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Candlewick stared at the gun that had fallen on the ground. It was right in front of him - inches away. Pinocchio had given him a split second to decide, by shooting paint at his father’s face. His father, literally, wouldn’t know what hit him - and Candlewick knew if he didn’t act, didn’t act now, his father would kill them both.
He knew Pinocchio couldn’t die. He’d just come back. But it wasn’t the fear of Candlewick himself suffering the same fate that caused Candlewick to pick up the gun, aim it with hands that didn’t tremble in the slightest, raise it to his father’s chest, and fire.
His father stumbled backwards, clutching his chest and grasping at the gruesome bullet hole, as red as the enemy team’s paint. He said no words, expressed no shock. He only tripped over his feet, started to fall backwards, and then plunged forwards again, falling flat on his face so quickly and abruptly that Candlewick heard a crack as he hit the floor.
Behind himself, behind Pinocchio, he heard everything go silent, like all the sound had been sucked out of the room along with the air. Winds whipped at his uniform, and his ears rang.
“-wick!” Candlewick heard someone shout, and if it was Pinocchio or not, he didn’t know, not even when the hand of wood and pine grabbed his glove and started to pull him away from his father’s unmoving black coat. It was as still as ink, not even a bloodstain to mark it. “We have to get out of here! We have to run! You’ll die, Candlewick, please!”
He felt himself lose his balance as Pinocchio, with surprising strength, yanked him towards the ground and immediately threw himself over top of him. There was a whistle, as loud as what he had been told hell must be like, before Pinocchio was cast in the light of an enormous sphere of fire and shadow. He was trembling. Candlewick was too.
“Pinocchio!” he screamed, as he finally realized, at the sight of what he knew was his father’s body being blown into thousands of pieces, that his father was truly, truly dead. The realization of what that meant hadn’t truly hit him yet, but he knew it was only a matter of time. “Save yourself, Pinocchio! Get out of here! You get hit by those, you’re not coming back!”
“No! I’m not leaving without you! I’m saving you, Candlewick!”
“You aren’t gonna save me on the ground!” Candlewick shouted over the explosions, shoving Pinocchio off himself.
“I’ll make it! I’ll shield you!” Pinocchio insisted, grabbing at him. “I’m not afraid!”
“Yeah, well, I am!” Candlewick shouted back, lifting himself to his feet and grabbing Pinocchio’s hand instead. “You’re coming with me, alright? You’re not dying again!”
Pinocchio stared at him for a long, too long, moment, his usually smiling face serious. Despite Pinocchio not having eyes, Candlewick could, in some strange way, see the fire in the wooden boy's gaze.
He didn’t say another word. Neither of them did. Instead, Pinocchio’s hand in his, he ran, towards the massive holes blown in the walls by the bombs, towards the closest thing they had to freedom.
In his other hand, he carried the pistol.
“You shut up,” Candlewick snapped.
“You little whelp!” shouted the strange, tall man with the strange clothes and the strange, tall, orange hair. “My star belongs to me!” He drew a blade from his cane and waved it, pointing the blade towards Candlewick. “You think I, the great and mighty Count Vulpe, am going to allow a tiny, meager little urchin t-”
The tall man’s voice instantly stopped dead as the bullet tore through his brain in a spurt of blood and viscera. Candlewick still didn’t shake, didn’t hesitate, at the smoking gun in front of him, once aimed towards the man’s face, now aimed at the empty air where the man had been standing. Candlewick stared dismissively at the orange-haired corpse on the ground, waiting for the impossible, for him to respond.
He didn’t. Somehow, knowing that didn’t even tug at one of his heartstrings.
“I told you to shut up.”
The monkey, who Candlewick couldn’t remember the name of, screeched at the sound of the shot and fled, putting himself behind Pinocchio. Candlewick watched him, stared up at Pinocchio with tired, heavy eyes. Pinocchio’s shoulder joints were hunched, and he looked ready to step backwards. He was frightened.
