The Holy See, 1494; Preparations for a Betrothal Party (NFB)
Lucrezia
It was good to be home again; the air tasted just as a city should, and the people bustled in all the ways that felt familiar to Lucrezia.
She felt a flash of memory, then, to a walk many months ago with a brother upon her arm, one who had made faces at the crowds for St. Agatha's Day. A brother who now lay beneath the dirt.
She would not think of such things now. She left Dany to deal with the servants, and the minute details of settling in; she would arrive and present herself to the Holy Father.
But he was not seated upon the throne of St. Peter's, nor was he in his private chambers. She was given to understand that he was, instead, deep in prayer, though it was not between prime and terce.
Lucrezia walked alone through the corridors to the grand chapel, her feet echoing hollowly on the marble floor. She hesitated to call out, to interrupt his reverence. But something within her stomach twisted.
As she grew closer, she heard his frantic, murmured prayers, and saw the candles which surrounded him.
For Juan. Always and only for Juan.
"Father," she called out, softly. Would he not turn around? Would he not look at her, embrace her?
The Holy Father was a ghost, enslaved to his dead son.
Pope Alexander VI
Pope Alexander Sextus was aware of so few things: not the marble beneath his aching knees, or the beads as they slipped through his fingers. Only his voice, whispering the words to a Presence who had seemingly forsaken His servant on this Earth.
"Requiem Aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetuae luceat eis. Requiescant in pace. Requiem Aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetuae luceat eis."
He did, however, hear the footsteps as they approached, and knew them to be his daughter's even before she spoke. So. She had returned. The Lord had not granted to His Holiness the wisdom of how to greet such a returning child. One who had stood stone-faced before the body of her own brother.
He finished his prayer -- "Requiescant in pace." -- and cleared his throat.
"So you have returned," he said, not bothering to turn his head. There was no rancor in his voice. There was no discernible affection, either.
Lucrezia
Lucrezia swallowed, hard. Her father had always swept her up into his arms, and greeted her with exuberance, had she been away for only a few days' time. She had now been gone for months, in her time, and at least a month in his own, and he could not manage the least of welcomes for her.
Some bit of her soul felt as though it was ripping itself into pieces. Another, darker, part, could barely keep a surge of anger at bay.
He had allowed Juan to become a monster; he had failed to stop Juan's madness. If he blamed her for seeing what he could not, that was scarcely her fault.
She drew herself up, willing the hurt not to show. "I have," she replied, striving for a neutral tone herself. "I understand my betrothal is to be announced."
Pope Alexander VI
"Oh, that," the Holy Father said dismissively. That, to an event he had orchestrated; to the alliance he had sought with the South, to provide strength against the growing Sforza threat. Such matters had seemed important, once.
"Your brother seems to find it appropriate to celebrate at such a time as this," he said, leaving no question as to how strongly he himself disagreed.
They were bereaved. They ought to be in mourning, though he was the only one who bothered to mourn.
"He has ordered the event, regardless of my say in the matter. Of late, he takes rather a lot upon himself."
Lucrezia
Anger was finding its feet much more readily than Lucrezia had anticipated.
"Perhaps he finds it necessary, Your Holiness," she said, "as I am sure your devotionals do keep your attention from such worldly matters."
Pope Alexander VI
"He does what he finds necessary, I am sure," Rodrigo sighed. "As do you. As does your mother. But tell me, why is it that none of you find it 'necessary' to MOURN MY SON!?!"
His face flashed angry and violent for a moment, and then hollowed out to despair as his face turned toward the ceiling. "Forgive my children their wickedness and impertinence, O Lord, and grant them the misery it is their duty to feel!"
Lucrezia
Lucrezia flinched, as though her father had slapped her. She was pleased he had not bothered to turn to her; it meant that he could not see the pain he had caused.
She swallowed past a hard lump in her throat and counted to three, to be sure her voice would not shake.
"This child shall take her impertinent self elsewhere, then," she said, wrapping herself in what dignity she possessed. "May I find the misery you bid me there."
