothing next to dying. He takes the leap.

They watch the house go up in flames, G holding Giotto up. His ankle is swollen. The bad landing got him good. It hurts, but it’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.

The roof collapses and G shakes his head. ‘’It wasn’t an accident,’’

Cozart swears.

Giotto clenches his fists. The fire had spread too fast for a building made of stone. They should’ve known.

The worst thing is that Giovanni can’t miss this warehouse. He tries to support the Vongola however he can, but letting them sleep there was risky already. Now all his wares have gone up in flames. It’s cruel, but then again, that’s the reason the Vongola exists in the first place.

Protecting the town from the outlaws is a- Giotto’s eyes widen.

‘’Giovanni is in danger!’’ He wasn’t sure if the enemy was aware of their identities. But they knew Giovanni was their supporter if the fire was any indication.

Giotto’s gut burns as they run towards Giovanni’s house, his ankle throbbing. The shouts are already audible.

There is a body on the pavement. Its stomach is torn open, still bleeding, the face turned away. It’s Giovanni. Could he still- the glassy eyes take all hope away. It’s a corpse.

G bows over it. ‘’Looks like it was his liver.’’

Giotto closes his eyes. A painful death. Giovanni must have lain there for at least twenty minutes before he succumbed. Stomach wounds are always nasty. The deeper cuts leave the victim unable to walk; The few minutes they have left are spent under their attacker’s mercy².

‘’Any other obvious wounds?’’

‘’Broken fingers. Looks like they kicked him while he was down.’’

Giotto wants to scream, the smell of gunpowder in the air. He is furious, has never felt so much resolve to stop this madness before. It burns his veins, travelling towards his hands and head, where it makes its presence known.

Giovanni’s wife and daughter are nowhere to be seen, but little Rosina’s doll is still lying next to her father. They were taken.

His dying will bursts free.

He bursts through the door, fire blazing. His nerves are tingling, but his ankle doesn’t feature. It isn’t numb; He just doesn’t feel it.

He’s completely zoomed in on his goal, hyper-aware.

The air smells like dirt and he is only keeping the cold at bay with the flames burning on his hands and forehead. A little girl is screaming.

He sees Lucia first. She’s covering her daughter with her body, snapping at the cutthroats cornering them. Her upper lip lifts into an animalistic snarl, but her limbs are shaking.

Of the two parties, only one has a knife. It’s not Lucia.

Giotto moves.

It’s impossible to keep his identity secret after rescuing Rosina and Lucia. Lucia doesn’t talk, silent as the grave, but Rosina is too small to understand and before the morning sun rises, everyone knows.

He walks the street and they sing Hallelujah. His name is on the lips of everyone in town.

Their eyes follow him. ‘’Vongola’s leader.’’

He passes the bakery, but all he can smell is the dock’s rotting fish.

There is blood on his hands, the type you can’t scrub off.

The first had gone down with a thud. The second with a howl. He didn’t keep count after the third. Giotto hates himself; The ease with which he ended lives makes him sick to his stomach. His footsteps echo.

(He had been in a haze while killing, but he’s certain: He intended to do it)

They put a mantle on his shoulders, crowning him like a King, just as Cozart did when he laid down his life in Giotto’s hands.

He manages to make it home before puking on the dirt floor, orange meeting brown. It’s disgusting and the world spins. The flames were orange too.

He grabs his hair and pulls, but the sour taste doesn’t go away, and neither does the memory of Lucia’s shrill voice after he slit her attackers’ throats.

There was fear in her eyes.

Is this what he’s become?

G sighs when he discovers Giotto on the floor.

‘’C’mon,’’ He hauls his friend up and drags him to bed.

Giotto nuzzles the pillow. G pulls up the sheets and tucks him in. It’s all no-nonsense, routine, but the hand on the brunet’s forehead isn’t.

“A fever. Figures.”

Giotto peers at him from underneath the blanket.