“Candlewick...” Pinocchio gasped. “You... you shot him!”
“Four bullets left,” Candlewick said rotely.
“You can’t... you can’t just shoot people, Candlewick... it’s not right!"
Candlewick smiled. “Come on, Pinocchio. Don’t be a kid.”
“I am a kid!” Pinocchio insisted. “And you are too.”
Candlewick kept smiling.
“We aren’t kids any more,” Candlewick said. “We’re men. Good, strong men. We’ve gotta be. This is war. You understand that, right? If we don’t fight, we’re both dead.”
Candlewick laughed.
“At least... I’m dead, anyway.”
“That’s not true,” Pinocchio insisted. “My papa says war is bad. Killing people is bad. It took Carlo away from him. I don’t want you to kill people!"
“Who’s Carlo?”
“He was my brother,” Pinocchio said. “You’re like my brother too, Candlewick, so... I don’t want you to kill people. My papa’s going to meet you and he’s going to like you, so you... you have to be good.”
Candlewick shook his head.
“Pinocchio, you don’t have to lie to me.”
“I’m not!”
“I’m not meeting your papa. I’m not meeting anyone. I’m an...” He hesitated, momentarily, with the words, trying to remember how his father had described them. “An enemy of the state. They’ll kill me. So I have to kill them first.”
Candlewick’s smile faded.
‘You understand that, right?”
“No.”
Candlewick sighed.
“‘Course you don’t. But that’s the truth. It’s kill or be killed, Pinocchio. It’s war.”
“You sound like your papa.”
“It’s not the same.”
Candlewick turned and walked past the body of the strange tall man.
“There’s got to be a boat ‘round here. We’ll get out of here. Go to another country or something.”
“I can’t!" Pinocchio said. “I’ve got to find my papa, and Sebastian!"
“Who’s that?”
“Oh. A cricket.”
“Your pet?” Candlewick said skeptically.
“No! He’s...” Pinocchio hesitated for a moment. “My other papa.”
“OK,” said Candlewick, no amusement in his voice at the strange things Pinocchio was saying. Very little was actually all that strange, when it came to Pinocchio. “If we can find them, we will.”
“Promise?”
Candlewick knew better than to promise. He had no such plans, after all.
“Promise,” he said anyway.
The monkey peeked around Pinocchio’s legs, staring at the corpse of its former master, and then made a questioning squawk at Pinocchio.
“Spazzatura wants to know if he can come with us,” said Pinocchio.
“Yes, you can come too,” said Candlewick. Pinocchio smiled. “Help us find the boat, OK?”
The monkey cheered its agreement, and raced off towards the cliffside, motioning for them to follow. Pinocchio followed quickly behind him, smiling over his back at Candlewick.
Candlewick smiled back.
In his hand, he carried the pistol.
“I have to find my papa, Candlewick!” Pinocchio insisted, pacing around the room with his head in his hands. If he could cry, Candlewick imagined he would have already started. “I have to!”
Candlewick pinched his nose. This was the fifth time they'd argued about this in half as many days.
“You can’t! You can’t, Pinocchio. Not ever.'
“Why not?” He turned to Candlewick with what was clearly desperation. “He can help us, he can take care of us, you’ll see! You have to...”
“Because he’ll die, Pinocchio!” Candlewick shouted. “Don’t you get it? We can’t go home! We can never go home! Don’t you get it?!”
“Because of those soldiers?” Pinocchio demanded. “My papa isn’t afraid of them and neither am I!”
“He should be!” Candlewick shouted. “If they find us, we’ll all die! Does that mean nothing to you? We killed a podesta, Pinocchio!”
“Well, just because you can’t see your papa again doesn’t mean I don’t want to!” Pinocchio shouted back.
Candlewick rose to his feet, marched over to Pinocchio, and shoved him.
