RPF Fic: i left you behind in that holy city
LOL I think it’s safe to say that I’ve absolutely lost my mind. There’s just no excuse anymore. Anyways, this is, well, a very small part of a much, much larger thing that exists because falseeeyelashes likes to send me wacky things that appeal to both of us … and sort of explode. And marketchippie knows her part in all of this. I’M A GOOD LISTENER, OKAY.
i left you behind in that holy city
rpf au + the borgias ; eva green/james purefoy ; 5,104
they are a long history of interludes; sometimes it is more about who they decide to meet.
-
The Maccabees | Young Lions
There are too many things that are certain. This story has been told too many times, both with old angles and new faces. But there are facts and facts, if anything, are important.
In Rome, there is man, the Church, and the dead - it's all a delicate balance, a necessary evil that is always understood.
The first thing you should know: they always return to Rome.
"I was already here," James tells her, upon arrival. The estate is hidden within the city, buried against the outskirts; it's strategic, and from the bedroom, she can watch the rest of the sun finish disappearing.
But she ignores him, brushing by him, greeting their servants with a slight smile. No one talks of what happened to the last staff; that was nearly a century ago, and they've long stopped keeping generations like pets.
Eva moves to their rooms though. The bed is made, perfectly cornered as if he were expecting her nonetheless. There are no other smells but the lavender from the garden, and perhaps, perhaps even a little of the roses. She does not look for other signs but her things have already been seated. There are bottles of perfume and candles and she cannot help but wonder what kind of trouble he's already written himself into.
"You're angry."
Startled, Eva turns and James is resting against the door. He watches her. His mouth twitches and he cocks his head to the side.
"That was nearly a century ago, of course," he says.
Her eyes narrow. "Let's not waste a perfectly good household, shall we?"
Somewhere in this house, there is still blood.
They have been together for centuries now. Her age is no longer important; together, they are considered some of the Firsts and somehow, James thinks of himself as occasionally interested in being a statesman. "I am still, above all, a Roman," he tells her, and this, somehow, is why they keep coming back.
She is still angry with him about the Crusades.
The Church is well involved in the affairs of the living and the dead; it takes a perfect construction of acceptance and the cunning to understand how to navigate between both worlds - for those of them that exist among the living and the dead. Eva, however ageless, does not agree or participate. There is something to be said about watching with patience.
But by now, James is a perfectly agreeable Christian name. He joins her outside, long after the rest of the house has finished going to bed. She sits in the grass, spreading her dress out, her fingers curling in the silk. Her hair stays pulled back and her eyes are glued to the walls of their home, watching the vines that still climb into the stones.
"We are to have dinner with the Pope," he says, and she snorts, shaking her head. She wears no cross, of course. "Oh don't make that face, darling. You do know that this is all inevitable, you and me and political ambitions. You know that I have to be entertained every once in awhile."
"Awhile?" she asks dryly.
He comes to sit. Instead of the bench behind her, he drops to the grass and leans forward, brushing his mouth against her jaw. Her eyes close halfway, her hand reaching out of habit, her fingers curling at his wrist.
"You are still angry."
She shakes her head. "I don't understand why I keep letting you take me back here."
It has to be said: inside, the lights start to fail, fade and she cranes her neck back, watching the last of their servants start to disappear. She does not hear the kitchens. She remembers it's time to feed.
"The Pope," she says, and she looks to him, her gaze settling into some sort of warmth. His mouth quirks. "Does he know?" her head cocks to the side. "Who you are, who you were - that sort of thing? I mean you cannot deny it - you are the most illustrious of dinner guests."
He laughs. "You're still angry."
"And you think I have no right to be?"
He doesn't answer. His hands cup her face and he pulls her close, closer, his mouth brushing over hers. She gives him a soft sigh.
He would, she thinks.
The first dinner is a show. It is a complicated relationship between all of them: the living, the dead, the Church. Everyone accepts the secrets and peace; peace is a mere illusion.
By now they talk of the Borgias with fear; it follows the two of them into dinner, as they're seated at the table, and one by one, each member of the family assembles around the father at the head of the table. Eva does not sit next to James. Instead, she is between Vanozza and Lucrezia and eyeing her wine with the slightest of amusement. James' laugh is the loudest at the other end of the table.
"I hear you travel quite a bit," Vanozza says, and Eva turns to the other woman. She studies her and picks up the disdain. It's Lucrezia that watches the both of them with genuine interest. "How wonderful," the other woman adds.
Eva nods. "We enjoy it." I remember the taste of your father's father, she does not say. Families are universal. It would be rather impolite if she were to mention the meal she had of the woman's immediate relatives.
But there is no continuation of the conversation, from her or Vanozza, whose gaze continues to linger more and more at the opposite end of the table at James, at the Pope and Cesare. It is a curious thing, she thinks, being a mistress.
"I do not understand it."
She blinks and Lucrezia is reaching for her, touching her arm as her mother rises from her seat. There is a flurry of fabric and anger, but no one seems to humor her tiny, tiny tantrum. There is a singular glance from James though, a flash of delight that is only for her.
Eva almost rolls her eyes. "Understand?" she asks.
Lucrezia's mouth curls. She gives a slight nod to the end of the table. Her father is in deep conversation with James again.
"Mama calls it a curious collection of egos."
Eva laughs.
"And what of you?" she asks.
Lucrezia smiles mysteriously. Her fingers curl around the cross, the large cross at her throat. "I am learning," she says.
She likes Lucrezia, of course. They retire to a sitting room away from wherever the rest of the dinner company have gone off to; it's the father, the sons, and James, oh James. His dinner smile was every bit as dangerous as the sharpness of Cesare’s gaze.
The room is small though, draped in silk and candlelight, a strange assortment of art and gold that almost offends Eva. Catholics, she thinks with a sigh. She moves to join the girl on one of the lounges, folding her hands over her lap carefully.
