Author's Note:

For far too long and for far too many days I have labored under the despair of thinking that I might never write again. A few days ago I spent a sleepless night staring at this particular show and wondering why I like it so when I've never been one for the idea of organized crimes and fight scenes. But something inside my head wanted to explore their humanity more than their special skills and so here I am. A willing slave to a fickle Muse that wanted its say and its day in the sun. I hope you will enjoy this tale as much as I have enjoyed the exhilarating rush of creating.

KHR belongs to the genius that is Akira Amano and I humbly bow to this mangaka's undeniable talent.

2013 Update:
I guess I'm kinda tweaking the story a bit. I want it to feel as real as I can possibly make it, knowing the biggest challenge I would have for me, other than the battles, will be making all the characters appear human and relatable.

2014 Update:
This work is still unbeta-ed or even edited by a pair of eyes not my own. I am fine tuning some parts. The good part is that after a period of not knowing how to go on, I found a new vein of idea that I am willing to explore. Wish me luck. I think I'm really gonna need it.

2017 Update: Revisions, et al.

Chapter I:
INIZIO

"What fates impose, that men must needs abide;
It boots not to resist both wind and tide"
- William Shakespeare

Timoteo POV

He understands the risks. He told himself that he did. That he understands far better than anyone else the risks he was about to take. That is why he dared to travel alone—leaving behind the usual trappings and entourage that came with his position and denied anyone the chance to accompany him so that he could finally have the time to think and bask in the anonymity of his old friend's home in the East.

He came East hoping to find some measure of peace before committing a lifetime of service and commitment to the fickle unforgiving whims of blind fate. He desired to preserve a mere moment of peace in order to organize his thoughts and calm the tumultuous chaos of his heart. A measure of forgiveness for walking away from everything his entire lineage has done, sacrificed and preserved for the past four centuries.

He came hoping to ease the burdens of a sorrowful heart and found hope so pure that the reality of it all but consumed him. For a moment—a moment alone—he allowed himself to dream of the kind of future that might come to his beloved Famiglia if he dare permit himself to seize the opportunity that fickle fate and cruel destiny has dangled in front of him now and forget everything that he knows. To simply open his hands and let the four winds take the decision from him and let the cards fall where they might. For a moment he dared—until the cold, unceasing sense of truth jerked him back into full awareness once more.

But he couldn't—wouldn't be so selfless. He has no right or room for it.

He couldn't afford such selfishness anymore. A lifetime he has squandered away being frivolous and catered to nothing and no one save the whims and caprices and demands of his Famiglia.

No…there would be no more free passes for him. No more loopholes or last minute miracles.

He had used it all up. Used up all the free passes fate and life has given him. There would be no more—he has used up whatever invisible tab he had with any higher power has run its course—there was no more credit owed to him. Moreover, taking advantage of the boon he has unwittingly discovered would make him break a promise he made long ago. A solemn vow made to a man he already owes far too much to ever repay. A man he had whom, for all intents and purpose, stolen from. It wouldn't be fair to take away anything further from someone who already gave up more than anyone. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be just.

And yet that is exactly what he has done.

Now, however, is not the time to speculate...now is not the time for wishes and naive fantasies...now is not the time for whimsical yearnings that could never be is the time for decisions…for facing the music and paying his debt. Now is the time for actions. Now is the time for settling the final score.

So with a heavy heart and a conciliatory prayer to whatever higher power it was that oversaw his ravaged, uneasy soul he shook himself awake from the fantasy of might-have-beens and could-have-beens.

Or at least that's what he told himself. But Timoteo was but a man—a man on the verge of losing everything and desperate men will attempt anything to stave off the inevitable. Even contemplate and consider betraying someone that he promised fidelity and loyalty long ago. Even if that self-same someone was one whom he loved and respected like a blood-brother. Despite the stab of remorse and regret that flickered like a sudden lightning through his soul he knows that he had but a single recourse left to take. The only path he could take with any hopes of salvation in the offing.

The final gamble.

And so that morning, he took the first painful step towards salvation. He seized with both hands the bargain that Fate tempted him with and swallowed back the bitter tears of loss and fear. With a hand scarred by the constant tests of time and trembling with loss, he reached out and touched that faint spark that burned merrily like a small cheery bonfire in front of him. He watched for a moment as the flickering flames sway gently as if buffeted by an invisible benevolent hand before he sealed the warm lambent glow beneath his own much stronger flame consigning his youngest descendant's life to a power even more unforgiving than those rules that governed their own dark world—Destiny.