“You stupid puppet!” he roared, reaching down and grabbing Pinocchio’s shoulders to lift him up and yell at him properly. “You say everything as if it’s so easy for you! You don’t know what it means to die! You don’t know what it means to lose loved ones, do you?!” He shook Pinocchio, for emphasis. “You don’t have strings, but I do! You’re right! I don’t have a family! I don’t have anywhere to go! I have nothing!”
Pinocchio stared at him in shock, before his face crumpled in something close to a sob.
“Candlewick, I... I’m... I'm so sorry.”
Candlewick wiped at one of his eyes, unsurprised to find tears there.
“Shut up,” he said, but there was no bite in it. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“OK,” said Pinocchio, softly. “I’ll leave you alone.”
Candlewick sat back down on his bed as Pinocchio, with a glance over his shoulder, walked out of the room. A few moments later, he was replaced by Spazzatura, who hobbled over to him and whined as he pressed his head against Candlewick’s hand.
With one hand, Candlewick, saying nothing, pet Spazzatura’s head.
With another, Candlewick held the pistol.
Candlewick rose from the water, frantically grabbing onto the closest thing he had to a raft. He swung Pinocchio over it, over his shoulder, climbing onto the wooden boards just enough to see if Pinocchio was still alive, or if he’d died yet again.
He hadn’t been able to save Spazzatura. That enormous monster had ate him alive, before once more diving under the water, leaving Pinocchio to sink towards the bottom of the sea. It’d been a miracle that he’d been able to even find Pinocchio before he’d disappeared into the wine dark blackness of the unforgiving ocean.
Pinocchio made no response, said nothing, did nothing. His eyes were closed, and his head was limp. He didn’t think Pinocchio could drown - he didn’t think Pinocchio even had lungs. But even though he couldn’t tell why, Pinocchio was as silent as all the other corpses he’d seen in only the past few days.
That was what made him finally burst into tears. Not the death of his own father at his own hands. Not killing a man in cold blood. Not losing Spazzatura to the whale, losing Pinnochio's friend, losing a friend Candlewick would now never have.
“Pinocchio!” he sobbed. “Not you too! This isn’t fair!”
He raised a trembling hand, closed it into a fist, and brought it down on Pinocchio’s wooden chest. There was no response at all, so all it did was make his hand ache.
“Come back, damn it!” he cried. “I know you always come back! Come back! Don’t leave me here! I’ll die out here, Pinocchio, don’t... don’t you dare leave me alone!”
Pinocchio said nothing, his head remaining as limp and lifeless as before.
In his hands, Candlewick clenched the pistol he had never once let go of. Instinct, or more likely, something far darker, caused him to raise it and put it against his own head, against the temple. He pulled the trigger without even thinking.
The gun didn’t fire. Water dripped out of the barrel.
Candlewick laughed. Of course. Pinocchio had died, this time seemingly for good, and yet he had lived, the one who deserved it the least. The useless, cowardly son of Mussolini’s lapdog. His father had been right, so many times, in so many words - weak boys who can’t become men only steal bread and water from the deserving.
With no other possibility in front of him, he faced the raft in what he hoped was the direction of Italy, and paddled.
In his hand, he still carried the pistol.
It was a year later before Pinocchio’s voice broke the silence of the home he now lived in. He suspected Pinocchio would have disapproved, if he had stolen it, but he had been grateful to find people that would take him in and not give him up to the authorities. The soaking wet, limp body of a puppet slung over his back may have convinced them.
They were two men, bakers both. Candlewick, from tailing his father as he made his arrests, knew all too well what these men were - what his father derivisely called “queers,” or words he suspected were even worse. They were unmarried men, the same age, living together with no children or families. He even saw the way they stole the touch of hands when they thought he wasn’t looking.
Well. Better a queer than a fascist, he had supposed.
He hadn’t expected Pinocchio to ever speak again. He kept him out of sentimentality, and little else, because ironically, he couldn’t bear the thought of burning him into cinders. He sat him on a shelf, where Pinocchio’s closed eyes had watched him, month after month.