"Have you married for love?" the girl asks immediately. Eva looks at her in surprise. No one talks to her about marriage. Lucrezia smiles, amused as if she has caught onto some great secret. "I do - I hope I have not offended you," she says.
Eva shakes her head. "No," she murmurs. "It is - it is a charming question." She considers revealing the secret, or part of the secret; it is entirely too complex to really worry about. She laughs softly. "I am, I must admit, angry at my husband." She bites the inside of her mouth. She doesn't want to cringe. "But you have not offended me."
Lucrezia smiles. The lack of satisfaction is entirely present. Eva doesn't know whether or not she should continue to be charmed or curious. She wonders what she has given away. People fascinate her and perhaps, perhaps that is key to why she still lives among them and not in isolation.
Her memories with and of James are strange, strange things, pieces of her life that she is coy about sharing. It has gone beyond, long beyond a passionate companionship. There are many things that she does not know how to verbalize nor is she willing to give to him; they are a careful kind of violence still.
"They will return," Lucrezia say. She is smiling again. "Mama calms down and Papa is off on his visits," she tells her. "And -" Her eyes brighten. "Cesare sees me off to my room - do you have any children?"
The question slips in, maybe even as a test. Eva studies her. She does not know what James has mentioned. So she is honest, forcing herself to relax against the lounge.
"It is complicated," she says, and this seems to settle Lucrezia's interest, if not for the moment. They sit and they talk of idle things, of Rome, of the latest, of gods and God, and the way her life seems to be nothing but full now - but only when things are chaotic. They laugh at the egos of the others - of James, of her father and her brothers and the others in company, bent together like young friends.
The girl is right, however, and minutes, minutes pass as her brother politely introduces himself into their conversation. He is all charm, all smiles, and kisses her greeting. The sentiment is returned to his stister too - Lucrezia is all beauty with her reception. It is such a small moment, an immediate and inane moment, and there is something to be said about the change in how she carries herself with the simple joy of his company.
Eva does not tell James: it is a most curious thing.
It is very easy to kill in Rome. She will give James this; their own estate is quiet when the servant brings them the prostitute. Eva rolls her eyes as James laughs with delight.
"I am sharing, darling," he says, and the young man is pushed between the two of them, dirty with incense and the strangest color of robes she has ever seen. Neither black nor blue, his eyes seem to dart around nervously as his hands pick at the fabric. He does not fit in their bedroom though and the air from the garden starts to wander in. "I have missed you, you know," he grins and flashes his teeth. He grabs the man by the throat. "And I know you will indulge me -"
She snorts. "You are lucky I do."
James does not break the man's neck. Instead, his fingers break the skin with a resounding crack and she can smell the blood as it sneaks into his hand.
"Darling," he says.
Her eyes darken. "I want to understand," she says slowly. "I want to understand," she starts again, "why you are seeking the company of the Church."
"You are worried."
"Immensely."
He chuckles and lowers his mouth to the man's throat, drawing it over the blood. Her eyes go to his fingers as they drop, the blood starting to fall against his clothes.
"You should not be," he says, and it's mid-pause that causes him to look up at her. The man whimpers and Eva takes a step forward. "They know who we are. It is the Church, after all."
She cuts him off. "You still have not explained why we're here, why the Church, why this particular family."
All in good time, he does not say. And to allies, he does not add. It would be the appropriate response, a response that he often favors. There is a part of her that likes it, although she would never admit it to him. He knows her too well.
James draws the man's head back, his hand pulling his hair and thrusting the body forward. The motion is sharp and insistent. She is quiet, a little tired, and brushes her hands against her hips. There is a reason why it's just the two of them, she thinks. Some days she feels like she could understand, maybe even know. Other days, there is nothing sensible about it.
"You like them," she says slowly, and it is not an accusation. She is gentle, moving forward. Her fingers brush against the man's chest, over the small, open wound against his neck. Her fingers trace the teeth marks. They are sticky and warm and she brings them to James' mouth.
He does not smile. There is no answer. No, no. Not yet. His eyes are bright and she lets out a soft sigh as he draws his tongue over her skin. She will watch, she decides. She is not hungry just yet and there is something, something impossibly fascinating about watching him this way.
James leans into her, pressing her against the man, against him, his free hand coming to rest against her hip. He pulls at the fabric of her dress. "I love you," he says, and kisses her. This will be slow and thoughtful for her; he doesn't have to say it. She laughs though and he swallows the sound, biting her lip hard.
Between them, the man starts to cry. He does not lie, Eva thinks.
Lucrezia greets her with a delighted laugh upon their next visit.
Much to the amusement of the father and sons, and the dismay of her own mother; Eva takes her arm as if they were very much the pair of old friends and kisses the girl's cheek. She can feel her own affection.
"Dinner is not quite ready," she whispers, and her eyes are alight with too much mischief. It is then that Eva catches the gaze of Cesare, who grasps James by the arm with the two of them in mid-laugh. He is watching his sister only.
Eva laughs, amused. "Shall we sneak away then?"
The girl smiles widely. She is inexplicably beautiful again and perhaps, even more so, as they pass her brother who flashes a grin. Eva catches it but doesn't mean to and feels Lucrezia's hand turn and grip her arm.
Inside, she is lead into a hall. It is an odd thought, to call all of this a home, as if it were nothing more than a burden of proof. There is too much of a careful silence. The walls are strained with candlelight though and the gold seems entirely too ornate, out of place even. Everything is for show. She half-suspects that the daughter is expected to lead her around; she does not ask about her mother.
"My father and brother talk of you in whispers," Lucrezia says to her. They lose the conversation of the others but pause when they hear a wail erupt. The girl's eyes darken and Eva can only assume it is her mother. "It is the most curious thing, of course. But you knew that."
