Before he was Evan, he was Leo

Written by Jack for character development of The Evangelist

Chapter 1: Before he was Evan he was Leo, and his nights were full of the rhythmic thwacking of a cane against his back.

He grew of course. And then it was him holding the cane, and his hands were stained with blood.

Blood he could never wash away. Chapter 2: On the fourth of may, 1699 a baby was left on the doorstep of a small monastery outside Rome. It had no blanket, and was not left in a basket, just abandoned, lying against the cold step. Perhaps the mother had had it in secret, perhaps it was the result of some scandal, or some great sin. No one could have known, and no one especially cared. Even the monks, who fed and clothed the child, preferred the comforting smell of their parchment, and the scratching of their quills to the child. And yet they kept the boy. It would have been a sin to let him die, and if there was one thing they, as monks, could put their desires aside for, it was the prevention of sin.

And so the baby was taken in, and entrusted to Brother Giovanni. He had been a father, at one time, and the other monks decided him fit for the task. He was also rather unpopular among them, and that was presumably part of it, however this was never spoken aloud, almost as if their thoughts could not be judged by God, but their voices would have been.

Giovanni himself was not happy with this situation. His own children were long gone, they had been beaten to death by an unknown man who had never been caught. The monk had also been a drunk many years prior, and was rather fond of a cane, which had dried bloodstains caked into the very wood it was crafted from. And the monks thought him the appropriate choice to raise the child.

And so, knowing what we know of this Giovanni, imagine his shock when almost a week later, another small child was abandoned on the monastery doorstep. This second child was also entrusted to Giovanni, and he was instructed by the Father of the monastery to raise them together, as choristers. Perhaps then they would be worth something. And so he intended to do just that, naming each of the boys. The latter Luciano, and the prior Leonardo. Chapter 3: ‘Leo, wake up’

Leo felt the sun on his face, it’s grasp bathing him in warmth, and would have preferred not to. But if Luciano was calling him, well he had no choice. The boy opened his eyes, and wiped the sleep from them. He felt the grass beneath his back, and heard the soft hum of the crickets, as they made their signature song. Leo looked up and saw Luciano looking up at him, the other boys face wreathed by his dark hair; a halo of shade, encircling his face and his eyes, which were greener than the grass Leo lay upon.

‘I was asleep’

‘Leo, you can’t sleep all day, we have business.’

‘Business, what sort of business do you have, you haven’t even got a job.’

‘Just because I’m not studying the priesthood like you, doesn’t mean I’m worthless.

Leo sighed, he knew somewhere in his tired mind that Luciano was teasing him, and yet gave a reaction anyway.

‘You know I don’t think you worthless.’ He said, rubbing his forehead and accepting Luciano’s outstretched hand, as the other boy pulled him up from where he lay.

‘I know Leo, but I’m not joking, we really have to go.’

‘Fine.’ Leo said setting off across the grass with the other boy.

He had been sleeping on a hill, far away from the village and the monastery. They often came out here to be alone, to be away from the oppressive coldness of the monks, and Giovanni’s cane. It was a lovely spot, bathed in golden light throughout the day, and was the only place Leo felt any peace.

Leo was tall, but not abnormally tall for a boy of fifteen years of age, and he sported quite a tan, his skin the colour of caramel. His hair was a mess of light brown, almost spiky, but decidedly wild, and his eyes were like two coals, not smouldering, not yet, but ready, as if just about to be tossed into the blazing flames. He wore simple clothes, peasant clothes, and a plain crucifix.

He dreamed of becoming a preacher, and leaving behind these hills, as much as he loved them. The grey stone of the monastery would always be here, and that could not be changed. He wanted to travel, forget this place, and spread the word of God. Spread his revelation. And perhaps he already would have, the voice had certainly encouraged him to. But as he walked, his eyes lingered on Luciano. Chapter 4: What the two boys were to each other is something not even they understood. They were certainly not brothers, nor lovers; they had no conception of what such a thing would even look like between them. However they encompassed the other’s reality, and owned the keys to their counterparts’ hearts.

Whereas Leo was studious, and thoughtful, Luciano seemed almost without care. Chaotic and content to drift through the world at his own pace. No dreams or desires occupied Luciano’s head, other than to enjoy himself. Leo often wished he could be the same, and that he could be happy. And yet whenever the thought occurred to him, his mind was brought back to the cracking of the cane. Chapter 5: While the boys tried their hardest, neither was particularly skilled in the art of music, and so the dream of them being choristers was quickly abandoned, and Giovanni settled for making them productive members of society. Leo’s path was clear. He devoured knowledge like a ravenous beast, and prayed with a fierce devotion. Giovanni never knew what drove him to such piety, but often came across the boy talking to himself when he thought no one else was looking. Perhaps he really could talk to God, the thought amused Giovanni, who had not experienced anything close to true devotion for years, and had started to drink again.