Until with a cry of “Candlewick!”, Pinocchio had leaped from the shelf, sending knickknacks and tools crashing to the floor. Candlewick, who had been laying in bed, had scrambled to his feet, unable to believe what he was seeing.
Neither could Dimitri or Gabriele, who stood from their chairs in shock as Pinocchio rushed over and pulled Candlewick into a hug.
“Sorcery,” gasped Gabriele, crossing the sign of the cross over his chest.
“What trick is this, Alonzo?” asked Dimitri. “Who is Candlewick?”
“I... I am,” said Candlewick, in momentary disbelief. He reached out slowly and wrapped his arms around Pinocchio, who now seemed so much shorter. “I’m sorry for lying.”
Pinocchio looked over at Gabriele and Dimitri.
“Hi!” he said, waving his hand excitedly. “I’m Pinocchio!”
“He’s my friend,” Candlewick attempted to explain. “He’s a living puppet.”
Gabriele scratched the back of his head with a large, dark hand.
“A... what?”
“He’s alive,” Candlewick repeated.
“I’m a star!” Pinocchio said, by means of an explanation. “I was in a travelling show!”
Gabriele stared between Pinocchio and Candlewick and rubbed his eyes, as if he was hallucinating. Dimitri slapped him on the back.
“A first time for everything, no, Gabriele?” he said with a smile. “God grants many miracles. Who is to say what those miracles are?”
Gabriele nodded.
“Very well. Welcome to our home, Pinocchio.”
That night, after they ate dinner, and Candlewick once again wondered how Pinocchio could possibly consume meals, they sat in bed.
“Candlewick,” said Pinocchio, sounding more curious than anything. “What happened? Where’s Spazzatura? Who are these people?”
“They’re queers,” said Candlewick, by means of explanation. He sniffed, as he toyed with the still loaded, still wet pistol that he’d taken out from under his bed. It was, much like himself, more toy than weapon now. “They’re taking care of me... of us.”
“What’s a queer?” Pinocchio asked. Candlewick paused. He was so used to hearing the word, that he hadn’t thought much about what it actually meant.
“Someone who’s... strange, I guess,” Candlewick attempted to explain.
“Am I a queer?”
“No,” Candlewick said, squinting at the pistol. “I mean. I don’t think so.”
“Are you a queer?”
“No!”
Pinocchio looked frustrated.
“So what is it?”
“A boy who likes other boys! I don’t know!” said Candlewick. “My p... my father told me they aren’t to be trusted. Queers hurt our children and destroy the fabric of our culture.”
Pinocchio seemed, if anything, more confused.
“But I like other boys,” Pinocchio said.
Candlewick grunted. “Mhm.”
“And you like other boys.”
Candlewick glanced up again and glared. “No, I don’t.”
“Sure, you do,” Pinocchio said brightly. “You like me, don’t you?”
Candlewick frowned, unable to find himself focusing on the gun anymore. His cheeks felt warm.
“As a friend. I don’t want to kiss you or anything.”
“Kiss me?” Pinocchio asked. “Like, on the forehead?”
“No, on the lips,” Candlewick said. He tried to imagine it, the idea of kissing Pinocchio, and figured that if he did, he’d only get splinters.
It still made his cheeks warm.
“I don’t have lips,” Pinocchio said, as if this was obvious, which Candlewick supposed it should have been.
“On the mouth then.”
“Why would you kiss someone there?”
“If you like them.”
“But I like you and I don’t want to kiss you on the mouth.”
Candlewick sighed.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not a queer, so... whatever.”
“I think I’d like to be a queer. It sounds fun! Can I kiss you on the mouth, Candlewick?”
“No!”
Candlewick groaned.
“Go to bed, Pinocchio.”
“You’re not my papa! I want to stay up," Pinocchio huffed. “Besides, I can’t go to sleep without a bedtime story like papa and Spazzatura tell me.”