"I do," she says easily.
When they stop, it's outside of a room. Lucrezia studies the door; behind them, there is an open balcony and voices start to rise from underneath the two of them. There are other priests here, of course.
"My mother -"
Lucrezia touches Eva's arm. Eva follows her outside again, into the balcony. It over looks the city, the high buildings that seem to fold around homes and libraries and the random, if not perfect assortment of things that make up the city. She understands the use for the Church.
"My mother," the girl starts again. "Thinks you are a fool to indulge me."
Eva's mouth twitches. "And what would she have me do?"
The girl shrugs.
They're quiet and Eva leans into the railing. There is very little of her that believes that Lucrezia is naive, or as naive as everyone hopes her to be, child or not. She thinks of the girl's brother again.
"I am not indulging you," Eva says slowly.
But she does not finish.
Dinner is an easy affair, however. The second night has her sitting across from James, between the Pope himself and Lucrezia.
"I hear you've been to Spain a number of times," he says lightly. Eva glances at James, who smirks in kind. She resists the urge to snap his neck. She does not force a smile though and she keeps her feelings unclear. "Yes," she answers. "And the Holy Land," she adds. She licks her lips. "Undoubtedly, a most educational experience," she says.
"She went alone," James shares.
There is a soft gasp next to her. The Pope chuckles. The amusement does not reach his eyes; he does know, she thinks.
"How scandalous," Cesare drawls. Both he and James laugh loudly. Eva's eyes narrow and underneath the table, Lucrezia's chair scratches the floor.
Eva's lips purse. She reaches for her wine, her fingers brush over the rim of the glass. She is quiet and they are all watching, waiting. She can play, she thinks. These rules haven't changed for centuries.
She turns her gaze to the Pope - Rodrigo. She will not give him the choice of his own name though, nor will she give him Alexander. She feels old, almost suddenly, and calmly brings the glass to her mouth.
"I have a heavy distaste for politics," she says.
The room grows cold. Her sensations begin to sharpen. She eyes James, whose amusement ahs not changed. They fed before they came. They are polite in company, but Eva is not against cutting a few throats for sport. She prefers otherwise.
"Did I offend you, my lady?" The Pope asks; by now, she has long since left her name, her real name behind. Sometimes she allows herself to indulge and there are names like Julia and Mary and Catherine, god, Catherine. Lady protects the power that none of them have.
"If you were to offend me," she says. Her voice is even. "It would be your children who would know first."
She does not hide her disdain for this place anymore, nor does she soften it for company. She listens to the rustle of fabric, of Cesare straightening. There is arousal and lust, there is the knife in his boot, the sound of it as it rubs against the leather, and the promise of poison in a few choice corners. The silence is fringing though.
The servants have seemed to disappear. The Pope reaches for the wine and fills her glass again. He is too careful.
"Perhaps, we should take a walk."
James bursts into laughter.
They talk of all things Rome, of the Church against the backdrop of the garden and bedrooms, under the smell of lavender and roses, and the light that she presumes comes from his mistress’ room. There are the few graces of his children, of Lucrezia and the briefest mention of her sons. She refuses his Holiness and the invitation of his arm, listening as he relates his desire to control more and more of his enemies and less of the people. She considers talking of Christ and James, but does not fall into old habits.
“Perhaps,” the man says. His eyes are dark with interest, neither his daughters nor the smallest of his sons. He does not ask her about her age. “We could talk common ground,” he finishes.
Her answer is sharp. “I will still be here when you are gone.”
She kills a man upon their return home, and then another, a servant, who is scattering up the stairs. It is an easy twist of his neck and she sinks her teeth into his throat, feeding with too much ease.
The body makes a gurgling sound. She presses it into the doorway and drowns out the mix of laughter and horror from James and their servants alike. There are chunks of hair in her hand and her knee settles in between the man’s thighs. Oh what history, she thinks.
"Darling," James says behind her. "Darling."
"Bastard," she breathes, and drops the body at her feet. She licks her fingers and his eyes narrow, darken as he starts pulling at his shirt. Her head is spinning and she cannot decide if she is angry enough to kill again or fuck him for the sheer ridiculousness of this entire trip.
Her head is spinning with the weight of the conversation, of a man who wanted to hear nothing more than how to continue his ultimate power trip. She thinks of the girl, of Lucrezia, and for a moment, a brief moment, considers taking the girl herself.
"You know," she snarls. "I do not get involved."
There is blood all over her, her hands and her dress. The body starts to slip with weight. She licks her lips. Her fingers curl and uncurl with the sensation of the man's neck. She can no longer taste the wine.
"You know how this works."
"I do," James says. He waves a hand, bored. "A council of elders blah, blah, blah. Delicate balance, blah, blah, blah. No killing, no fucking, no dancing. Why do they think we live among them?"
She snorts and he reaches for her hand. He brings it to his mouth. His tongue traces the lines in her skin. She curls her fingers and pulls her arm away, swinging it and her hand to hit his face. Her nails claw at his cheek and he laughs, laughs in delight.
The madness is overbearing, sometimes, but there is such a rush that comes to her when he looks at her that way and maybe, maybe it's the memory of their first time, of her own discovery. It is simple: she did not turn him and it does not matter. The two of them have what the others do not. There is patience and kindness, lust and mistrust, an ideology -
If he were a man, she would love him all the same. He is still the same.
"The boy," he drawls softly. James moves to her again. She leans into him this time and slides her mouth over her nail marks. She tastes him. "The boy," he breathes, "he's useful - he will not leave his sister."
"You are mad," she says, and she laughs too. Of course, she thinks. Of course. There is always some sort of answer with him. "Are you trying to tell me that this your idea of expanding into a family?"