Luciano was more murky, the boy was naturally chaotic, and quickly tired with anything he turned his hand to. Giovanni didn’t particularly care, he didn’t care much for either boy, but it would look bad amongst his brethren if he could not shape the orphans to at least some level of competence. And so it appeared almost a miracle when he stumbled upon the black haired ruffian attempting to forge an amulet in the fire where the food for the monastery was being cooked. The work was shoddy, and Giovanni let Luciano know that, but he spied the tiniest glimpse of talent, and worked on getting the boy a blacksmithing apprenticeship in Rome. And by some miracle he found a local artisan who was willing to take him on board.

And so in 1715, the two boys went to Rome. Leo, to study the priesthood at the Vatican, and Luciano to learn how to make jewellery. And that is where the boys began to change. Chapter 6: ‘I never understood why you do this Luciano, I can only wear so many trinkets.’ Leo had grown into a man, and wore clothes fitting for a rising minister within Rome’s theocracy. His jaw was sharper, and his hair was slightly more tamed, it’s sharp chaos pulled back into a loose ponytail. In his hand he held a small silver locket, which he let swing from his fingers.

‘Well the cross I made you was a little large, so I thought I’d try again.’

‘Luciano, it wasn’t a little large, it was practically bloated.’

‘Mistakes were made, I agree, but that’s why you should appreciate this.’

Luciano had grown as well, he now carried a permanent coat of grime from the furnaces he slaved over, and wore the garb of a blacksmith. He had thrived at his apprenticeship, and gained somewhat of a reputation in Rome as one of the most desirable jewellers money could buy, despite his track record of mistakes.

‘Leo, are you going to open it?’

Leo had been entranced by the room. It was Luciano’s workshop, and it felt almost like a window into the other man’s mind. Tools were strewn everywhere, along with half finished projects, and the flames that Luciano used to heat the metal spat violently. But of course they were warm.

‘Ah yes I’m sorry.’ Leo stuttered as he opened the locket. It only had a picture in one side; a rough drawing of a man. This man had light brown hair and an oddly sharp nose, but the eyes were unmistakably Luciano’s. Leo moved over and hugged the blacksmith, thankful for the gift, no matter what he said.

‘Luciano, they got your hair wrong.’

‘It gives it more character… as long as you remember me when you are off converting the masses, that’s all that matters.’

‘Of course I’ll remember you Luciano, if I ever forgot, it would be a greater sin than any other.’

‘You flatter me Leo.’

And there they stayed, as the tears welled up in Leo’s eyes. Because the voice was talking again. And it told him to grab one of the tools that lined the walls, and to crush Luciano’s skull. Chapter 7: Leo had always had a talent. Sometimes when he snapped his fingers, the lights flickered in a room. Sometimes when he sat near a fire, the flames almost seemed drawn to him, never burning him though, never even making him uncomfortable. And sometimes, after one of Giovanni’s beatings his bruises would disappear within minutes. This is what he had been like since birth. And he assumed it was normal. Luciano never seemed concerned at any rate, delighting in the strangeness of it.

However with these talents, these mystical gifts, came a voice. It talked, it always talked. To Leo it was God. And it told him to hurt, to manipulate and to convert. But he didn’t listen. He vowed not to. This was God certainly, but the lord was testing him. That was the only way it made sense. Chapter 8: Rome is always in flux. The priests, at that time, were little more than politicians or even kings. Scrambling against the system and each other for more power, more wealth, more often than not more women as well. Leo hated it all, as one would expect, but he found himself a natural, and quickly became known among the clergy. As an upstart, of course, but one with unnatural skill.

And success of course, in such a rabid system, breeds jealousy. And so, in the summer of 1720, the rumours began. Chapter 9: Leo ran, his body straining to move faster, to drive beyond what he could have done on any other day. But today was not any other day. There had been whispers. Whispers of him and Luciano. That their relationship had been sinful. And so he ran, because the problem with whispers, is that they so quickly become shouts. And then the crowds form, and the torches are lit, and someone dies.

And so Leo ran with everything he had to Luciano’s workshop, pushing past the raging crowd, as they laid their hands on him, thanked him for his bravery, and told him the sinner who had taken his holiness from him would soon be dead. They told him they would save him. He pushed past them all the same, seeming stronger than the crowds combined.