“Spazzatura’s dead.”
All of Pinocchio’s cheerfulness vanished in an instant.
“Oh.”
Candlewick, intending to say nothing more, rolled over and pulled the blankets over his head.
“Can you read me a story?” Pinocchio said after a long moment.
“I don’t have any,” mumbled Candlewick.
“Didn’t your papa ever read you stories?”
Candlewick felt a headache coming on.
“Fine. I’ll read you a story.” He coughed, for emphasis. “A mother and her child are gathering mushrooms in the forest. The boy finds some that are poisoned. His mother explains, ‘There are some mushrooms that are poisonous. Did you know there are some people that are poisonous too?’”
He couldn’t see Pinocchio, with the blankets over his head, but he could still feel his confused stare.
“There are good people, like there are good mushrooms, and there are bad people too - when dealing with bad people, one may even die. The bad people, of course, are called...”
“I don’t like this story.”
Candlewick said nothing for a moment.
“I don’t like it either.”
“Well, why’d you tell it then?” Pinocchio said, rather haughtily.
“Because my mother told it to me.”
Pinocchio, now, said nothing.
“Well, er, Sebastian told me a story too.”
Candlewick said nothing, because he didn’t feel like arguing that Sebastian was a cricket.
“It was like this: once, a boy and his p... his mama were in the forest. They were picking flowers, and the boy’s hand, it, um, it brushed against a strange flower he’d never seen. He pulled away in pain, and... and horrid rashes appeared on his skin.”
Candlewick curled under the blankets, saying nothing.
“The boy’s mama cared for his rashes, which itched terribly. And the boy, er, he said...” Pinocchio adopted a high-pitched voice. “‘Mama, why... why are there such awful flowers, that hurt people and make their skin itch? I hate flowers - I never want to pick one again.’ And his mama, um, she said...”
And now Pinocchio adopted a more serious, grave tone.
“‘My son, the... the flower did not mean to hurt you. The flower only protected itself from those that would hurt it. It’s... it's not fair to judge the flower for being different from other flowers. It’s not fair to judge all flowers because sometimes they make you uncomfortable and hurt.”
Candlewick scoffed.
“The end,” said Pinocchio.
“That isn’t what my father would say,” Candlewick said, eventually. “He would say that we should burn the whole forest down.”
“But then we’d have no flowers.”
“Maybe that’s better.”
“That sounds like an ugly world.”
“The world is ugly.”
Pinocchio said nothing in response to that, which made Candlewick feel satisfied with himself, as if he’d won a game.
“Good night, Pinocchio,” Candlewick said.
“Beautiful things come from ugly things,” Pinocchio said. “My papa, Geppetto... he told me that.”
“Good night, Pinocchio,” Candlewick repeated.
“Good night, Candlewick,” said Pinocchio.
In his hands, Candlewick held the waterlogged pistol close to his chest.
“You must hide!” Gabriele demanded, all but shoving Pinocchio into the pantry with Candlewick. Pinocchio’s eyes were wide, his mouth halfway to a frantic sentence, but Candlewick remained silent. He knew all too well what the secret police would do if he spoke, or worse, tried to stand up to them. “Hide and say nothing!”
Whatever Pinocchio had intended to say was cut off when Gabriele closed the door. Now all Candlewick could hear was the muffled sounds of Dimitri attempting to explain to the podesta that the two men were simple bakers, business partners, and nothing else.
Candlewick attempted to shove himself closer to the pantry door, to hear better.
“Your, ahem, business is not my concern,” he heard the podesta say. “My only concern is that you are harboring criminals.”
Candlewick closed his eyes and tried not to swear.
“We have to get out of here, Pinocchio,” Candlewick whispered, as quietly as he could. “Now, while we still can.”
“But Gabriele told us to hide,” Pinocchio said.
“Do you listen to everything you’re told?”