She licks her lips and he nods, suddenly serious. His eyes are dark and he straightens against her, threading his hand through her hair. It is not the way that he looks at her, or the brush of insanity this seems to have. There are other children and there are favorites. It doesn't matter to her. What she wants to know is where the interest is coming from.
James pulls her head back, his mouth at her throat. He tells her: "I have always wanted a son."
It is important to understand that neither Eva nor James remembers the exact length of their timeline. Rome, oh Rome, has become some sort of opportunity for the both of them; maybe it’s to correct, maybe it’s regain the promise of old mistakes.
Somehow, the outcome is always the same. They meet too many people.
And the household never lasts that long.
Cesare arrives at the estate days, maybe a week later, when the need for an apology seems to have passed. Eva is quite sure that they know of her in variation, which is just as unsettling as knowing her and what she can do. But both he and James greet each other as friends and soldiers, nether of them in any position to relate to both at the moment.
"My darling sister," he tells her with a greeting. His mouth brushes against her jaw. "Sends her regards - she will be along tomorrow night."
"I look forward to seeing her," she says carefully.
The two men laugh, and their heads are bowed even as James swings an arm around his shoulder. The light from inside the house catching the two of them, handsomely still with their smiles and their dark eyes. There is something dangerous to the prospect of this and her curiosity starting to grow again.
She watches them both, of course.
(There is very little that James does not hold back with Cesare. Maybe it's mutual fascination, maybe it's some strange way of proving himself to Eva - there will be a time where he explains it to her. Remember there are things like Pompeii and other women, women who he uses for the sheer satisfaction of making sure he is, in fact, the only one. He knows her as one of the Firsts, though, and one of the few that still remain.
"You would be perfectly fine," James says with a laugh. "We are very much like Rome, her soldiers, and the Church.
It is another family secret.)
But Lucrezia comes mid-afternoon, on the heels of some news about her mother, accompanied by maids as she reaches her brother with her arms and an open mouth over his jaw. They talk in whispers even as the sun is starting to set and cool and Eva, rising, can see them peeking from high in her own window.
It is not the picture that they paint: the golden child, an appropriate homage to art and artists alike, from this time and the next, and it's the smoothness of her cheeks, the intensity of her eyes buried, burrowed against the neck of her brother. She can see his hands in her hair, digging into her cap and even against the back of her neck, his eyes closed in some kind of rapture. Behind her, James is stirring and they will feed.
Tonight, it's separately.
Dinner is a fascinating turn of events. There are no exact questions about who they really are. The four of them sit outside, mostly because both Eva and Lucrezia seem to agree on the cool air and leave little room for disagreement.
They are a combination of gold and blue. Cesare seems delighted by his sister’s choice in color. He reaches for her, every so often, allowing his hand to move from her shoulder to her arm and maybe, just maybe, they will lean in a little too close, his nose brushing hers - or is it hers. Eva is almost amused again. They are watching children with secrets.
And James, James seems intent on discussing the Crusades, the lust and desires and a clear affirmation of what their guests will not ask. . She does not get angry and rolls her eyes as he lightens the conversation with easier tales of battle. He's subjective but he's ambiguous, as if to establish a polite and firm understanding of not wanting to give everything away. It is more than just a silly game.
"He prefers company away from the family," Lucrezia tells her. "Mama says it is because he spends too much time with our father and his army of priests."
"And you?"
"I prefer my brother," she says simply.
Eva's mouth twitches. The thought crosses her mind again. It would be easy. It would be entirely too selfish; she would let them go, James would pretend to. Maybe in a few years, he'd kill them both. He is unpredictable but this is something that she likes.
"He loves you," Eva says finally, and the two of them are picking at their food, a singular motion amusingly enough. Cesare laughs loudly, maybe even louder than James, throwing his head back in amusement as the both of them watch. His eyes are wide when he catches the gaze of Lucrezia.
It is the same, the same glances that she caught at their dinners, and even in the memories of how the girl spoke of her brother. It's there, right there, in that look, in his and hers and it's just as selfish as Eva can understand. There is nothing shy about their company, nor is there any sort of apology. He simply reaches for her, his fingers touching the underside of her jaw. It is meant to be intimate and uncomfortable.
The girl's response is soft. She nods to James and both men are watching. "Like he loves you,” she says.
She does not correct Lucrezia or even answer in kind.
This is the last time they talk.
It is 1950 when James follows her to Cuba, after there is something with a running housewife and people are entirely too focused on Ingrid Bergman and her affair with Rossellini.
The heat in Havana is new and interesting, it feels slick against her skin and underneath the hoop of fabric from her dress. They live above a jazz club, uninterested in the very same associations as their other children. There is Diane, of course, and enough of a politician for the both of them. By now, their kind is being quietly integrated into society and there is still the very curious rush of feeding off the patronizing.
They are left alone in Cuba too and it is the first time, in very long time, where she is enjoying his company without the history or his desire to push her to immediate reaction - not to say that it will not happen. Some habits are just habits all the same.
As they walk back from dinner, a pair of students that seemingly wandered into their company - lost, perhaps even looking for dance lessons, she sees them. Or sees her.
It is the same lure of skin, soft, flushed as the woman throws her head with laughter; the woman is halfway between adulthood and standing simply as a girl. She sees her eyes, big, wide, and bright and her hair unraveling loosely against her shoulders. Her arm is tucked into her partner's - Eva can only see his back, but watches as the figure dips into her space. She must be staring because James is pulling her closer, his mouth nuzzling her neck as they pass the couple.
The woman smiles at Eva.
"No," she says. She looks up at James. "Did you -" but she stops herself. His mouth is twitching. "You did," she says. "You did."
James laughs but doesn't answer, pulling her along as he presses a kiss over her shoulder. His teeth nip her skin.