In the very depths of his soul he wished—prayed, supplicated—shamelessly pleaded just this once, for whatever deity that could hear him to play fair and have him redeem just one—this one—the very last bearer of the last pure Vongola blood—in his own way. He sealed the luminous flames in his young descendant's soul and wished him the possibility of a life free from their blood's burden and unpredictable gifts. But while he did what he had to do in order to protect that unexpectedly fragile innocent young soul that he found, he couldn't help but feel the slightest shiver of doubt.

He was tampering with the power of something as unforgiving and fickle as Fate.

He could never be sure whenever he dealt with matters of chance—even more so when it involves people from their volatile bloodline. That, more than anything, made him doubt his own decisions despite the fact that for once he allowed his intuition to reign over and just followed it through. Still, he couldn't help but wonder if he had unwittingly jump-started the unforgiving hands of fate to move towards a far different path than the one he intended. He could only pray that whatever sliver of luck or that famed hyper-intuition that their family relied upon still worked in his favor.
He wished he could offer the whims of fate a fitting sacrifice to guarantee his wish but he knows well enough that his own stained soul poses no allure. There was nothing left in him worthwhile that he could offer save his own burning desire for absolution. Save his earnest desire to see this one final selfish decision through. Oh how he desperately yearned to have his last selfish wish could be granted if nothing else so that he could face his death without another mark on his already blackened heart and bloodied soul.

If he could've done it—he would've gladly traded off the famed intuition so prized in his Famiglia and in his world. But even he is well aware that unlike his predecessors, he was not born with that rarest of the Vongola blood-gifts. He was not born with the full measure of the Vongola Hyper Intuition. The gift that made Primo such a legendary figure and predecessor has been lost with every succeeding generation that followed, diluting with every succeeding sire and heir, weakening its potency until all that they possessed were the sometimes faint flicker that comes when immediate danger crept close enough to threaten the existence of the Famiglia.

Blood will always tell.

And the blood flowing through his was nothing like Primo's. Truth be known, none of the succeeding Heads had more than a tiny bit of his blood and of all HIS descendant, he was by far the weakest, weaker even more so than Settimo was who had had to rely on his guns to compress his less-than-stellar flames into something that could be used as a weapon.

His only consolation was that he was born in a more peaceful era-not bloodshed-free-no, never that, not for one inheriting a 400-year old Famiglia but infinitely safer and more stable than any single era since their Famiglia's founding. He wouldn't have been able to survive as long as he had otherwise.

However, the tenuous peace he has precariously kept and protected did not come without a price. The sacrifice he has had to make has yet to bear fruit. For the continuance of his centuries-old name he had had to live with the heartbreak of losing everything he has ever loved. He has had to watch as his beloved wife was lost to a disease that all his money, his influence, his power couldn't overcome. He has had to stand by and watch as fate and the dark miasma of ambition and machinations of men stole away his precious sons one by one. He has had to harden his heart and bear the agony of being misunderstood by the child he had hoped would continue protecting the family he cared for.

For the continued existence of his family he had sacrificed his own flesh and blood. To secure the continuance of the Vongola name he forced himself to accept violence, betrayal, death and heartache over and over again. For the Famiglia he has inherited he has had to be strong, to be steadfast, and to lead despite every roadblock and every setback. But even a leader who knows all these and has made peace with it, time and conviction can only do so much. And Timoteo knows better than most that he is nearing his end—both as a leader and as a being retained by his mortal coils.
He had so little time left and there were still too many things left to do…

He has grown inured to his duties but he tires of them now. Above all else, the constant battles were wearing him down. Since inheriting his title all he had ever done was to wage war and win. The endless years, months and days that he had to spent fighting. And he certainly had to fight and keep on fighting—men, women, governments, organizations, even his own Famiglia, at times. He had to fight—god knows he'd had to fight from the moment he understood what being born into his bloodline meant. He had to fight to gain his post, had to fight to protect those under his charge, had to fight to keep what was rightfully his, had to fight every upstart new Famiglia that were no better than thugs for hire that wanted a jumpstart in their status in the ladder of infamy by trying to bump off the strongest name they knew which in this case happened to be his.

The beep of the intercom gave him a startling but welcome reprieve from the dark nature of his thought. He gladly left behind the dark musing of his past, tucking the painful reverie where they belong—in the dark recesses of his soul where the rest of his dreams also reside and focused on the matter at hand. He reached out and touched one of the many buttons on his personal console.

'Si?'
'Mi scusi Nono, ci sarà lo sbarco 30 minuti.'
'Grazie.'
'La vettura sarà in attesa per voi. Si sarà bisogno di altro?'
'No, che sarà tutto.'