“Nope,” said Pinocchio brightly.
“Then come with me,” Candlewick repeated. “Come with me or... or Gabriele and Dimitri will be hurt.”
“But what if we’re caught? Then we’ll all be hurt.”
“So we won’t be caught. Hurry, while they’re distracted.”
“But...”
Candlewick had no more time to argue. The fates he could imagine for all four of them were worse than most people could imagine. Carefully, he pushed open the pantry door, barely an inch at a time – he knew it squeaked, and if he was too quick, the sound would give them away in an instant.
“We get the pistol and we run,” Candlewick said firmly, when the door was just open enough that they could squeeze through, one at a time.
“What do we need the pistol for?”
“No questions, Pinocchio. Just... follow my orders.”
“But you said not to listen to...”
“Damn it, Pinocchio,” Candlewick snapped, trying not to raise his voice. “Just stay here, if you’re too cowardly to act.”
Pinocchio went silent at that, and Candlewick carefully put his foot to the floor. There was no reaction from the podesta, but Candlewick’s heart pounded like a hummingbird’s wingflaps. Once he was on the floor, he moved with the practiced ease of hundreds of attempted training drills, dozens of hours of his father’s regimens. He slid behind the tall open countertop separatng the kitchen from the front room, clumsily crawled on his belly past the arcway, and titoped as gently as he could to his bedside.
The pistol was where it waited for him, under the bed, behind small wooden boxes. He fished it out as best he could, and when he finally had it in his hands again, he took a long moment to stare at it.
It was a useless thing. Going out of his way to get it didn't serve any purpose – there was simply no possible way it would fire. The mechanisms of a gun were lost to him, no matter how many times his father had taken him hunting and attempted to explain the contraptions behind rifles and shotguns, but he knew enough to know that being underwater had ruined them. Even if the gunpowder lit, the other mechanisms would surely jam.
But he couldn’t help it.
It wasn’t as if the cold, rusted gun made him feel safer. It was that it was the gun that had taken the life of his father. It was the gun that had, in its own way, taken the life of himself. He couldn’t abandon it, any more than he could abandon Pinocchio.
Taking a deep breath through his nostrils, he listened in again to the conversation between the podesta and Dimitri.
“- warrant for the...”
“For a wooden boy and the son of an officer? You’re surely pulling my leg, sir.”
Candlewick couldn’t hesitate a second longer. He was a useless coward who’d done nothing of good his entire life, but if he allowed yet another person to die from his negligence, then he really was better off dead. As quickly as he could, he stuffed the gun into his pocket and sidled his way towards the window.
“Does our great nation have nothing better to do than harass its workers?” said Gabriele’s voice.
Below the window was a small shelf, which had enough of a foothold for him to clamber onto it. He slid objects out of his way before making his climb, and was careful to not upset anything on the shelf – the sound of something falling would be the end of it.
“If you don’t cooperate with my investigation, I will have to take you to the station, and then I promise, you will see firsthand just how much I’m joking.”
The moment he was on the windowsill, he turned towards the pantry on the other side of the room, the door half-open. He could see Pinocchio inside it, staring at him with his unpainted wooden eyes.
It was another split second decision. He could either abandon Pinocchio, who would surely be caught, and protect himself... or he could call Pinocchio to join him, risking all of their lives, on the slim chance that Pinocchio would escape safely.
It was a decision he made quicker than the amount of time he had to make it. He curled his fingers in a “come on!” gesture to Pinocchio, and then hopped over the windowsill and into the grassy field outside. Freedom greeted him in all directions, an open sky of towering clouds and sunlit flowers.
He could run now.
He wouldn’t. Not without Pinocchio.
The wait for Pinocchio to join him was agony, but if nothing else could be said about Pinocchio, it was that he could move very quietly for a boy made entirely of wood. In what must have been moments but felt far too long, Pinocchio emerged at the windowsill.
He waved. Candlewick, automatically, waved back.