Without waiting for a response, she swept out of the chapel. Other members of her family might be pleased to see her; she should seek them out, instead.
Dany
Dany had waited for Lucrezia outside the chapel, feeling that such a place of deep prayer was no place for the heathen queen who didn't mourn the lost son, anyway. She had made arrangements for their things to be sent to Lucrezia's rooms, for her own meager Roman wardrobe to be aired out from where it had been stored when they'd left, and she had waited.
But as she heard shouts, it became increasingly difficult not to enter the chapel herself, and she was just about to go in when instead she heard frantic, emotional footsteps emerging.
And instead of trying to say anything, when she saw Lucrezia, she simply crossed over and to wrap an arm around her friend's shoulders. Nothing she'd say would fix this, and it was useless to try.
Lucrezia
Lucrezia had left the chapel blind, tears threatening her vision. She would need to find Daenerys, she should speak to her mother, she --
Ah. Dany had found her.
She felt the urge to push her friend away, to insist that she was alright, to lie and say the shouting was another matter. But Dany would not believe such lies, and Lucrezia felt too tired to bother with them.
Instead, she offered Dany a weak smile and leaned into the embrace.
"I may spare you an introduction to His Holiness, this time," she said, hoping for a small touch of levity.
Dany
"I'm sure they can be made another time," Dany said, not particularly believing it. She had no real wish to see the Holy Father, not as long as he drove his daughter from him in tears. She suspected her temper may not allow His Holiness his due deference, and that would not do. "We have other people to see, anyway."
Cesare
One of whom had already found them.
"Lucrezia," Cesare called, quickening his pace to reach the two girls.
He had seen the servants scurrying, and had guessed at the meaning; his beloved sister was back in Rome.
He faltered only for a moment to see her familiar white-haired friend standing firmly at her side. Their liaison had ended on ... amiable terms. Surely they could be polite to one another, for his sister's sake.
Dany
Dany smiled at him, offering an awkward little nod of her head. It wasn't often that she felt...at unease, like this, but after his visit to the island near her birthday, things were...different. But mourning the fact that it wasn't the previous summer, still, was foolish.
"Hello," she called, nudging Lucrezia a little in case she'd somehow missed her brother. "We've just been to see your father."
Which would explain things some, she thought. It seemed that things in Rome had not changed much.
Cesare
Cesare gave a wry smile to his pagan queen (not his any longer; she had made that clear) before turning his attentions to his dearest Lucrezia, who -- had been crying?
He would remove every last one of their father's teeth, for whatever he had done to Lucrezia. Had said, more likely. He had borne the brunt of their father's sulking and rage, but such things should not attach themselves to her.
"Our Father is not himself," he offered, knowing it to be weak. And possibly untrue.
Lucrezia
Dany would have to forgive Lucrezia; she might have been more aware of the delicate tension between the other two, had Cesare reappeared at a better time. But at the moment, all such thoughts were drowned out by far warmer ones.
"Cesare," she said, holding her arms out to him.
His grace, his embrace, his love would never be denied her. Of that, she was sure.
Pope Alexander VI
Lucrezia would not mourn, and neither would Cesare. Let them rot, then. Rodrigo kept up his vigil in front of the altar, praying for Juan's soul, though his knees ached and his tongue faltered.
Cesare
Cesare had expected to find his father here, deep in prayer. Time had not healed this wound; it festered, it could not close. Their father had fixed himself in the hour of Juan's death and would not move forward.
If his father's hatred must fall upon him, then so be it. But he would not allow the Holy Father to absent himself from his own daughter's betrothal celebration.
He entered the chapel, waiting to see if the Pope would acknowledge his presence. If he would not, then Cesare would force the issue.
"So," he announced, his voice echoing strangely in the deserted room. "Lucrezia's betrothal is to be announced this night."
Pope Alexander VI
"Yes," Alexander acknowledged, though his heart was not in it. "A bright day, to distract everyone from the bleakness in our souls."
