Hello, again. Forgive me, but I have not been on in a while.
Disclaimer: Do you honestly think I would be on here if I owned Cantarella and all the trappings entailed? For the idiots out there, the answer is NO. Not that I would mind owning Cesare for a while.
The blood I have spilt will never wash away. The screams of those who have stood in my way will echo in my dreams for the rest of my days, I know…however few days that may be. I thought I had no one. No, I knew I had no one. I was alone, save those evil spirits that shadowed my every waking moment, ruining my already narrow chance at happiness. I was wanted for all the wrong reasons.
I wanted to die. I did not achieve my goal, because the one person, who, it turned out, actually cared for me, impeded my attempt. He, quite literally, generated what I became. What I am. He is the reason I still live.
I made him my servant, in a way—my little assassin. I called him that once, and he got rather annoyed. In fact, he attempted to kill me. But that was before. Before, when we were both children with our own separate worlds, ideas, and motives. Before we became what we are.
We hurt each other, before; we inflicted more injury on each other than rightfully deserved. Especially me. I hurt him far more than he could ever hope to hurt me. As I injured him, I injured myself; I will never let anything wound him again, physically or otherwise. It would damage me as well, you understand.
I took a chance one night; I kissed him. He avoided me for some time afterward, to the point that I was forced to send Volpe to get him. He was so anxious; I remember it well. I could have told him then, of course. But that would have gotten me nowhere. So I patiently bided my time until my little assassin could come to terms with how things were meant to be…how I wanted them to be.
We became…I wouldn't exactly call it "friends", but comrades in a master-servant correlation would be closer to the mark. But it was stronger than that. It ran deep, like an unnamed bond that was laced in our blood—his pure, mine poisonous. His loyalty never wavered, until, of course, Lucrezia came. Before that, however, he became a strut, a support that snared me fast to the earth, which I felt that I could someday rule. He reminded me resolutely that I was Cesare Borgia, not a common man that would give in so effortlessly at the first sign of unease. I was alive, more alive than I had felt ever before. I knew that, with him around, I was safe.
I was supposed to kill him. I ended up saving him—not only from those inner demons that were all too real for him, but also from himself. We were children when we met, not anywhere near maturity in mind or body, but he was already doomed. And I saved him, the single most significant act that I have ever accomplished, or ever will accomplish. This I know. This is one thing I am certain of. He needed saving, and I was meant to save him. I would have done anything to save him. He had suffered enough.
His eyes…so cold. They were…are…so dark, so strong. And at other times, so childlike, so innocent that they wrenched somewhere deep in my chest, shredding my heart. He could be so harmless at some times, and I found it hard to believe that this was the man that could easily destroy. The man that could conquer. I tried to be on my guard, but my attempts were in vain. He captured me, caught me in his unsettled web that drove me to my knees in wonderment. At other times, he could be so merciless, so harsh. He slaughtered and did foul acts that would easily damn a man to the deepest pits in hell. He could turn any hardhearted warrior into a trembling coward. And yet I found myself enthralled by his irregular disposition, almost deciphering him like an experiment. Like a maze.
He kissed me, twice. Both times by force. The first was when he was drunk. I am half glad that he didn't remember. Yet here I am, not letting myself forget. The second was after I realized I loved Lucrezia. He smashed me against a wall and crunched his lips powerfully against mine, his tongue lashing cogently in my mouth. I knew by that time, of course, that he had harbored feelings for me, but I had not been expecting that. So I did what I have always done: I played stupid, me being the coward I am. I pretended to think it was a joke, and it took every bit of my will just to seem convincing. On an average day, I supposed he would have sensed my falsehood, but he had been distracted, very distracted. I had just destroyed his heart, after all—I believe he can be excused for not catching my pretense in that situation.
My God, what the hell is wrong with me?! I can't sleep, I can't think, and I can't even breathe from this unbearable pain aching in my stomach and chest. But I know exactly what's wrong—Cesare Borgia, that Tyrant of Darkness and Pain, has thrown all my logic away.