“The puppet!” shouted a voice.
“Sir, the boy!" shouted another. "He’s outside the house!”
“Forget about him! Shoot the goddamn puppet!”
Pinocchio leaped out of the window, and Candlewick grabbed his hand. There was a cacophany of noise from inside the house – what sounded like a struggle, a gun firing, a bullet ricocheting, objects falling from shelves and counters, glass shattering, a scream that could have been Gabriele and could have been the podesta.
Pinocchio fell behind him in step as he raced in a direction, any direction at all. He could hear the sound of a car engine firing up, the putter and roar of smoke and gas. He didn’t know where they were coming from. But he couldn’t allow them to reach him. If they reached him, he was dead, and Pinocchio... they wanted Pinocchio. He didn’t want to even consider why, at this point.
It wasn’t enough, of course.
The car cut them off, driving unsteadily into the grass before doors flew open and officers emerged from it like circus clowns. They all carried rifles, and no matter how fast Candlewick could run, he knew they were faster, or at least had better aim.
He considered his options, briefly, but too briefly – by the time a thought reached his mind, they were already surrounding him, guns drawn at Pinocchio.
Without time to think, Candlewick drew his pistol from his pocket and aimed it at the nearest officer. He pulled the trigger.
Nothing came out. There wasn’t even a sound, outside of the barely audible click of the trigger.
In the next second, an officer fired his gun, and Pinocchio crumpled. Candlewick shut his eyes as the finality of it all hit him. Pinocchio would live. But he would not. If he ever saw Pinocchio again, it would be in the strange blue world, the one with rabbits playing poker that Pinocchio had told him so often of.
In the next second, he was tackled to the ground, his arm wrenched behind his back. Though he was still only a child, twelve years old, several men held him down. He didn’t struggle or fight. He was a coward, yes, but maybe his father would at least be pleased in the afterlife that Candlewick had died with dignity.
A pair of boots approached him across the grass. Candlewick’s eyes lowered as their owner bent low to the ground, but not so low that Candlewick could see his face.
His voice, though, was recognizable.
“Abetting a criminal,” said the podesta. “Fraternizing with homosexuals. Murder. Patricide. Threatening an officer of the law. And shooting a podesta, an officer of our nation – making you a traitor to Italy and to our great leader. You’ve made quite a name for yourself, Candlewick. But as much as I would love to snuff out your little flame, your family’s reputation puts me in an unfortunate position.”
Candlewick said nothing.
The podesta leaned down and held out a rusted pistol.
“You don’t deny the charges? You are guilty of killing your father, with this weapon?”
“Yes, sir,” said Candlewick.
“Then enjoy the feeling of the grass beneath you,” said the podesta, without a trace of emotion in his voice, save perhaps boredom. “It’ll be the last time you ever feel it.”
And all the breath left Candlewick’s lungs as a heavy boot kicked him in the side, making him see stars for only a moment before his vision went black.
And, for the first time in over a year, it was not Candlewick who held the pistol.
Candlewick had never been good at counting. He’d heard, in stories, that men in prison counted their days. He didn’t see a point to it, and he was sure he’d lose count by seventy-four anyway. Certainly, he’d have lost count by now – if he had to guess, it’d been at least five thousand.
What the stories didn’t tell you about prison was that it was very, very lonely. He’d always been lonely, especially before Pinocchio, but this was a different kind of lonely. It was like the Lord above had abandoned you, and with him, the concept of time, the warmth of your soul, and all five of your senses. Your sight worked, but there was nothing to see. Your hearing, but there was nothing to hear. Your fingers felt, but there was nothing to feel. And the smell and taste... you’d rather not have those, so your body mercifully turned them off.
It was a very, very slow torture. Candlewick often wondered if this is what Pinocchio felt when he was in the afterlife, but he didn’t think so – the afterlife had sounded fun. This was just misery so ceaseless and overpowering that it became rote.