Leo pushed his wait to the workshop and found that the door had not been breached. He could not risk opening it, and so he began to climb, scaling the building's wall, clawing at the rough stone, ignoring the panicked shouts of the onlookers. He did not care, he could not care, only Luciano deserved that. Leo entered through a window, and began to search the house.

He found Luciano in his small bedchamber, and saw the blood before he saw the man. The sheets of the bed were stained red, and the floor was slick with the man’s blood. He found Luciano slumped beneath a window, coughing, as more and more of the red liquid poured from a cut at his neck.

Leo cried out, and cradled the other man’s body. It was limp and cold. Tears began to run from Leo’s eyes, being soaked into the dead man’s clothes and mixing with the blood. The voice simply laughed, endlessly mocking.

After a while Leo’s eyes looked up, with the raging hunger of a wild beast. He screamed a cry of pure anger, the sort of anger which cannot be sated. His eyes flitted around wildly until they landed on a sceptre, resting on a workbench in the corner of the room. It was black, with twirling gold decorations. Not ornate, no, but simply beautiful. Leo did not have to see the label attached to it to know it was meant for him. And yet he read it anyway, reading the words over and over again, just because they were in Luciano’s handwriting.

And then the voice stopped laughing and spoke. It made Leo an offer. It would make him into something beyond human, it would twist him into its own creation. And in return… it would save Luciano’s soul. Leo had always denied the voice, he had never listened to it, had never wanted to. But now, as his soul lay in tatters, he agreed.

And so his body was wracked with pain, as his skin turned pale; his black eyes leaked, covering even their whites in the ashy tone; his hair turned pink; and he felt his tongue split, and the fangs growing in his mouth. It hurt. It hurt more than any beating he had suffered. But he felt different. Powerful, as if lightning ran through his veins instead of blood.

The sceptre floated in front of him. It had changed slightly, where it had been tipped with a cross, now a glass orb headed it. Within the orb swirled a storm, a tempest seemingly so violent and harsh that it would break the glass at any moment. And yet something about it was beautiful.

‘YOU TOLD ME YOU’D SAVE HIM’

I did. Chapter 10: As the sun rose on that day, the first day of autumn in 1720, the mob's corpses were discovered. The shrieks of those unlucky enough to see the bodies which littered the streets were pitiful compared to the cries when it was discovered that hundreds of priests within the Vatican had also been slaughtered. The cardinal who had started the rumours, out of jealousy and pride, had been eviscerated, and parts of his corpse were discovered strewn across the city.

A few days later, Leo was found. In the ruins of the monastery he was raised in. He had killed all of the monks. Giovanni had been seemingly burnt to little more than pure ash, and one charred hand which still grasped at the door to the room in which the rest of his remains were. He had tried to run, and he had failed.

Leo anticipated the arrival of the soldiers. And simply sat under that same hill which he had spent all of those afternoons on with Luciano. He did not cry, or even speak. His eyes were simply soulless.

The soldiers beat him, he did not resist. They spat at him and called him a monster, he did not resist. They even tried to scar him, he did not resist; even if the wounds healed. Chapter 11: The cell they had him in was cold, and damp, water dripped from the cracked cobbles of the ceiling. Drip, drip, drip. The sound soothed Leo. He had nothing, nothing except that sound. Every morning he retreated to the singular corner of the room which was bathed in shade, the light had begun to burn him. He had lost a hand and a leg the other day, but they grew back rather quickly. He stayed huddled in that corner until the night, when he slept. And then the cycle repeated.

Until they decided to kill him. They could have dragged him into the sun, but this man was a butcher, a criminal of wild proportions, he deserved to suffer. And to be made a spectacle of.

And so, on the winter solstice of 1720, Leo was dragged up onto a small stage in the centre of Rome, as the crowds jeered at him, and his head was placed into the hangman’s noose. As his body fell and his neck snapped the crowd cheered. They stopped their jubilation as the robe was burned up by black flames, and Leo staggered to his feet, realigning his head.

They tried beheading next. Leo’s body simply got up, walked over to the basket which his bloodied head lay in, and placed it back on his neck, and soon the wound faded, as if he had never even received it.

They shot him. Stabbed him. Burnt him. They tried everything. Every time he survived. And so they brought him to a cliff in the bay of Naples. To end it for good.

Standing atop the grassy cliff, the soldier pointing the gun at Leo’s back shaking slightly as he forced the priest forward, Leo began to laugh. Wildly, freely, truly happy for the first time in a long time. And then he fell into the crashing waves below. The guards did not bother to check whether he had survived. The menace was dead, that was all that mattered. And yet he emerged from the water, and perhaps they had known he would. Leo clutched his locket, and the sceptre materialised in his other hand.

‘What am I now?’

‘My Evangelist.’

FIN