"You're not angry," he murmurs, and no, no, she supposes she's not. She is tempted to turn back though, if only to see again, to see and make sure. But James keeps her close. "I understand," he tells her, "what it's like to be a very, very selfish man."
He does not call them family, after all.
i left you behind in that holy city
rpf au + the borgias ; eva green/james purefoy ; 5,104
they are a long history of interludes; sometimes it is more about who they decide to meet.
-
The Maccabees | Young Lions
There are too many things that are certain. This story has been told too many times, both with old angles and new faces. But there are facts and facts, if anything, are important.
In Rome, there is man, the Church, and the dead - it's all a delicate balance, a necessary evil that is always understood.
The first thing you should know: they always return to Rome.
"I was already here," James tells her, upon arrival. The estate is hidden within the city, buried against the outskirts; it's strategic, and from the bedroom, she can watch the rest of the sun finish disappearing.
But she ignores him, brushing by him, greeting their servants with a slight smile. No one talks of what happened to the last staff; that was nearly a century ago, and they've long stopped keeping generations like pets.
Eva moves to their rooms though. The bed is made, perfectly cornered as if he were expecting her nonetheless. There are no other smells but the lavender from the garden, and perhaps, perhaps even a little of the roses. She does not look for other signs but her things have already been seated. There are bottles of perfume and candles and she cannot help but wonder what kind of trouble he's already written himself into.
"You're angry."
Startled, Eva turns and James is resting against the door. He watches her. His mouth twitches and he cocks his head to the side.
"That was nearly a century ago, of course," he says.
Her eyes narrow. "Let's not waste a perfectly good household, shall we?"
Somewhere in this house, there is still blood.
They have been together for centuries now. Her age is no longer important; together, they are considered some of the Firsts and somehow, James thinks of himself as occasionally interested in being a statesman. "I am still, above all, a Roman," he tells her, and this, somehow, is why they keep coming back.
She is still angry with him about the Crusades.
The Church is well involved in the affairs of the living and the dead; it takes a perfect construction of acceptance and the cunning to understand how to navigate between both worlds - for those of them that exist among the living and the dead. Eva, however ageless, does not agree or participate. There is something to be said about watching with patience.
But by now, James is a perfectly agreeable Christian name. He joins her outside, long after the rest of the house has finished going to bed. She sits in the grass, spreading her dress out, her fingers curling in the silk. Her hair stays pulled back and her eyes are glued to the walls of their home, watching the vines that still climb into the stones.
"We are to have dinner with the Pope," he says, and she snorts, shaking her head. She wears no cross, of course. "Oh don't make that face, darling. You do know that this is all inevitable, you and me and political ambitions. You know that I have to be entertained every once in awhile."
"Awhile?" she asks dryly.
He comes to sit. Instead of the bench behind her, he drops to the grass and leans forward, brushing his mouth against her jaw. Her eyes close halfway, her hand reaching out of habit, her fingers curling at his wrist.
"You are still angry."
She shakes her head. "I don't understand why I keep letting you take me back here."
It has to be said: inside, the lights start to fail, fade and she cranes her neck back, watching the last of their servants start to disappear. She does not hear the kitchens. She remembers it's time to feed.
"The Pope," she says, and she looks to him, her gaze settling into some sort of warmth. His mouth quirks. "Does he know?" her head cocks to the side. "Who you are, who you were - that sort of thing? I mean you cannot deny it - you are the most illustrious of dinner guests."
He laughs. "You're still angry."
"And you think I have no right to be?"
He doesn't answer. His hands cup her face and he pulls her close, closer, his mouth brushing over hers. She gives him a soft sigh.
He would, she thinks.
The first dinner is a show. It is a complicated relationship between all of them: the living, the dead, the Church. Everyone accepts the secrets and peace; peace is a mere illusion.
By now they talk of the Borgias with fear; it follows the two of them into dinner, as they're seated at the table, and one by one, each member of the family assembles around the father at the head of the table. Eva does not sit next to James. Instead, she is between Vanozza and Lucrezia and eyeing her wine with the slightest of amusement. James' laugh is the loudest at the other end of the table.
"I hear you travel quite a bit," Vanozza says, and Eva turns to the other woman. She studies her and picks up the disdain. It's Lucrezia that watches the both of them with genuine interest. "How wonderful," the other woman adds.
Eva nods. "We enjoy it." I remember the taste of your father's father, she does not say. Families are universal. It would be rather impolite if she were to mention the meal she had of the woman's immediate relatives.
But there is no continuation of the conversation, from her or Vanozza, whose gaze continues to linger more and more at the opposite end of the table at James, at the Pope and Cesare. It is a curious thing, she thinks, being a mistress.
"I do not understand it."
She blinks and Lucrezia is reaching for her, touching her arm as her mother rises from her seat. There is a flurry of fabric and anger, but no one seems to humor her tiny, tiny tantrum. There is a singular glance from James though, a flash of delight that is only for her.
Eva almost rolls her eyes. "Understand?" she asks.
Lucrezia's mouth curls. She gives a slight nod to the end of the table. Her father is in deep conversation with James again.
"Mama calls it a curious collection of egos."
Eva laughs.
"And what of you?" she asks.
Lucrezia smiles mysteriously. Her fingers curl around the cross, the large cross at her throat. "I am learning," she says.
She likes Lucrezia, of course. They retire to a sitting room away from wherever the rest of the dinner company have gone off to; it's the father, the sons, and James, oh James. His dinner smile was every bit as dangerous as the sharpness of Cesare’s gaze.
The room is small though, draped in silk and candlelight, a strange assortment of art and gold that almost offends Eva. Catholics, she thinks with a sigh. She moves to join the girl on one of the lounges, folding her hands over her lap carefully.
