The journey to the Arca Valley on Malta was a mere routine - at least from his perspective. The Amalfi’s jump drive made traveling across Sirius swift and, as far as one could call it, safe. Even more bizarre was the entry of the extensively modified, lightweighted Amalfi into the atmosphere and its near free fall onto the fortified landing pad on the planet’s surface. The inevitable cataclysm and fiery demise were averted solely by the downward-mounted thrusters installed post-production, and the oversized antigravity units that slowed the Amalfi mere moments before it struck the ground, settling it softly as though onto a cushion. That these forces, necessary to brake the ship’s descent, melted the runway surface into ponds of fused glass was regarded as nothing more than a routine aspect of the landing maneuver.
Fiorella de Marco, apart from a brief welcome aboard, was practically out of sight for Damien Morreti during the entire journey, citing her genuine or perhaps concocted need to remain on the bridge. In her stead, two young women kept him company - no less striking in appearance than their hostess, though undoubtedly younger and, to compound Damien’s trials - identical twins. Whether this was yet another of his fiancée’s little games to test his nerves and resolve was anyone’s guess.
* * *
The trip by car to Salvatore De Marco’s hacienda felt considerably more relaxed, unburdened by endless trials, tests, and waiting. Fiorella wore a loose, white silk blouse embroidered with gold thread in innumerable floral patterns, a vividly red sash tied around her waist. Paired with black, similarly embroidered trousers and tall heels.
A host of other vehicles and airborne transports filled the grounds of the hacienda, as the entire family had gathered. Children and teenagers wandered about in clusters, while groups of adults stood together, sharing cigars or cigarettes - animatedly discussing everything from interstellar trade to fruit and vegetable cultivation, debating the flight characteristics of various ships, or endlessly philosophizing about the nature and thought processes of their wives.
This was her world, her family. Innumerable uncles, aunts, and other relatives. Without hesitation, she introduced Damien to every single one, unconsciously obliging him to memorize a whole host of faces, voices, and names. For this, any Outcast would kill without a second thought. Family was sacred.
“I had an ice cellar built here, in case you wished to feel at home, Caro Mio.”
Her eyes shone, as though the entire gathering filled her with a contagious, uplifting energy. Everyone around seemed to share in this spirit. It was warm and unguarded, softening her customary reserve.
By now Damien was used to this sort of thing. For whatever reason his "other" was intent on placing him in the same room as attractive women and just leaving him there on his own. He'd of course made it fairly obvious that he would prefer just his partner's company, but evidently this game was something she enjoyed playing. Maybe it was something she did to prove to others that she had chosen well. Maybe it was just to sate her own insecurities about marrying outside the culture-group.
It really didn't matter. But it was a shame she was making excuses to be elsewhere. So harmless banter with the twins would have to do for the time being. "Be honest. Have you ever pretended to be the other twin to escape an awkward situation? Or to escape a lecture from your parents? What's the easiest way for people to tell you apart?"
He was bored and so he was going to make it their problem by asking dozens, and dozens of questions until they were eventually at their destination. The thought of taking a brief nap even crossed his mind but he could never quite settle down enough to do it. Seeing "Virga" again was proving to be nerve wracking, time just seemed to keep slipping away, and he was sure that one day he'd blink and see a grown woman instead of the little girl he knew now.
These thoughts soured his mood for a time. And he was only able to put the feeling aside when the intercom system announced that they had finally landed and could disembark when ready. Opting for a temperately inclined variation of his dress uniform, a thinner single layered crisp white shirt, gray trousers that neatly tucked into his shoes, and a bespoke red sash that ran down from his left shoulder through the belt and then back up again. The apex and most visible section of it bore his personal insignia this time rather than the combined iconography he'd opted for during his last visit.
He even invited comments on the outfit from his "attendants" when finally emerging from the bathroom after readying himself. But despite that he didn't linger and left soon after in to finally meet the reason he was here.
***
Introductions and occasions of this sort were very much the sort of thing that Damien took to quite naturally. While his worldview was definitely twisted, his ability at making conversation, or a positive impression couldn't be understated. He kept good pace with the handshakes, polite introductions, and then kept an accurate mental note of names and quirks of the people he was being cycled through. Still, he appreciated the sudden breather as Fiorella turned to talk to him personally a short distance away from the crowd.
"Thoughtful of you. But you didn't have to go through so much trouble. It's enough for me to just be alone together." Instinctively, and from a place of affection, he brushed her upper right arm, while a portion of his attentiveness kept vigil over the rest of the room.
Damien was practically the only man in uniform - everyone else had chosen solid-colored or vividly patterned shirts, often worn with a certain bohemian flair and a few top buttons undone. Indeed, one could argue these shirts formed their own sort of uniform, and it was Damien who stood out.
Just at that moment, Fiorella offered a polite nod in greeting to a few distant relatives, waving at them with a discreet yet radiant smile before turning her attention back to her fiancé.