A sigh went past his lips and he tried to put the doubt and anxiety of the last few hours out of his mind. He looked out the tiny window and tried to enjoy the oncoming view of his homeland from his elevated seat. He has missed the verdant hills and valleys of his home, his time now being spent ever more frequently inside the protected walls of his mansion. His glimpses of the countryside has been confined to his lush gardens and the occasional drive from and to yet another meeting, yet another negotiation but even the wide blue skies that his windows offered felt limited now—constricted the same way he would occasionally find himself to feel.

With a final shake of his head he closed his eyes briefly before opening them once more to gaze at the sky now bathed in golden rainbow of hues. Its brilliant display of colors drenching the eternal images of his home in all its gilded splendor, its ethereal beauty soothing the churning disquiet inside of him like it has always done. He took a deep breath and consigned his fears to the warm Italian dusk.

He made the right choice.

In sealing off the child's flame he was saving his oldest friend's child from a future filled with nothing but heartache. And since he could give him little else but a stay of execution for however many years his leadership could still afford him—there was that thought to soothe him in the coming days. He has done the unforgivable. All that he could do now is wait and contemplate what his machinations had bought him.

His childhood will be one of joy and peace.

The boy will lead a life far from the maddening, tumultuous and blood-drenched world where he and his sire had been forced to be in. His growing up years will be normal, safe and without the pain of attacks from those around him. He will not live with the constant flow and ebb of lies and deceit from those that seek to ravage his inheritance from all sides, waiting for any moment of weakness on his part so that they pillage and steal what was never theirs.

He will not have to learn how to manipulate those around him through cunning and trickery, bracing himself from the constant menace of treachery from those that would smile at him even as they plot his demise and the destruction of everything he held dear. He will never have to stoop to controlling others through volatile exertions of force just to ensure his continued survival.

He will live in the light.

He will live a far safer existence without the overwhelming shadow that will always be cast on him by merely possessing their particular gift. He will not have the burden of expectation and inheritance and succession hanging over his head like a proverbial Sword of Damocles all the time taking away from him any semblance of free will.

He will be safe from those that would stoop to use a child to get their own means never caring that they would destroy lives along the way. He will not live in constant heartache and fear of what being one of them means. He will be free from the despair of distrust and suspicion attached to those that came from their shadowed world. He will not grow up living under the burden of his Famiglia's blood-soaked reputation.

He will never know the pressure of expectation from a world that demands too much and gives hardly anything worthwhile in return. He will never need to know how to exist with nothing but the abyss of shadows to aid everyday he draws breath. He will never have to live from day to day with the threat of death and pain and betrayal fueling his nightmares and tainting his memories. He will never need to don a mask of strength and infallibility—never showing his true face and nature, to learn how to live all his life concealed behind the cold comforting façade of stone walls and the indifferent of mask shadows and darkness because that's the only place he would ever feel safe.

He will never be lonely.

He will have friends—not allies bought by a show of force or gained through mergers intended for financial or political gain. He would not have to settle for servants and soldiers that turn too easily and too readily into enemies in the ever-changing seas of duplicity and covenants and contracts that regulate their world.

He will be wanted for himself—for nothing more than being a simple, normal boy-not an heir, not a successor, not even a criminal in the making. He would not play the role of a fool or a king or both. He will be himself and that will be enough.

He will never know what it means not to be free.

He will be free of the stigma of being born with their blood, their legacy, their name. He will never be ostracized by those around him for being what he was and for being born with a legacy he didn't choose and a history he couldn't understand. He will not be condemned to live up to his predecessors' achievements and accomplishments, chained and held back by centuries-old traditions all in the hopes of preserving their infamous name, their reputation; forced to endure being burdened with their reputation and branded by their sins. He will not be held up to the standards of the biased few who would sooner turn their backs on him as betray him just because of the name he wears and the blood that flows in him.

He will be made safe and free and normal for however long the power this cursed throne holds.

If he could do only one good in his life but this, if fate could only allow him one chance for repentance, then he, Timoteo, Ninth Head of the Vongola Famiglia will see this one thing done. He would trade his own damaged, blood-stained soul and all the souls of those who came before him to insure that the youngest and last blood-kin of their family remained innocent, untainted and free.

But a man like Timoteo should have known better. He should have realized long ago that Fate hardly fights fair. He should have known that painful truth when he made that Faustian bargain long ago that Fate wasn't willing to compromise or allow him to renege on.

Not when it comes to power. Not when it comes to balancing the accounts of those that play a part in Fate's design.

There was nothing he could've done—nothing at all—not even the offering of a heartfelt prayer from a repentant soul like his, not even the forlorn hope of nine generations of blood-stained hands seeking salvation—could pay the price for one destiny-bound child that Fate had already claimed for its own. Especially not when Fate had made up its mind and chosen its Champion.

Title Translation: INIZIO = "THE START/ BEGINNING"