"Have you married for love?" the girl asks immediately. Eva looks at her in surprise. No one talks to her about marriage. Lucrezia smiles, amused as if she has caught onto some great secret. "I do - I hope I have not offended you," she says.
Eva shakes her head. "No," she murmurs. "It is - it is a charming question." She considers revealing the secret, or part of the secret; it is entirely too complex to really worry about. She laughs softly. "I am, I must admit, angry at my husband." She bites the inside of her mouth. She doesn't want to cringe. "But you have not offended me."
Lucrezia smiles. The lack of satisfaction is entirely present. Eva doesn't know whether or not she should continue to be charmed or curious. She wonders what she has given away. People fascinate her and perhaps, perhaps that is key to why she still lives among them and not in isolation.
Her memories with and of James are strange, strange things, pieces of her life that she is coy about sharing. It has gone beyond, long beyond a passionate companionship. There are many things that she does not know how to verbalize nor is she willing to give to him; they are a careful kind of violence still.
"They will return," Lucrezia say. She is smiling again. "Mama calms down and Papa is off on his visits," she tells her. "And -" Her eyes brighten. "Cesare sees me off to my room - do you have any children?"
The question slips in, maybe even as a test. Eva studies her. She does not know what James has mentioned. So she is honest, forcing herself to relax against the lounge.
"It is complicated," she says, and this seems to settle Lucrezia's interest, if not for the moment. They sit and they talk of idle things, of Rome, of the latest, of gods and God, and the way her life seems to be nothing but full now - but only when things are chaotic. They laugh at the egos of the others - of James, of her father and her brothers and the others in company, bent together like young friends.
The girl is right, however, and minutes, minutes pass as her brother politely introduces himself into their conversation. He is all charm, all smiles, and kisses her greeting. The sentiment is returned to his stister too - Lucrezia is all beauty with her reception. It is such a small moment, an immediate and inane moment, and there is something to be said about the change in how she carries herself with the simple joy of his company.
Eva does not tell James: it is a most curious thing.
It is very easy to kill in Rome. She will give James this; their own estate is quiet when the servant brings them the prostitute. Eva rolls her eyes as James laughs with delight.
"I am sharing, darling," he says, and the young man is pushed between the two of them, dirty with incense and the strangest color of robes she has ever seen. Neither black nor blue, his eyes seem to dart around nervously as his hands pick at the fabric. He does not fit in their bedroom though and the air from the garden starts to wander in. "I have missed you, you know," he grins and flashes his teeth. He grabs the man by the throat. "And I know you will indulge me -"
She snorts. "You are lucky I do."
James does not break the man's neck. Instead, his fingers break the skin with a resounding crack and she can smell the blood as it sneaks into his hand.
"Darling," he says.
Her eyes darken. "I want to understand," she says slowly. "I want to understand," she starts again, "why you are seeking the company of the Church."
"You are worried."
"Immensely."
He chuckles and lowers his mouth to the man's throat, drawing it over the blood. Her eyes go to his fingers as they drop, the blood starting to fall against his clothes.
"You should not be," he says, and it's mid-pause that causes him to look up at her. The man whimpers and Eva takes a step forward. "They know who we are. It is the Church, after all."
She cuts him off. "You still have not explained why we're here, why the Church, why this particular family."
All in good time, he does not say. And to allies, he does not add. It would be the appropriate response, a response that he often favors. There is a part of her that likes it, although she would never admit it to him. He knows her too well.
James draws the man's head back, his hand pulling his hair and thrusting the body forward. The motion is sharp and insistent. She is quiet, a little tired, and brushes her hands against her hips. There is a reason why it's just the two of them, she thinks. Some days she feels like she could understand, maybe even know. Other days, there is nothing sensible about it.
"You like them," she says slowly, and it is not an accusation. She is gentle, moving forward. Her fingers brush against the man's chest, over the small, open wound against his neck. Her fingers trace the teeth marks. They are sticky and warm and she brings them to James' mouth.
He does not smile. There is no answer. No, no. Not yet. His eyes are bright and she lets out a soft sigh as he draws his tongue over her skin. She will watch, she decides. She is not hungry just yet and there is something, something impossibly fascinating about watching him this way.
James leans into her, pressing her against the man, against him, his free hand coming to rest against her hip. He pulls at the fabric of her dress. "I love you," he says, and kisses her. This will be slow and thoughtful for her; he doesn't have to say it. She laughs though and he swallows the sound, biting her lip hard.
Between them, the man starts to cry. He does not lie, Eva thinks.
Lucrezia greets her with a delighted laugh upon their next visit.
Much to the amusement of the father and sons, and the dismay of her own mother; Eva takes her arm as if they were very much the pair of old friends and kisses the girl's cheek. She can feel her own affection.
"Dinner is not quite ready," she whispers, and her eyes are alight with too much mischief. It is then that Eva catches the gaze of Cesare, who grasps James by the arm with the two of them in mid-laugh. He is watching his sister only.
Eva laughs, amused. "Shall we sneak away then?"
The girl smiles widely. She is inexplicably beautiful again and perhaps, even more so, as they pass her brother who flashes a grin. Eva catches it but doesn't mean to and feels Lucrezia's hand turn and grip her arm.
Inside, she is lead into a hall. It is an odd thought, to call all of this a home, as if it were nothing more than a burden of proof. There is too much of a careful silence. The walls are strained with candlelight though and the gold seems entirely too ornate, out of place even. Everything is for show. She half-suspects that the daughter is expected to lead her around; she does not ask about her mother.
"My father and brother talk of you in whispers," Lucrezia says to her. They lose the conversation of the others but pause when they hear a wail erupt. The girl's eyes darken and Eva can only assume it is her mother. "It is the most curious thing, of course. But you knew that."
"I do," she says easily.
When they stop, it's outside of a room. Lucrezia studies the door; behind them, there is an open balcony and voices start to rise from underneath the two of them. There are other priests here, of course.
