Chapter Text
Lord Geppetto of Krat could never seem to escape the spearing pain of loss. He could sense it stalking in doorways, could hear it purring in the voices of others. It stung in his bones and ached in his heart. And it greeted him, like an old friend.
When the ache would reach his knees, he would clasp his cane a little tighter. A hint of a smile would cross his face, as he felt the sturdy wood in his palm, remembering the days when he did not require his cane for walking. When he was not quite the elderly man that he was today. When the jewel-encrusted piece’s only purpose was to accessorize a well-tailored waistcoat.
And his thoughts would saunter along, finding themselves at a crisp September the 1st. On that day, many years ago, he had forgone the stylish cane – instead rushing through the castle to the birthing chambers of his wife, Sophia.
Lady Sophia, the most beautiful in all the lands, was his flower. His sea. His stars. And that morning, she would bear a child – their first.
He remembers the surge of excitement in his chest, the urgency striking his footsteps. His feet seemed to fly across the marble floors, eager to see his new heir and the lovely face of his wife.
But once he had arrived at the hallway, he could tell that something was amiss. Further down, he could see that the chamber doors were shut tight, and a nurse was pacing, agitatedly, scuttling back and forth. When she looked up and saw the Lord Geppetto approaching, her olive skin blanched into a stark and stricken white.
“My Lord...” Her voice was a worried tremble, her hands clasping and unclasping. “Please – you cannot come inside.”
And Geppetto frowned at this, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Is there a problem?”
The woman was unable to speak. Timorous gasps tumbled from her lips, quivering her jaw and choking her breath.
“I command you to open the door,” Geppetto ordered, his voice stern and steely.
“B-But, my Lord—”
“Do you defy me?”
The nurse’s words shriveled on her tongue, and she gave a slow shake of her head. With a droop in her shoulders, she dipped into a respectful bow. “Forgive me, my Lord.” She then turned around, reached up, and began to slide open the doors.
Immediately, the air coming through was dank and stale. Although the windows were opened, the air did not flow and remained strangely still. Despite this, Geppetto strode into the room – and a numbness grazed his limbs.
There, laying amongst the scattered bedsheets, was Sophia – lovely Sophia, his delicate flower – wilted in a grisly pool of her own blood. Her skin, once bright and flushed, was sallow and pale, her dark hair matted and clinging to the sides of her face. She lay there, lifeless, her mouth frozen in a silent scream.
Geppetto’s heart had shattered that day. And in the months that followed, he would grieve his dead wife, mourning her like an evening song. He refused to remarry. What for? No woman could ever be as exquisite as her.
And after a lonely drink in his study, his mind would often maunder towards his unborn child – a son – who had never gotten the chance to live. The sting of alcohol would temper his thoughts, conjuring visions and vestiges of a young boy. What would he have been like? What would he have looked like?
Many years had passed, and with them, brought an advent of new technologies. Automatons – living puppets – were gaining increasing popularity throughout the world, and they had descended upon the city of Krat. While in his study one evening, after nursing a bottle of brandy, the thought had come to him:
What if he were to create a new child?
These “puppets” were known to be astonishingly lifelike; they could look eerily human. They were ingenious and completely customizable.
He took one last drink – and rose from his chair.
Over the next several years, Geppetto had constructed a formidable laboratory underneath his castle. Here, he had worked, painstakingly, on the automaton child. The man was a perfectionist and laboured with fevered purpose. He worked alone, sending away anyone who would dare to disturb him.
Gradually, his son was coming to life. The cogs and gears were melding together, revealing a humanlike boy. In a few short months, the son that Geppetto had lost would have celebrated his sixteenth birthday; so the old man had fashioned this child in the body of a teenager. And inspired by the loveliness of his late wife, Geppetto attached wavy dark hair to the child’s head, voluminous and soft. He then marked his skin with freckles, pleasant and sweet. And he gave him eyes like the sea, blue and searching.
And when his son was finally complete, the man looked upon him and whispered, “Pinocchio.”