He’d long given up on anyone rescuing him. He had, years ago, imagined Pinocchio valiantly breaking in to the prison, clocking the heads of the guards together like toys, and escaping, hand in hand with him. He had also imagined, years ago, Pinocchio sneaking the key out of a guard’s pocket and fishing it through the thin window above with his spindly, wooden body.
But now all there was to do was stare at the wall.
Which is why he didn’t notice, for a long, long moment, the sound of the gate creaking open. He didn’t notice until he didn’t hear the familiar sound of a guard, coming to announce his latest helping of gruel, or that he was going to take out his waste.
No. Instead, there was nothing. No sound at all.
Candlewick rose from the sheet of metal and thin mattress that was called his bed. His legs ached, and his knees wobbled, and even the feeling of standing made his beard itch.
He stared in incredulity, unsure if he should take another step forward. Carefully, he peeked through the gate, only to see that the guards had not left their posts. They had simply fallen asleep – every last one of them. Not dead, not drunk... merely asleep, as if in a fairy tale.
He was sure now. He was dying, and he had come to be claimed. Out of instinct as much as anything else, he made the sign of the cross over his breast.
“It is not a god that has saved you today - at least, not as you know it,” said a voice, and if Candlewick did not feel he was dying already, he surely felt it then. He turned to the source, and the sight of it was blinding, not in its brightness, but in its impossibility. He stumbled backwards, falling onto his rear.
“Be not afraid,” said the spirit, dark blue, its many blinking eyes along its layered, enormous wings not making him feel as watched as the calm, piercing bore of its own unblinking gaze. “You have been saved from a terrible fate, at a great cost. A boy loved you so, that he gave up the gift of eternal life, for you alone.”
“Pinocchio,” Candlewick gasped.
“He could not bear to live forever, if it meant a world without you in it, young Candlewick. In exchange for the gift of your freedom, he sacrificed everything, so that you may still be with him.”
“But... even over his father? Even Sebastian?”
“Correct.”
“Why? I don’t...”
“It would be better that you ask him yourself.”
“What even are you? Are you an angel?" He paused - the words felt blasphemous to say. "Are you God?”
“The only god I truly speak for is the god of kindness and justice – the god that resides within the soul of your wooden friend. Go now to him, so that you may bring each other joy and happiness, for as long as you both shall live.”
And, in the next moment, the being was gone, its blue light fading from the room.
Candlewick, with some effort, climbed to his feet. Walking past the guards, he briefly considered arming himself, but then decided against it. It wasn’t a gun that had brought one good thing into his life, but the boy that was waiting for him.
Although it took him several long minutes to finally find the exit to the prison, he could hardly believe his eyes when he finally emerged from the door. Not at the stars above, or the shining full moon reflected in the ocean water, but at the boy who had not aged a day in the last decade.
“Pinocchio,” he gasped, and all weariness, all tiredness, left him in an instant. He felt like, despite his greater height, unkempt beard, and the ever marching agony of time, that not a minute had passed since they had last seen each other.
“Candlewick!” shouted Pinocchio, racing forward as Candlewick bent to his knees, pulled him into a hug, and lifted him above his head like he was his own son.
“Pinocchio! I... why?! Why did you come back for me?”
“Why?!” Pinocchio asked in disbelief. “I looked everywhere for you, Candlewick! You’re my friend!”
“But...”
Pinocchio pressed a wooden finger to Candlewick’s mouth.
“No questions! We need to get out of here, as soon as we can.”
Candlewick, carefully, set Pinocchio back on the ground, and Pinocchio expectantly held out a wooden hand. Candlewick took it, even though his hand was now over twice as large as Pinocchio’s own.
Pinocchio squeezed it as hard as Candlewick imagined he was capable of, and began to walk.
Candlewick didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t know where they would go, or what their future would be. He didn’t know anything from here on – it was all a mystery.
But, nonetheless, in his hand, he held Pinocchio’s.