"My mother -"
Lucrezia touches Eva's arm. Eva follows her outside again, into the balcony. It over looks the city, the high buildings that seem to fold around homes and libraries and the random, if not perfect assortment of things that make up the city. She understands the use for the Church.
"My mother," the girl starts again. "Thinks you are a fool to indulge me."
Eva's mouth twitches. "And what would she have me do?"
The girl shrugs.
They're quiet and Eva leans into the railing. There is very little of her that believes that Lucrezia is naive, or as naive as everyone hopes her to be, child or not. She thinks of the girl's brother again.
"I am not indulging you," Eva says slowly.
But she does not finish.
Dinner is an easy affair, however. The second night has her sitting across from James, between the Pope himself and Lucrezia.
"I hear you've been to Spain a number of times," he says lightly. Eva glances at James, who smirks in kind. She resists the urge to snap his neck. She does not force a smile though and she keeps her feelings unclear. "Yes," she answers. "And the Holy Land," she adds. She licks her lips. "Undoubtedly, a most educational experience," she says.
"She went alone," James shares.
There is a soft gasp next to her. The Pope chuckles. The amusement does not reach his eyes; he does know, she thinks.
"How scandalous," Cesare drawls. Both he and James laugh loudly. Eva's eyes narrow and underneath the table, Lucrezia's chair scratches the floor.
Eva's lips purse. She reaches for her wine, her fingers brush over the rim of the glass. She is quiet and they are all watching, waiting. She can play, she thinks. These rules haven't changed for centuries.
She turns her gaze to the Pope - Rodrigo. She will not give him the choice of his own name though, nor will she give him Alexander. She feels old, almost suddenly, and calmly brings the glass to her mouth.
"I have a heavy distaste for politics," she says.
The room grows cold. Her sensations begin to sharpen. She eyes James, whose amusement ahs not changed. They fed before they came. They are polite in company, but Eva is not against cutting a few throats for sport. She prefers otherwise.
"Did I offend you, my lady?" The Pope asks; by now, she has long since left her name, her real name behind. Sometimes she allows herself to indulge and there are names like Julia and Mary and Catherine, god, Catherine. Lady protects the power that none of them have.
"If you were to offend me," she says. Her voice is even. "It would be your children who would know first."
She does not hide her disdain for this place anymore, nor does she soften it for company. She listens to the rustle of fabric, of Cesare straightening. There is arousal and lust, there is the knife in his boot, the sound of it as it rubs against the leather, and the promise of poison in a few choice corners. The silence is fringing though.
The servants have seemed to disappear. The Pope reaches for the wine and fills her glass again. He is too careful.
"Perhaps, we should take a walk."
James bursts into laughter.
They talk of all things Rome, of the Church against the backdrop of the garden and bedrooms, under the smell of lavender and roses, and the light that she presumes comes from his mistress’ room. There are the few graces of his children, of Lucrezia and the briefest mention of her sons. She refuses his Holiness and the invitation of his arm, listening as he relates his desire to control more and more of his enemies and less of the people. She considers talking of Christ and James, but does not fall into old habits.
“Perhaps,” the man says. His eyes are dark with interest, neither his daughters nor the smallest of his sons. He does not ask her about her age. “We could talk common ground,” he finishes.
Her answer is sharp. “I will still be here when you are gone.”
She kills a man upon their return home, and then another, a servant, who is scattering up the stairs. It is an easy twist of his neck and she sinks her teeth into his throat, feeding with too much ease.
The body makes a gurgling sound. She presses it into the doorway and drowns out the mix of laughter and horror from James and their servants alike. There are chunks of hair in her hand and her knee settles in between the man’s thighs. Oh what history, she thinks.
"Darling," James says behind her. "Darling."
"Bastard," she breathes, and drops the body at her feet. She licks her fingers and his eyes narrow, darken as he starts pulling at his shirt. Her head is spinning and she cannot decide if she is angry enough to kill again or fuck him for the sheer ridiculousness of this entire trip.
Her head is spinning with the weight of the conversation, of a man who wanted to hear nothing more than how to continue his ultimate power trip. She thinks of the girl, of Lucrezia, and for a moment, a brief moment, considers taking the girl herself.
"You know," she snarls. "I do not get involved."
There is blood all over her, her hands and her dress. The body starts to slip with weight. She licks her lips. Her fingers curl and uncurl with the sensation of the man's neck. She can no longer taste the wine.
"You know how this works."
"I do," James says. He waves a hand, bored. "A council of elders blah, blah, blah. Delicate balance, blah, blah, blah. No killing, no fucking, no dancing. Why do they think we live among them?"
She snorts and he reaches for her hand. He brings it to his mouth. His tongue traces the lines in her skin. She curls her fingers and pulls her arm away, swinging it and her hand to hit his face. Her nails claw at his cheek and he laughs, laughs in delight.
The madness is overbearing, sometimes, but there is such a rush that comes to her when he looks at her that way and maybe, maybe it's the memory of their first time, of her own discovery. It is simple: she did not turn him and it does not matter. The two of them have what the others do not. There is patience and kindness, lust and mistrust, an ideology -
If he were a man, she would love him all the same. He is still the same.
"The boy," he drawls softly. James moves to her again. She leans into him this time and slides her mouth over her nail marks. She tastes him. "The boy," he breathes, "he's useful - he will not leave his sister."
"You are mad," she says, and she laughs too. Of course, she thinks. Of course. There is always some sort of answer with him. "Are you trying to tell me that this your idea of expanding into a family?"
She licks her lips and he nods, suddenly serious. His eyes are dark and he straightens against her, threading his hand through her hair. It is not the way that he looks at her, or the brush of insanity this seems to have. There are other children and there are favorites. It doesn't matter to her. What she wants to know is where the interest is coming from.