But the fates were cruel. And merely a year later, they threatened to take his child away from him, once more.
The city of Krat was under siege, a covert and malicious attack. Not from a warring country or region, but from something far more nefarious.
There was a scourge, a pestilence, wreaking havoc upon the city. It caused terrible sickness and disease amongst the people, and it was believed to be transmitted via the automatons. Once treasured and coveted companions, these puppets had turned destructive and poisonous, butchering everything in sight. They were a heinous omen.
King Venigni, in a last resort, had ordered a raid on all automatons. Any person found harbouring one would be severely punished or worse: put to death. All automatons were to be destroyed on sight – and Venigni’s soldiers were approaching Geppetto’s castle.
His worst fear had been realized, and he held Pinocchio close to his side, as they dashed to the underground laboratory. Although his son had never left the castle grounds, and his existence was hidden from the people of Krat, Geppetto would not take any chances. Once they arrived, he wasted no time in bolting the door.
Pinocchio watched Geppetto scramble to the other side of the laboratory, frantically rifling through books and sheets of parchment. The puppet analyzed their darkened surroundings and conducted a scan on his father. The old man’s heartrate had climbed to a considerably dangerous level, causing his pupils to shrink, his lungs to release additional carbon dioxide, and aggravating a wound in his left calf.
“Father?” Pinocchio asked, reviewing his scan. “What is wrong?”
Geppetto, finally having found the book he was looking for, hurried to the large table in the center of the room. “Pinocchio,” he laid the heavy tome onto the table and began flipping through pages. “You must do something for me.”
Pinocchio moved to join the old man at the table. “What is it, father?”
Geppetto’s eyes scurried back and forth, darting from one page to another. “I fear we do not have much time,” he uttered, his voice low. “But there is no other choice.”
The puppet looked on at the book, curious, then switched his gaze over to his father. “I do not understand,” he said to him.
The man breathed out a grievous sigh. “These are dark times, my son,” he expressed with great difficulty. “But there may be a way to put a stop to this.”
Pinocchio listened, storing the words in his memory bank.
“There is a legend,” Geppetto began, his eyes pouring over the pages, “one much older than these lands. It speaks of the Blue Butterfly, the Caeruleum Papilio. The butterfly is the symbol of life, and the Caeruleum Papilio has the power to heal. Transform. And give life.” He then pointed to an area on an ancient map, its appearance tattered and scribbled. “No one has ever seen it or witnessed its magic. But legend tells of its immense power. It can restore order and peace to these lands.”
He turned to look at Pinocchio, a pleading desperation fighting in his eyes. “I know I might be asking too much of you,” he said, “but I need you to find the Blue Butterfly. It is the giver of souls – you can become human and escape this fate.”
Here, Pinocchio’s eyes snapped up towards Geppetto’s, his memory bank processing this particular thought.
“And that power, which will transform you, will transform these lands. Heal them,” his father continued. “You are the only one who can do this. I will not see you fall to their hands.”
In that moment, loud clamoring could be heard from the staircase – and the sound was getting closer.
A shaken gasp seeped through Geppetto’s lips, and he rushed Pinocchio to the opposite wall. “You must leave now,” he ordered, grave and hushed. “There is a secret passageway through this wall—” He pushed a brick, and Pinocchio watched as the remaining bricks slid apart to reveal a shadowed path. “Follow it, and it will lead you outside,” the man instructed. “Find the Blue Butterfly, Pinocchio. I will meet you there.”
But after analyzing the man’s agitated state, the puppet was starting to display apprehension. “I will not leave you, father—!”
“Go!” Geppetto growled. “Go – and be quick. You must not be seen. They must not know who you are – do you understand?” He begged, worry filling his eyes. “You must live, my son.”
Pinocchio looked back at his father, conflicted between the command he was given and the growing concern he was perceiving.
One last time, Geppetto told him, “Go!” and Pinocchio quickly retreated into the secret passage and snuck away into the night.