‘’I wouldn’t know what to do without you.’’

‘’Yeah, you would be pretty lost.’’

This is who they are, friends looking out for each other.

‘’We have to talk about the flames.’’ It’s been four days, and G is done avoiding the subject.

Giotto’s mouth is dry. Cozart is silent beside him, melting into the shadows of the rocks along the coast. There’s sand in his hair and Giotto’s hands twitch. He wants for nothing more than to reach out and brush through Cozart’s red strands. The butterflies in his stomach would distract him from the conversation.

He bites his lip; It tastes like salt. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Doesn’t want to face his screaming nightmares of fearful eyes and flames. Flames everywhere. He snorts. His feelings for Cozart are the least of his problems now.

A seagull cries in the distance.

G clicks his tongue. ‘’Do you think you could use them again?’’

Giotto stiffens. ‘’You don’t mean that.’’

‘’We need that power, Giotto. This is a war we can’t win. We’re three boys with what? Ten other men backing us? We should be thanking our goddamn lucky stars that Giovanni’s the only corpse among us yet!’’

Giotto turns to the other redhead. ‘’Cozart?’’

‘’We’re out in the open now, Gio. My aunt’s been getting threats and I bet your family received a fair share of their own.’’

He closes his eyes. This can’t be what the Lord meant the world to be when He created it. The Lord has plans divine; Giotto doesn’t know if he’s included in them, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do something about it. He has killed, he doesn’t have the privileges of the innocent anymore.

‘’Giotto, there’s no one but you.’’

He clenches his fists and squares his shoulders. ‘’If I try hard enough, I may be able to produce more.’’

They call them Sky flames, and rain, nor storm, nor the sun can keep the Vongola away.

Their enemies call them the demons and cross themselves to ban out evil. But the Vongola do not dissolve for they are no devils.

Angels, the people call them, Guardian Angels. Heavenly fire blesses them, flame burning on the forehead and on the hands, occasionally even on the feet. A cross.

‘’In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’’

It feels wrong when people say so. Giotto knows he is doing the right thing by protecting them, but he is a murderer. He has killed and for all the forgiveness the Lord may be willing to grant, he cannot forgive himself.

Cozart has to go back to his parents every spring but often returns to them in winter³. Years glide by and the Vongola grows. Knuckle, a learned man who was once a priest and Asari, a foreign nobleman looking to acquire a trading route, join the upper ranks. They are even assisted by another group once in a while, led by a tall, blond Frenchman.

They discover there is more than one flame. A range of colours emerge, but Giotto is the only one who bears the Sky flame. They call them after weather phenomena, whatever suits the flame the best. G has a red variant, which disintegrates everything it touches.

‘’You don’t need a flame for that,’’ Giotto grins one evening in front of the fireplace. ‘’Your raised eyebrow alone makes your subordinates wither.’’

G snorts and pulls his beer closer, tapping the moisture-mark covered table. ‘’If only it would pulverize that ego of yours.’’

Cozart bites his lip and turns away, but his shoulders are shaking with laughter. His cheeks apple and Giotto is drunk on his wine eyes.

Warmth spreads from his gut and Giotto’s face burns, tingly all over. But in the corner of his eye, he sees a mess of dark hair and flinches.

(He remembers them being dragged away; men kissing men⁴. To jail, some said. To be butchered, others whispered. Disgusting, some screamed.

The pavement colouring red.

He’d been small, then, but the half-moon scars of nails digging into his palms remain an everlasting reminder)

Hiding it from Knuckle was no use. Knuckle is a holy man, one who serves God. And Giotto… Giotto loves Cozart, with his wide jaw, red hair, narrow hips and chapped lips. A man. Sometimes he thinks Cozart might love him too, but that can’t be.

Especially not when Knuckle meets him in the chapel the next day and says: ‘’Man shall not lay with man as he does with woman⁵.’’

