"I can hate and love." When the words stumbled out of his mouth, hard and desperate, Micheletto knew he would die.
So be it.
His limbs felt numb as he made his way through the streets, barely noticing where he was going. Until tonight. When he would kill Pascal, for attempting to kill his master. For betraying both of them. For being but another demon with an angel's face. He would quench out the fire, wherever it had come from, and if the smoke choked him, so be it. He should have known better than to believe in a light without shadows.
"I can hate and love." He had done it all his life. All his life. Hated and loved his parents, his masters… even himself, somehow – there must be a bit of love to drag yourself so far through life. When he had found Cesare he had feared him, when he got to know him better he loved him, and when he saw how recklessly the Borgia acted, he thought he hated him. Maybe he did, a little.
But worse than that, he understood him. He understood everything Cesare did, he knew what he thought, often before Cesare did himself – and it was not only his experience that enabled him to do so. It was because Cesare was Micheletto, and Micheletto was Cesare. A different education, a different family, a different future certainly – but they were the same.
Odi et amo. Cesare shoved the paper away, but the words remained, clear and bright before his eyes.
Hate and love. "You can feel both at the same time, I've realized", Lucrezia had told him when she'd seen Sancha marrying Jofre, jealous and amazed by the southern beauty. Cesare had tried to soothe her, but he hadn't yet dared to tell her the truth: that no woman in the entire world was as beautiful as her.
How could love ever be a sin? Was it his fault, or Lucrezia's, that they were both born by the same woman? If there was a god – not that he believed that tale anymore, but just in case, just if – if he in his power had created each and every soul on earth, surely he had also created Cesare's and Lucrezia's love for each other. If there was a god, surely it was his will that they lived and consummated their love.
And if god didn't exist – well, than there was only earthly power to fear. And he was on his best way to become the mightiest lord around.
That was, if Micheletto succeeded in saving him again.
That was, if he had not pushed him too far this time.
Cesare knew the look the assassin had wanted to hide from him, he knew how it looked like to be absolutely lost. He had seen the same expression on his own face often enough before he finally had dared to make his love his own. Odi et amo – was there anyone who didn't know that feeling? Hate without love made you a monster, but love without hate made you a fool.
Was he a fool to trust Micheletto so completely?
It had been easy to despise the man. A killer, changing sides as soon as a blade was pointed at him. Cesare had not believed for one second in Micheletto's ambition to serve the mightiest and cleverest; it had been fear for his life that made him offer himself to the Borgias. Later however, Cesare had realized that Micheletto had principles. Dark and twisted ones, but he remained loyal to them. Loyal to him. He had become his shadow, his other half – his darker half at first, but Cesare knew that while his glory was shining out, the light of it had darkened. He was no longer the pope's honored and honest son, no longer a beloved gentleman his city was proud of. He didn't even know which city was his in the moment.
Still, Micheletto stayed with him. The dog who had begged for his life and a home – the friend who was just about to rip his heart out for Cesare.
He must not do it.
Cesare leapt up and stormed down to the stables, roaring for his horse to be saddled. Of course, Pascal had to die, but it shouldn't be by Micheletto's hands. This at least he could do for him.
The spying boy, in the end, was just that: a boy. He had not foreseen his death in Rome. He cried with fear and begged for mercy, but not for long. Perhaps, Micheletto thought, he saw death in his eyes. There was no life left in him, it was only duty that kept him upright. He would kill Pascal to save Cesare, and therefore, Giovanni, and that cause was worth this sacrifice. Then he would leave Cesare's and his world.
"Do it." Pascal held out his hands, waiting for the blade. His skin was pale as ivory and smooth as silk. A last touch of heaven. When Micheletto sliced his wrists, Pascal's eyes turned as blank and lifeless as his own were. "Don't let me go" he whispered.
"Never." His voice was hoarse, broken, but he held the boy in his arms as he fell, and one dying glance met another until Pascal's eyes closed and his body became a statue. The statue of an angel.
Micheletto lay next to him on the ground, Pascal's blood on his hands and clothes, feeling nothing.
When the first ray of sunlight stole into the room and kissed the dead boy's forehead, he left without looking back.
