A/N: Hello! This is my first fanfiction for this fandom. Really, I was quite fascinated by their history after seeing some of the promotional pics of the Showtime The Borgias. I analysed one of the photos for my wordpress page for my portfolio, but really I haven't watched the show yet. I wrote this piece after having little itches about it and decided to get it out of my system. This is the product of it, which I really have no idea what to make of it. Poetic (or at least I think so) but in a storytelling way... how does that work? I've no idea, but if you have anyway in which I can improve my writing, please leave me some constructive feedback! Enjoy! :)
Their love was unlikely, unnatural, impossible even. How could any other compare? All other tragedies shrank and is labelled soulless in comparison to the the enormity of their ardour for one another, their passion for the other. It was unconventional, to say the least. Or at least what the people of Italy whisper between themselves of them was unconventional (words).
Birthed from the same blood, they had been bound from their conception in every way except the way they wanted. As they say, love your own. To each other, they were not the courtiers they were expected to be, with false charming smiles gracing their features and poison dripping from the lady's lips, knives hidden between the gentleman's clenched knuckles. To each other, they were everything; a valuable asset they were inseparable from. They were the other's fortune, thus they were rich.
So when the Lady Lucrezia had been married (the first time), garbed in the finest gold brocade and glowing with youthful innocence, Cesare felt his darkness aroused from within a prison of pure blinding white, so blinding in fact that it mislead others with his holy profession and deceived them of his true immoral nature.
Naturally, his true nature did not concern her nor did it faze her love for him.
He was himself and she was herself, the heaven to his hell, forever water and oil to each other; bidden to touch but never to mix, only shallow and chaste in interaction. Even more so that a single golden cage barred them from the other. Their lovers are the image of their true loved one, a testament that even in their distance from each other, they continue to pine for each other, if only in their mind and body.
Her husband gone and him freed from the shackles of a god he never worshipped, whispers began. Fleeting only but was surely there. The brother they shared, the brother they both loved mightily had lost their love for him and in place of that, fear and hatred was planted, cultivated. Harsh mutters of disgust assaulted their ears, their facades shakily held strong as attack after attack was launched at them until that brother was no more. Silenced with his blood, sempiternally holding the shame and scandal that he threatened to expose with a mouth wide open and no voice to announce it.
The death of Juan did not bring the silence that was wished for but enticed more whispers, more gossips to slander the Holy family. They did not need to do so, the family had done it to themselves. Yet, they drew themselves tighter to each other, the strings becoming loose as Cesare began to assimilate into Him, except power-hungry and blood-lusting.
She felt the pull, that blood red line that tied them together and the son that was his likeness. It was worrying, this burgeoning feeling of lust and ever-present and undeniable tension between them in their meetings, their interactions. Innocent yet knowing. Her (new) husband began to notice the somewhat (un)chaste greetings they have for the other. Misplaced kisses of passion on their lips, tight and intimate hugs… Alfonso began to question the love that she claimed to have for him.
Over and over and over again.
Of course, it did not matter. It would never matter, whether or not she loved him. He was not Cesare, not to her. His suspicion for them was merely a small burden that can easily be disposed of, easily bypassed with the snap of her brother's fingers. They would consummate their relationship, this indescribable connection with each other at their own leisure because they have God on their side, do they not? Their father, the Holy Father... either way, they will do so with or without his blessing. This blessing so difficult to give.
It did not matter then.
It was done.
Her husband will never truly have her, if she belonged to him at all because he now belonged to heaven (or hell). It seemed, from the start, that she had belonged to Cesare and that others stood no chance at winning her deepest affections, only the shallow fleeting ones were their consolation prizes. Now both of the same blood, both their souls were sentenced to eternal damnation. But they revelled in the bitter sweetness of its sentence, that they would be granted the consolation of being together. They would never willingly go to heaven if this was the paradise that awaited them, an eternity of suffering together.
With her husband's death, whispers began to fly even faster and became even more scathing. What could they say? Their love was unlikely, unnatural, impossible even. How could any other compare? All other tragedies shrank and is labelled soulless in comparison to the the enormity of their ardour for one another, their passion for the other. It was unconventional, to say the least.
A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed that. I think I'm really writing this piece to get some inspiration for my other stories, I'm so stuck! I've so many decisions to make with my life I'm not even sure how to begin! Anyway, please leave some constructive feedback as I have no idea what I did with this piece, I literally just let all of it out. Until next time. Cheers, Nemo xoxo