Sunlight streams through the stained-glass windows and colour pools through the room.

It strikes Giotto to the heart. His love for Cozart goes against the word of the Lord and Giotto feels so terribly guilty for betraying Him, even if only in thought. But he never apologizes, because it’s love, the most beautiful thing in the world, and he won’t deny it.

He understands why, but some part of him still feels betrayed, abandoned and hurt at the thought of his friend forsaking him for something so natural and good as love.

He opens his mouth, ready to defend himself, fists clenched, but Knuckle holds up a hand. ‘’It means either must be equal. Man cannot be woman, woman cannot be man. Love is what the Lord lives for, his ultimate goal.’’

He rests easier that night.

A young noblewoman comes to him, bringing her lover with her. They don’t fit in and that is why they suit the Vongola. By now Giotto has figured out nobody fits in with the Vongola because they’re too diverse and unique. He likes it that way. Elena and Daemon do too.

Elena is optimistic but sly. Her partner might be a cynic, but he is also cunning and believes in the Vongola with his whole heart, complimenting her as always. Daemon doesn’t look at Elena with moon eyes, but only because it’s obvious to him that she must’ve hung it in the sky.

Giotto can’t help but smile at them.

‘’What are they?’’

The blue haired woman laughed. ‘’A present. Or maybe a curse. It will depend on what you will do with it. I can see the future, but the future depends on choices. I trust you to make the right ones, Vongola!’’

Giotto swallows, looking down at the ring on his hand. No, he wants to say, I can’t carry this, but as always, he hesitates too long. When he lifts his head, she’s gone.

She’s a strange woman, Shaman Sepira.

They’ve been training their men for a long time, each of the inner circle having their own division, though everyone ultimately answers to Giotto. They’re good men, but the Vongola grows and grows and grows until one day, Giotto looks at his division and thinks: I don’t know that face. I don’t know her name.

I don’t know my men.

…

Are they good men, these strangers?

Dear Cozart,

Are you well?

I have

I am

The other day

I’m not.

He tries to reach out, but the words don’t come. A thousand crossed out notes, but all the same heading. And eventually, when the words do flow, he stares at the finished letter.

It contains: I love you, I need you, helpmeIamsoafraid.

He’s never told Cozart his awkward manners melt his insides, that his sleeping face ties his tongue and that the way he puts his thumbs in his pockets makes Giotto ache with desire to kiss his broad lips.

He sits down and rests his forehead on the table, arms next to it, dread heavy in his stomach. God, he is a coward.

He never sends the letter.

Giotto walks in on the incident in the middle of the street in broad daylight. They’re holding a little boy up in the air, laughing, taunting him. ‘’Ready to give us your money, kid? Wouldn’t want anything to happen to your little brother, would you?’’

The older boy, held back by two thugs, struggles, elbowing backwards. He hits the shoulder joint. The captor on the right recoils and the boy jerks arm free, punching the man still holding on to him. The left captor doesn’t let go, but his face contorts in anger. ‘’You’ll regret that, pal.’’

It happens in a flash.

The thug has flames on his hands, dying will flames, but he loses control and the red, red, red Storm flames eat the boy like acid.

Giotto burns, is there before he knows it, and throws the man off the teen. The boy’s face has melted, his arms and ribs eaten away. The smell of burning flesh is spreading, but so are the storm flames and it might be too late for the older brother, but the younger is still alive. Giotto snatches the crying boy up, but the flames are everywhere and he has nowhere to go and- The ring unlocks and Giotto finds the power to stop it all.

Afterwards, when the danger is gone, Giotto stares down at his hands again, bile rising up in his throat.

The rings are weapons.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it. The boy is still there, his bottom lip trembling and his wide, brown eyes brimming with tears and something Giotto recognizes, but can’t name. He needs comfort. Someone to still his shaking limbs.

‘’The bad men are gone now.’’ Giotto reaches out, but a woman in the crowd snatches the boy away, protectively hiding him behind her.