James pulls her head back, his mouth at her throat. He tells her: "I have always wanted a son."
It is important to understand that neither Eva nor James remembers the exact length of their timeline. Rome, oh Rome, has become some sort of opportunity for the both of them; maybe it’s to correct, maybe it’s regain the promise of old mistakes.
Somehow, the outcome is always the same. They meet too many people.
And the household never lasts that long.
Cesare arrives at the estate days, maybe a week later, when the need for an apology seems to have passed. Eva is quite sure that they know of her in variation, which is just as unsettling as knowing her and what she can do. But both he and James greet each other as friends and soldiers, nether of them in any position to relate to both at the moment.
"My darling sister," he tells her with a greeting. His mouth brushes against her jaw. "Sends her regards - she will be along tomorrow night."
"I look forward to seeing her," she says carefully.
The two men laugh, and their heads are bowed even as James swings an arm around his shoulder. The light from inside the house catching the two of them, handsomely still with their smiles and their dark eyes. There is something dangerous to the prospect of this and her curiosity starting to grow again.
She watches them both, of course.
(There is very little that James does not hold back with Cesare. Maybe it's mutual fascination, maybe it's some strange way of proving himself to Eva - there will be a time where he explains it to her. Remember there are things like Pompeii and other women, women who he uses for the sheer satisfaction of making sure he is, in fact, the only one. He knows her as one of the Firsts, though, and one of the few that still remain.
"You would be perfectly fine," James says with a laugh. "We are very much like Rome, her soldiers, and the Church.
It is another family secret.)
But Lucrezia comes mid-afternoon, on the heels of some news about her mother, accompanied by maids as she reaches her brother with her arms and an open mouth over his jaw. They talk in whispers even as the sun is starting to set and cool and Eva, rising, can see them peeking from high in her own window.
It is not the picture that they paint: the golden child, an appropriate homage to art and artists alike, from this time and the next, and it's the smoothness of her cheeks, the intensity of her eyes buried, burrowed against the neck of her brother. She can see his hands in her hair, digging into her cap and even against the back of her neck, his eyes closed in some kind of rapture. Behind her, James is stirring and they will feed.
Tonight, it's separately.
Dinner is a fascinating turn of events. There are no exact questions about who they really are. The four of them sit outside, mostly because both Eva and Lucrezia seem to agree on the cool air and leave little room for disagreement.
They are a combination of gold and blue. Cesare seems delighted by his sister’s choice in color. He reaches for her, every so often, allowing his hand to move from her shoulder to her arm and maybe, just maybe, they will lean in a little too close, his nose brushing hers - or is it hers. Eva is almost amused again. They are watching children with secrets.
And James, James seems intent on discussing the Crusades, the lust and desires and a clear affirmation of what their guests will not ask. . She does not get angry and rolls her eyes as he lightens the conversation with easier tales of battle. He's subjective but he's ambiguous, as if to establish a polite and firm understanding of not wanting to give everything away. It is more than just a silly game.
"He prefers company away from the family," Lucrezia tells her. "Mama says it is because he spends too much time with our father and his army of priests."
"And you?"
"I prefer my brother," she says simply.
Eva's mouth twitches. The thought crosses her mind again. It would be easy. It would be entirely too selfish; she would let them go, James would pretend to. Maybe in a few years, he'd kill them both. He is unpredictable but this is something that she likes.
"He loves you," Eva says finally, and the two of them are picking at their food, a singular motion amusingly enough. Cesare laughs loudly, maybe even louder than James, throwing his head back in amusement as the both of them watch. His eyes are wide when he catches the gaze of Lucrezia.
It is the same, the same glances that she caught at their dinners, and even in the memories of how the girl spoke of her brother. It's there, right there, in that look, in his and hers and it's just as selfish as Eva can understand. There is nothing shy about their company, nor is there any sort of apology. He simply reaches for her, his fingers touching the underside of her jaw. It is meant to be intimate and uncomfortable.
The girl's response is soft. She nods to James and both men are watching. "Like he loves you,” she says.
She does not correct Lucrezia or even answer in kind.
This is the last time they talk.
It is 1950 when James follows her to Cuba, after there is something with a running housewife and people are entirely too focused on Ingrid Bergman and her affair with Rossellini.
The heat in Havana is new and interesting, it feels slick against her skin and underneath the hoop of fabric from her dress. They live above a jazz club, uninterested in the very same associations as their other children. There is Diane, of course, and enough of a politician for the both of them. By now, their kind is being quietly integrated into society and there is still the very curious rush of feeding off the patronizing.
They are left alone in Cuba too and it is the first time, in very long time, where she is enjoying his company without the history or his desire to push her to immediate reaction - not to say that it will not happen. Some habits are just habits all the same.
As they walk back from dinner, a pair of students that seemingly wandered into their company - lost, perhaps even looking for dance lessons, she sees them. Or sees her.
It is the same lure of skin, soft, flushed as the woman throws her head with laughter; the woman is halfway between adulthood and standing simply as a girl. She sees her eyes, big, wide, and bright and her hair unraveling loosely against her shoulders. Her arm is tucked into her partner's - Eva can only see his back, but watches as the figure dips into her space. She must be staring because James is pulling her closer, his mouth nuzzling her neck as they pass the couple.
The woman smiles at Eva.
"No," she says. She looks up at James. "Did you -" but she stops herself. His mouth is twitching. "You did," she says. "You did."
James laughs but doesn't answer, pulling her along as he presses a kiss over her shoulder. His teeth nip her skin.
"You're not angry," he murmurs, and no, no, she supposes she's not. She is tempted to turn back though, if only to see again, to see and make sure. But James keeps her close. "I understand," he tells her, "what it's like to be a very, very selfish man."
He does not call them family, after all.