Title: Damned (1/1)

Fandom: Da Vinci's Demons

Character: Count Girolamo Riario

Rating: PG/PG-13

Summary: He had tried so hard to be a good and faithful man.

Author's Note: In which I drabble about a character I hate/love/have very strong and confusing feelings about.

. . .

Girolamo spent almost every night on his knees. Unlike the masses of the world, he did not do so in servitude. And, unlike the depraved of Florence and all the other godless realms, he did not do so in a search for carnal pleasure. No, he spent his nights on his knees in devotion.

He prayed to God. He prayed to the saints. He even prayed to Mary, and asked her to intercede on his behalf. He prayed for understanding and forgiveness and—please, please just a little—mercy.

Some nights he begged for it, sobbing and shaking, his body hunched over above the hard stone floor. Other nights, he raged, screaming and cursing and destroying everything around him. But no matter what, he always ended up in the same place.

In his quest to prove himself to God, he'd gained the knees of an old laborer before he'd even reached his fortieth year. He did not care. He could still ride with hurt knees. He could still walk. They were bruised and lumpy and unattractive, but he did not care. He had no one in this earthly world he wanted to impress.

"I would offer myself to you," he said one night, feeling his sword heavy at his side and his dagger sharp against his waist. Feeling his heart beating and his blood pumping. Feeling another failure and a beating from his uncle, Pope Sixtus IV, weighing him down. "I would offer myself to you at once, in any fashion, if… if only I knew you would take me, Lord."

The faux-prayer was blasphemy in itself, he knew—true believers would sacrifice themselves even without the promise of Heaven—but he did not know what else to say. He did not know what else to do. What he had said was true, he would sacrifice himself…but only if he was certain it would be St. Peter greeting him in the afterworld, and not one of Satan's demons. He had a secure, lavish place in this world—and, material man that he was, he could not risk abandoning it if all he would gain in return was eternal Hellfire, and to have his soul broken open like men were broken upon the wheel.

Girolamo was a strong man, this was true, but he was only strong in body. His bones could take a beating—they had taken many, many beatings—but his soul was much more fragile. His soul was hardly keeping together in one piece these days, in fact. Sometimes he could swear he felt it crack inside him. Sometimes he could swear felt it split, felt the fissure tear through him like lightning tore through the sky. Such moments always left him unhinged: shaking, sweating, scared. Terrified of his eternal fate. Terrified that faith alone would not be enough to spare him.

Would God even glance his way if his soul was not intact? He knew it was not pure—but if it was not intact? He wasn't sure even Satan would want him then. Where would he go? Would he be trapped in Purgatory, never to move up or down, condemned forever to watch others move onto their reward or their punishment while he remained static? Or was there still worse than that—was there something so terrible that not even the Bible addressed it? Was there some unknown space out there, a blackness like the night sky, but without the stars and the moon, that held the most evil and corrupt souls? Would he be an occupant of that place—of that endless abyss—for all eternity? The thought, and the possibility of it becoming a reality, nearly caused him to retch as he knelt on the floor.

He bowed down and pushed his head against the ground, grinding his forehead against the rough stone.

"Please," he begged, his throat catching in fear. "Lord, please take me as one of yours. Please understand, please forgive—I know I have done so many evil things. I know I have so many sins to account for. But just give me the chance to account for them, please! Give me the chance to confess them, to accept the blame and responsibility, before damning me to Hell, or—or sentencing me to the blackness. Please do not write me off. Please hear me out. I can explain, and I—I—"

I have tried to be better, he wanted to say, but he found he could not speak any longer. His throat was closing; his breaths growing shallow. He could feel his heart beating all over his body. He knew if he opened his eyes, the room around him would be spinning, like it had other times. He squeezed them tighter, and pressed more of his face against the cold, rough stone, ignoring the pain it caused him when his skin tore open. It was nothing compared to the pain he would face in the next world.

I know I have sinned terribly, he said silently, hoping God would listen to his thoughts more closely than his words and actions, I know I have done evil things and I know many of them are unforgivable in Your eyes… In anyone's eyes…

Their faces flashed in his mind, interrupting his thoughts. He could not see all the men he had killed—there were far, far too many for that—but there were some that stood out. The innocents. The blameless. The ones who truly did not, under any circumstance, need to die. They all looked at him, glared at him, and they screamed one word in unison: Murderer.

He wanted to tell God that their deaths had been for the glory—and the survival—of His Rome. Of the Vatican. Of God and His own message, His own faith. But that was not wholly true. And Girolamo knew he would be only casting himself further from Heaven if he pretended it to be so.

Sometimes he had not had a choice when it came to the murdering. Sometimes it had been his life or the others'. Pope Sixtus had made that clear on a number of occasions. Sometimes His Holiness threw out an order, other times he threw out a fist. And Girolamo had stood and taken whatever the Pope had given him, be they black tidings or black eyes, because he was not allowed to do anything else. End the House of Medici… before I end you, the Pope had told him, and Riario had gone and done it, because not doing it would mean dying. And he was not ready to die.

He had not yet made his peace with God, and he would fight for his right to do so, his right to life, with everything he had. He knew he would succeed in that endeavor. No one fought for their life like Girolamo Riario fought for his, after all. And he knew this to be true, because he had seen many, many people fight for their lives. And he had killed each and every one of them.

Sometimes he had not had a choice when it came to murdering, it was true. But other times, many times, he had had a choice. He had had a choice and he had chosen wrong. He had chosen evil and darkness. He had murdered and tortured and—worst of all, he knew—he had enjoyed doing it. He had smiled and he had laughed and he had taunted… It had felt good, for once, to take control over something. Over someone. He had spent so much of his life at the beck and call of others; so much of his life he had been used as target practice for other, more powerful and stronger men, to inflict their pain on.

And while he had tried to be different than that—to make his own destiny from the ruin that had been his earlier life—he supposed it was just who he was now. He had become what others made him, what he needed to be to survive and thrive, and he had gone along with it for so long that he no longer knew how to reverse it.

But he could not blame others completely, he knew. He himself had had a hand in all he did. It was his own fault that he could not change enough, that he could not be good enough. It was his own fault that he was a murderer and a torturer and a sinner.

He was a son of God, devout and learned of the Bible; he was a nephew of the Pope, God's highest emissary on earth; he was the Captain-General of the Holy Roman Church, and a successful one at that… but none of that truly mattered to him, and nor would it matter to God. No amount of titles or riches would grant him absolution of his many sins, nor admittance into Heaven. No amount of prayer or penance was going to save his soul, be it in pieces or be it whole, from damnation. He could spend his days as well as his nights on his knees. He could whip himself bloody trying to drive out the evil within him and he could starve himself into a skeleton trying to cast off the material wealth of this earthly world. But he would never be anything better than what he was. He would never be good enough for the Lord.

He wasn't even good enough for himself.

. . .

Author's Note: The knot of anxiety, attraction, fear, and ultimately, great confusion that I feel towards Riario knows no bounds. Hopefully I managed to capture some of his true character here. If not, please let me know and I will try harder next time!

Reviews & comments are most welcome!