Her eyes narrow, ‘’No they aren’t. You are still here, Lucifer.’’

The crowd gasps and cross themselves, but no one protests.

Giotto frowns, eyes darting around. What- oh. The dying will flames. The knowledge had leaked to some criminal families and Giotto had assumed… But no.

The men he’d just defeated? Those were from his own godforsaken division and he hadn’t even noticed until she spat it in his face.

In a daze, Giotto turns around and walks home, hand touching his throat, eyes unseeing. His bedroom door falls closed with a thud. His hand slides down to his chest, and his fingers splay over his breastbone.

Lucifer was an angel before he fell, but he became the devil nonetheless.

His nails dig into his skin.

He remembers now. The boy’s eyes reflected Lucia’s, as they were all those years ago. Fear. He had become someone to be feared.

Giotto’s mind and heart tear.

(Nobody hears his screams that night because Giotto has lost the ability to release those long ago. He is utterly silent as he falls apart. It’s terrifying, in the way of a soundless newborn. And isn’t it? The Vongola ended an innocent life. How can he live with himself?

He cries himself to sleep)

‘’The future depends on choices. I trust you to make the right ones, Vongola!’’

When he wakes, he knows.

‘’I’m disbanding our military forces.’’

He seals the rings.

Footnotes

1. Monday’s Child is a popular nursery rhyme, I did not write it myself. You can find more information on it here.

2. On the liver: this is factually correct, as far as I could find.

3. ‘’Cozart has to go back to his parents every spring but often returns to them in winter.’’ In chapter 308 of the manga, we see a flashback in which Giotto and Cozart meet for the first time. Cozart mentions that he is in Giotto’s town because he is visiting his grandfather. I took this to mean that he had family there, which he usually visited for a few months, before going back home to his parents.

4. ‘’He remembers them being dragged away; men kissing men. To jail, some said. To be butchered, others whispered. Disgusting, some screamed.’’

From what I could find, Italy in the 1800’s had a relatively friendly attitude towards homosexuality, but for the sake of the story, and the fact that I wanted Giotto to confront the fact that his society does not accept his sexuality (as many queer people face today), I chose to dismiss this.

5. On the ‘’Man shall not lay with man as he lays with woman’’ conversation between Knuckle and Giotto: this is a sentence in the Bible, which has MUCH discussion about it on its actual meaning and the exact translation. What Knuckle says about it is not entirely correct (or, at least, a really REALLY shortened version of one of the explanations).

You can find some more information on it here: 1, 2.

To see more perspectives, you can simply search for the sentence on google.

Author’s Note

For anyone wondering when this story is set: I put Giotto’s lifetime somewhere around 1800. Most of my research for this fic was specifically set to this era. It is, however, hard to find information sometimes, never mind double checking them, so please keep in mind that not everything will be factually correct. Most of the biggest artistic licenses I knowingly took I will address in my author’s notes.

I’m planning on weekly updates for this story. There are four chapters in total!

I want to thank @i-w-p-chan for being here with me from the beginning, @operaeagleicelynlacelett for reading and commenting on my work, as well @ladyhallen , for reading and commenting, as well helping me with the quotes for each chapter! Next to that, I want to thank the Meet Me in the Pit Crew as a whole for their endless support and love!

Also, @operaeagleicelynlacelett wrote a poem based on this story (but with a different ending) and it is INCREDIBLE. Please go read it! You can find it here!

#khr #giotto #primo gen #cozart simon #fic #OnceABlueMoonWrites fic #fanfiction #fanfic #my posts #hallelujah

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hollywoodjuliorivas · 7 years ago

Link

Don’t take lunacy too seriously

White nationalist groups march with torches last week through the University of Virginia campus in Charlottesville. (Mykal McEldowney/Associated Press)

Garrison Keillor

August 15 at 10:59 AM

Riding on a bus in the middle of the night through Iowa, South Dakota, Nebraska, it’s impressive, the sheer volume of traffic, hour after hour. Tanker trucks and semis and auto carriers, thousands of tons of goods moving to market, like a train of ants carrying leaves to their anthill. Out here, you don’t see the “American carnage” referred to in the inaugural address back in January. Evidently the speaker who portrayed the country as a beached whale and a victim of international conspiracies has now fixed the problems and we’re booming again. Good.