“We shall have plenty of time for privacy later, Caro Mio. The journey was a long one, and there is a veritable mountain of food that must be eaten. Pick something you fancy.”
With a slight gesture, she encouraged him to walk some distance ahead, where several tables were laden with bowls and platters of freshly prepared snacks, salads, both sliced and whole fruits, as well as an assortment of vegetables. Of course, there were also jugs and casks filled with local wines, juices, ciders, meads, teas, and the occasional light beer. The entire setup felt spontaneous and unstructured, as though each individual had brought whatever they wished to share with the rest of the family.
Fiorella reached for a dark, almost blood-red fruit that resembled an apple. Its peel gleamed like polished metal, reflecting the light like a mirror. With her first bite, she revealed the brightly yellow, juicy flesh inside.
“Mmm, this is simply divine. Zio Antonio devoted his life to cultivating fruit - he spent nearly nine decades in his orchards and greenhouses.”
Even a simple act such as biting into a piece of fruit appeared inhuman, nearly alien, when carried out by her. Although the fruit was not always in her direct line of sight, she seemed instinctively aware of its precise location and how much remained, executing each movement with measured fluidity. She studied him intently with her dark brown eyes, then, pausing between bites, added:
“I have a gift for you, one I made with my own hands. Do you wish to see it?”
He had no idea what he was eating half the time, but did make sure to explore a fair few options in order to be respectful, while of course sating the fact he was genuinely hungry. When it came to the drinks on offer, she was already familiar with his peculiar preferences, eventually turning to find him nursing a cup of tea in one hand and a mostly eaten fruit in the other that seemed to vanish once her head was turned.
He seemed confused for a moment. "A gift? Wh- What is it?" The genuine anticipation that briefly flashed was restrained soon after he heard it in his own voice because he didn't want to seem pathetic and overly eager to know.
It was at about this point that she could perhaps begin to see a few cracks in an otherwise pristine facade. The truth that he was beginning to feel overwhelmed by his environment. These weren't the inconsequential nobodies that he was used to. The high society snobs that could be relegated to something as redundant as an afterthought. Everyone here considered everyone else in the room to be family. And they were giving him no indication that he was excluded from that category.
Quite the contrary.
That begged the question, but she'd have to ask it.
She gave no reply, merely gesturing toward the white-plastered building at the center of the estate, its shape reminiscent of a modest palace. Then she pressed on ahead. On their way, they passed a small group of children who cast Damien surprised glances, giggled, and ran off. Two of them even saluted, though it was likely part of a make-believe game.
Yet there was someone who noticed the newcomer and did not welcome him. As they neared the main entrance, a deep, resonant growl sounded, and a steel-gray wolfhound - easily a meter tall at the shoulder - charged straight toward him. Before Damien could act, Fiorella moved in an instant, letting out a hiss like an irate feline as she seized the running dog by its collar and forced it to the ground, pinning him there with her full weight. The momentum of the dog nearly made her lose her balance, and the stone path bore the imprint of her heels. Her reaction was swift, dangerously so. There was nothing remotely human about it. No matter how fearsome a dog of that size could be, he was not the most dangerous creature here.
“Dante, be still.”
She spoke his name clearly and calmly; the next words came slow and measured. She maintained her gaze upon the dog while keeping the big animal firmly in place, not allowing it so much as a centimeter of movement.
“Dante, calm yourself. Calm.”
Something else spread through the air, far more contagious than simple words. It attempted to infiltrate his being, to dull his senses - or to confuse him, perhaps. Nerve endings could sense it, but it was as fleeting as it was careful. With focus, one could cause it to recede, yet it never truly vanished. It remained aware, waiting for its opportunity.
Dante kept his eyes locked on Damien, but he no longer bared his teeth. His breathing slowed, and soon enough, his tongue lolled out. Fiorella allowed him to stand, though her arms still encircled the imposing wolfhound - one wrapped around his chest, the other around his neck, just beneath his jaw. It looked protective, almost loving, yet she undoubtedly had him under absolute control.
“My apologies, Damien. I had not realized that Dante did not know you, yet. Allow him to catch your scent, so he can remember you as one of his own pack.”
Fiorella's tone was gentle, but the tension still reverberated through the air. Her alien apple was now laying in the grass, discarded and unimportant.
With his senses alerted, his mind put itself on guard, rebuking an apparent trespass before it could achieve anything at all. It might even produce a peculiar sense of feedback for the person causing it.
"Hello." While unafraid despite the very real prospect of getting mauled to death a few seconds ago, Damien did move slowly when kneeling to offer the dog his hand, a slight bow of the head also accompanied this gesture. No doubt wanting to not seem aggressive and in an ideal circumstance come across as friendly. Though that wasn't going to stop banter from being a thing. "Better be protecting my daughter." He said, as if addressing a soldier in a war camp.
