By Thothauthor. Heed the rating! Rated M. For some mature content, (but no incest here, sorry C/L lovers). Typically I specialize in moderately explicit PWP, but a Borgia fic without plot seems a bit sacrilegious. So, I stole just a bit of plot and expanded….

I might expand more with a bit of encouragement. Hope you enjoy!

Cesare: "I must warn you, sis, that I will visit often…"

Sister Martha: "You must."

Ch. 1

It had been about six months since Cesare Borgia had learned of his sister's pregnancy. In that time, he had been true to his word. He had orchestrated a solution to the Sforza problem, and had kept her secret from his father much longer than he thought would be possible. When the time came, he convinced his sister to tell their parents the real reason for her confinement. Their mother did not seem surprised, even when Cesare intimated that the child was not likely to be a Sforza. He had visited the Convent of Saint Cecelia several times, and watched his sister radiate new life all the more with each passing month.

And he had seen her, too. Briefly, and never alone. They exchanged pleasantries, and news. Even exchanged laughter, once. Each time Cesare came to his sister, they silently sought each other out. He, and Ursula Bonadeo.

But today, he would see her alone.

His sister was luminous, in a simple satin gown and unadorned hair around her face. She had grown up, become a woman. And he was always stunned by how astutely she analyzed the bits of information he brought her from the outside world. Shocked, even, when she understood exactly why his plan with Sforza would work so well, how it would free her future so entirely. He kissed her cheek when she lightly lamented the potential fates of her bastard son. She was sure it would be a boy, to which Cesare answered "Only time will tell for sure." He bid her rest, and left his sister before the other object of his visit could call on the Borgia siblings while they were together.

He met her in an ante-chapel. She had mentioned it once as a favorite in the afternoons. Secluded, and quiet; ideal for her preferences during serious prayer. He entered silently, despite the ancient and heavy door. He had a natural grace, and a carefully cultivated knack for stealth.

He had to take a moment to let his eyes adjust to the low light. At first, his heart fell. The chapel seemed empty. But a small movement, in a middle pew to the far side of the entrance alerted him. He approached, but took a deliberate step two benches behind her place of prayer in order to alert her. She flinched, but continued her devotions. He knelt beside her, closer than was proper in an empty church, but without touching her. Her prayers continued, but he was close enough to note the slight change in her breath.

He accepted the silence for some time, and gave himself time to build the courage to speak by pretending to pray himself. When he spoke, it was in hushed tones and directed towards the kneeling stool he used.

"I had to see you before I left."

She did not answer or turn, but inclined her head towards him. He took it as an indication that she would listen. The rest flowed from him in a gush, that even if he had wanted, he could not quell.

"I must thank you for your kindness to my sister. She has taken a solace in your companionship that I had never considered. She speaks of you with nothing but highest praise. Calls you a dear friend for all your sweet attentions. As if you were an angel….in fact she says that you are an angel who was brought to her by my inspired insight. And I feel a fool….that I cannot bring myself to tell her the truth. That I did not guide you to her, that nothing in me is inspired. That I condemned you to this life…"

His voice broke and he could not go on. He crumpled, leaning back on his heels, with his chin on his chest. His eyes were closed, but when he felt her gentle touch, he turned his face into her shoulder with a quiet sob.

"I am sorry, Sister. Truly sorry for everything I have done, this life I have brought upon you. For all that I am…"

Then she shushed him, with a feather-light touch to the blade of his shoulder. "You have nothing to be sorry for. God has granted me this fate, and led me to this place. And I am strangely suited to this life; it has brought me a peace I had not imagined possible. Please, you have nothing to be sorry for. And your pain breaks my heart. I forgive you, Cesare."

Her forgiveness tore another sob from his soul, as she lay her cheek softly on top of his hair. They stayed in silence for a while. He felt like an innocent boy, and drowned himself in her silent absolution.

But as his self-pity subsided, the devil rose in him and Cesare could not help himself. Before he could stop it, before he could even think, his heart choked his inner most desire out from his lips. "Say it again."

She spoke sweetly, like a saint, "I forgive you."

"No," he whispered, his cheeks afire with shame, "say my name."

He felt her tense. Her whole body hardened at his words, but she did not move away. For several seconds, neither of them drew breath.

Then, "Cesare." It broke from her with barely a sound.

He shuddered, and soaked in the sound of her voice. Before his mind could catch up, he had responded. "Again, I beg you," whispered in a desperation he barely knew he felt.

She sat up straighter, forcing him to move his cheek from her shoulder. He thought he had lost her, but she remained at his side. He studied her. Her eyes shut tight against the world. Her hands clasped together so tightly that her fingers grew white, sending the blood as a carnal blush to her face in a mockery of prayer. She whispered it again in this state, "Cesare."

Her voice forced his eyes closed again for a moment. But some part of him stirred at this small triumph, and he acted confidently when he leaned into her. Eyes open, with lips just gently brushing the shell of her ear, the firm and fervent word dropped.

"Again."

It was her turn. Tumbled from her in a strangled sob, his name, "Cesare!"

The devil overtook him, and he exhaled the hot breath held for so long across her ear. He took the lobe with utmost delicacy between his teeth, as his arm found its way around her waist. A nearly silent moan escaped her, and the sound reminded him of several sacred nights when Ursula Bonadeo shared his bed.

He moved his lips along her jaw, using the hand that did not secure her waist to touch her cheek gently. To guide her face towards him. Their lips met. For a moment, it was perfection. He tasted her, and her lips parted. She accepted his unchaste kiss. In another moment, he would have a tangled hand in her novitiate habit and she would be trapped in his embrace.

Without a word she pushed against him, hard. He fell awkwardly from the kneeler, and she flew. He did not move until he heard the heavy chapel door close behind her. He covered his face. It was not as he had planned. He begged her forgiveness from a God he never really knew.