I’m on this bus because I’m living the dream of every 75-year-old American male to travel around with a band and put on shows. People imagine I’m working hard so I get sympathy (poor old guy) even as I’m having the time of my life. To be pitied for three weeks of sheer pleasure: Life doesn’t get better than that.

I am a happy man and I feel a love of country that I could work up into a really bad song, which the country doesn’t need. We have about six very good patriotic songs, including “America” and “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” and the one about the rockets’ red glare, and that’s enough.

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This is freeway America, the land of strip malls and Walmart and economy motels, not scenic postcard America, but I love its bounding vitality and good humor. In the Holiday Inn Express, we line up for the free breakfast of watery oatmeal and generic eggs and nondescript coffee, ignoring the yammer of TV news, and I take an empty seat at a long table and am drawn into a conversation with three women and two men, strangers to me, on classic topics: This Beautiful Summer & The Number of Persons I Know Who’ve Contracted Tick-Borne Disease, How Does One Correct The Bad Parenting of One’s Children, The Misery of Attending One’s Spouse’s Reunion, Hip Replacements I Have Known That Went Bad, Why (Name of Winter Paradise) Is Not What It Used To Be, and so on. The amiable complaints of my age group.

I’m an old Democrat traveling through Republican territory and I feel welcome. Geniality is all around. Nobody mentions You Know Who, the scowly man with projectile eyebrows whose last name sounds like someone dropped a fruitcake on the floor. A bad breakfast among strangers but everyone’s in a good mood or trying to be. I love this. This is America, a congenial country. Welcome, one and all. Respect the rules. Don’t throw food. If you need to be crazy, go out in the woods.

Play Video 1:31What a presidential president would have said the day of the Charlottesville unrest

Using dozens of clips from President Trump's speeches, The Post Editorial Board reimagines his disastrous Aug. 12 address. (Gillian Brockell/The Washington Post)

Over in the Universe Cafe where righteous Democrats gather to eat organic eggs from cooperative chickens, I imagine that you’d hear his name 20 times a minute, like a sump pump, but here, no. Democrats are forever wringing their hands about something they just read a book about, and then last week they got to talk about the parade of certified lunatics in Charlottesville protesting the removal of a statue of Robert E. Lee. As if that were something of lasting significance.

It is more than sad that we have a president whom lunatics look up to as a hero and who tried not to offend them in his statement of semi-condemnation on Saturday that he then, without apology, had to redo on Monday. His cluelessness is a national embarrassment. And it was an ugly, ugly day.

But let us, good people, not grant significance to crazy people. This is a gang of freaks that social media gives the power to unite — in a nation of 323 million, you can Google the secret words and get 700 sociopaths to come to Charlottesville. This is not a meaningful phenomenon. You could also get 700 people who are getting messages from Lucifer through their dental fillings or 700 apocalyptic Episcopalians who know the world will end on Thursday.

The young Teutons who converged are actors in a fantasy, men who got kicked out of Civil War reenactments for overenthusiasm. Maybe we create a special place for them in a wilderness canyon out West where they could goose step and “Sieg Heil,” express their whiteness, feel über Alles, feast on knockwurst, light each other’s Pupser, the whole schmegeggy. Mr. Angry Eyebrows can chopper in and visit them there with his sidekick, Mr. Mask. In 2020, assuming the White House allows an election, let’s get a president who is civil and has a sense of humor. Now go enjoy your breakfast.

Garrison Keillor is an author and radio personality.

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