Cesare might insist on celebrating, but a party could not bring Juan back from the dead.
Cesare
Cesare bit his tongue, to prevent a caustic reply. To state clearly that there was no bleakness in his soul; that he was relieved that Juan was dead, and whatever guilt he carried from the commission of such an act was far outweighed by the easier sleep he had at night.
"They say you're not eating," he said, instead.
Pope Alexander VI
Eating? How could one eat, at a time like this? How could one think of the needs of the body, when the spirit was in tatters?
"We fast, We abstain, We scourge Our flesh," the Pope sighed. "We take all mortification, and still We are punished." Juan's murderer had not been found, and no one seemed to care. Until he'd been properly mourned, until his soul could leave purgatory and find rest, Rodrigo would likewise find no rest.
Cesare
Cesare shook his head slowly, wondering at the sight before him.
"This is not God's doing, Father," he said. Did His Holiness not understand? Did he see Juan's death as some sort of divine retribution against the family, or against the Pope Himself?
Pope Alexander VI
"EVERYTHING is God's doing!" Alexander retorted. Did Cesare not understand that most basic of facts? Did his son the Cardinal so completely reject Scripture that he thought such blatant blasphemy could help? No, only justice and retribution could ease his wounded soul.
"Until We find his murderer, though We scour all Italy, Juan will have no rest!!!", he declared. "And neither shall We!" This was the solemn vow of the Pope, and carried more weight than any benediction he had ever uttered. "His soul languishes in Purgatory! He cannot be free until We find who has done this. There can be no hiding place so deep that We will not seek them out!"
Cesare
And so it had come to this. There was to be no reprieve; their father had joined Juan in Purgatory. He could not, would not move forward.
Not unless he were forced. Forced to see all that his eyes had blinded themselves to. Forced to understand the nature of Juan's death, and what it meant for their beleaguered family.
Borgias did not shy away from hard truths. They were ruthless. Their father was not so delicate as to break.
The weight of his decision settled upon Cesare, forming a knot deep within his stomach. But there was only one thing to be done.
"There will be no need of that," he said, quietly.
Pope Alexander VI
Rodrigo's mouth went dry. He had had not dare fear... He had not allowed himself to listen to that still, small voice of the Devil that haunted his nightmares...
He swallowed.
"Do you know who did this?" he asked, trembling.
Cesare
Cesare was quiet, now; every word was measured.
"I do."
Pope Alexander VI
"Well, then, TELL Us!!!"
Cesare's reticence was terrifying. Why couldn't the boy just speak what he had to say and be done with it? Rodrigo felt himself in Purgatory alongside Juan, waiting for a reprieve that was agonizingly long in coming.
Cesare
There could be no coming back from a moment such as this. Cesare drew an uncertain breath before continuing.
"Do you truly wish to know?"
This was the last possible moment for their father to retreat, to avoid seeing what lay before him. The choice ought to be his.
Pope Alexander VI
Alexander looked at his son, then. At this boy he had raised to manhood, at this small child who had been his own to mold and teach, and had grown up to become... what? A modern-day Cain? Was that what Cesare was hinting at?
"Ah," he answered, because such moments did not require eloquence. He felt himself adrift, without a firm place to stand. "Well, We... must." He nodded, trying to steel himself for whatever lay ahead.
Cesare
Cesare steeled himself, as well. What lay ahead would be torturous, to both. Better to begin as quickly as possible.
He crossed himself before the altar, and then knelt by his father's side.
"Then first, I ask that you hear my confession," he said.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
(Preplayed with the fantastic unburnt_queen and with whateverknight NPCing the Holy Father. For those of you who've seen the end of season 2 of the Borgias, you know there's a cliffhanger that we didn't include in last summer's plot -- we're doing it now. This is post 1 of either 3 or 4; the others won't follow until after Christmas. Some of the Cesare/Pope dialogue lifted from episode 2x10, The Confession. NFI, NFB, but OOC is love.)