She uttered the words almost absentmindedly as Dante finally took in Damien’s scent. From her expression, it was not entirely clear whether her praise was intended for the wolfhound or for her fiancé as her face offered no definite answer.
Once it was apparent that no bloodshed would ensue, she released Dante and patted his side. The large hound rumbled contentedly and decided to follow, tongue lolling and tail wagging.
Upon entering the house, Fiorella made sure to tidy herself up in the foyer mirror, erasing any trace of the earlier scuffle. The few unruly strands of hair once again disappeared behind her ear, and she adjusted her blouse so that it sat perfectly on her shoulders. Only then, at least in her view, was it suitable to continue deeper into the residence. She led them to one of many ground-floor side rooms containing a large wooden table. Resting neatly on its polished surface lay three silk shirts - white, gray, and black - each embroidered in crimson thread with patterns resembling snakeskin scales, and bearing a distinct King Cobra motif on the back. A closer look revealed minuscule imperfections in the embroidered designs, suggesting the hand that stitched and sewed them did not belong to a professional seamstress. Surprisingly thick, the shirts’ outer and inner layers were silk, hiding a warmer, heavier fabric sandwiched between them. Polished mineral buttons matched the colors of the fabric itself.
“I have sewn these shirts for you. They should prove warmer than they might appear at first glance. Cambridge linen is greatly praised for its ability to insulate in cold weather and cool in the heat.”
A certain tension ran through her posture, heightened by how keenly she studied his reaction in that moment. Were she anyone but Fiorella de Marco, one might suspect a hint of modesty or uncertainty beneath her calm exterior. Could she truly experience such emotions? The spell was broken only by Dante’s panting as he circled around the table before returning to the pair.
He didn't say anything at first. Taking his time to look over the three shirts designed to fall into his established dress code. In particular, he picked up the white version, letting it drape over his arm for a moment. With a careful motion he flipped it over and let it slip over his open hand before splaying his fingers. This brought the emblem on the back into clear view for him to inspect and run his other hand over. And while his now iconic insignia was designed by someone else, this version struck him in ways the original could not.
Eventually he did put the shirt down before turning around to face Fiorella. He seemed unsure of what to say, but appeared to be feeling a certain way about the nature of the gift he had just been given. It was a shame then that she couldn't see over the wall his mind refused to let down. A fortress that could not be assailed by her gift despite even a concerted and focused effort.
But there was a simpler way than words and thoughts. And that was what brought him forward the few paces required to hold his partner's face in his hands and just look. It was unclear if he was looking for something or might say something now. But every passing second seemed to indicate that just looking was in fact the sole intent.
He didn't need to say anything to be understood. And he'd waited a lifetime to have that.
At a touch, her skin felt soft and youthful, belying her four decades of life. A faint layer of matte, translucent cream still protected her face - a measure she used whenever she traveled beyond Malta’s familiar air. All Outcasts learned, in their own ways, to cope with the perpetual dryness sensation of skin and throat; some simply endured it, but for her generation, it became too burdensome. She never once complained to him - she was not that sort of woman - yet her meticulous daily skincare routine on Houston or Manhattan must have been taxing indeed. It was almost a curse for all the extraordinary gifts her had been given.
In response to his gesture, she cupped his face in her hands. Her long fingers, capable of being firm and unyielding as the talons of a fierce monster, were now gentle and soothing. Resting her forehead against his, she closed her eyes in a wordless moment of mutual understanding. Likely, she had no desire for grand or showy gestures such as a kiss. Her demonstrations of affection were always more reserved than what one sees in the popular media; sometimes, quietly sharing a moment was all she truly needed.
“You may wear them as often as you wish - they are not meant for special occasions only. Once you have worn them awhile and shared your impressions, I shall make you more.”
She spoke softly, not quite in a whisper. Beyond him, any would-be eavesdropper in the next room would have heard nothing. Except for Dante, of course, who stood watching the embracing pair. He hardly comprehended their conversation, but their contented appearance sufficed for him to wag his tail, sharing in their moment of calm delight.
An emphatic nod followed her words. "I'll wear it often." There was a melancholy behind a statement as simple as that. She was obviously missed during their frequent time apart, but all the same the gift was appreciated, and served as a consolation in light of that fact.
Still, he wanted to linger like this for a few moments longer, but did make the move to slowly withdraw his hands and step back. He was calmer now, as if something was off his shoulders. There was no certainty for how long that would last. But it was enough to simply feel this way at all.
Looking to the side and seeing the comically large dog spurred on a mild bit of risk taking. Prompting Damien to kneel and face the hound, offering his hand again, but this time as an invitation to approach and be entitled to a scratch of the head. They would have to be friends now, and at least with animals this process proved less complicated. Still, he made sure to not come across as overly eager or encroaching on space and allowed the dog to make a decision for himself.