Drifting in and out of consciousness, she expected to see Cesare there each time she woke from fitful dreams. But he was never there. Silvia tended her instead, there to sooth her when the vomiting made her feel as if her insides were evacuating through her mouth. And it was Silvia there through the fevers and trembling that made her teeth chatter audibly. And every time she woke and did not see Cesare, her heart sank a little further. She didn’t need the old Spaniard to tell her that he was gone, nor did she really want to know. For now, ill and feverish, she could pretend that he was simply out in the garden, waiting for her, smirking over a book or conversing with Michelangelo.
“He’s gone,” Lena murmured, waking for good on the third day. It was only a fraction of what might have happened had she imbibed all of the poison, but one prick was more than enough for her. And the empty, churning sensation in her guts was easier to focus on than the fact that Cesare had abandoned her when she needed him most.
“I know it, hija,” Silvia said, stroking her hair. “But perhaps not for good.”
“For good,” Lena corrected sternly. “He won’t come back.”
Her theories were proven when she discovered the missing Borgia history. He had gone to die, thinking that she would suffer more with him alive. She could imagine him reading the detailed descriptions of his crimes, learning the depth of his former depravity and inhumanity, his resolve growing with each stabbing word. And after that it would be easy to die, comforting even. The illness lingered, prolonged by her consuming heartache. She sent Lena to search for him, but none of the villagers had seen a man leaving the cottage. They would send Michelangelo to the nearby towns as soon as a horse could be found. It would be too late by then, Lena knew. Cesare would already be dead somewhere, in a field perhaps, a knife in his chest, or sitting in a tub, soaking in his own blood while his throat wept scarlet.
The hysterics lasted for hours, in bursts of emotion so strong they tied her stomach in knots. Lena tried to eat but grew weak, unable to keep down even the mildest broth.
“You must eat,” Silvia would say, frowning over a steaming bowl and prodding a spoon at Lena’s sealed lips. “You are no good to anyone this way, sweetheart.”
That broke through. Perhaps she could go after him. It might not be too late. Lena forced herself to eat and drink and regain a bit of vitality, but every mouthful of food turned to ash when she considered how foolish it was to hope.
At last they found a cheap enough horse and Michelangelo left them, waving solemnly as Lena watched from the gate.
He would return, she knew, empty-handed and she would have to find a way to go on.
-~-
Ezio groaned and rubbed his backside. He hated horses. This one had a lumpy back that no saddle, however padded, could soften. Behind him, a modestly comfortable carriage carrying his family and Leonardo rolled along. He wanted to set a strong example for his young son and so rode out ahead, dropping back every few miles to chat through the window and make faces at his giggling daughter. She was incandescent. Boats and horses and carriages. It was all a great, big adventure.
They reached the town of Campos, aptly named for the flat pastures that spread out around in every direction. It sat elevated above their destination, a steep hill leading down to the little village and cottage he had last seen months earlier. Late summer exploded around them, the meadows vibrant with wildflowers and farmers in straw hats, their scythes scraping at wheat, pausing their work to wipe at their foreheads and watch the carriage roll by.
Throughout their journey, which was uneventful except for a frantic moment when the tossing ship nearly sent his son barreling overboard, Ezio suffered a building sense of dread. It might have turned him melancholy but for the company of his wife and children.
In Name Alone 105/?
She was sick for days.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, she expected to see Cesare there each time she woke from fitful dreams. But he was never there. Silvia tended her instead, there to sooth her when the vomiting made her feel as if her insides were evacuating through her mouth. And it was Silvia there through the fevers and trembling that made her teeth chatter audibly. And every time she woke and did not see Cesare, her heart sank a little further. She didn’t need the old Spaniard to tell her that he was gone, nor did she really want to know. For now, ill and feverish, she could pretend that he was simply out in the garden, waiting for her, smirking over a book or conversing with Michelangelo.
“He’s gone,” Lena murmured, waking for good on the third day. It was only a fraction of what might have happened had she imbibed all of the poison, but one prick was more than enough for her. And the empty, churning sensation in her guts was easier to focus on than the fact that Cesare had abandoned her when she needed him most.
“I know it, hija,” Silvia said, stroking her hair. “But perhaps not for good.”
“For good,” Lena corrected sternly. “He won’t come back.”
Her theories were proven when she discovered the missing Borgia history. He had gone to die, thinking that she would suffer more with him alive. She could imagine him reading the detailed descriptions of his crimes, learning the depth of his former depravity and inhumanity, his resolve growing with each stabbing word. And after that it would be easy to die, comforting even. The illness lingered, prolonged by her consuming heartache. She sent Lena to search for him, but none of the villagers had seen a man leaving the cottage. They would send Michelangelo to the nearby towns as soon as a horse could be found. It would be too late by then, Lena knew. Cesare would already be dead somewhere, in a field perhaps, a knife in his chest, or sitting in a tub, soaking in his own blood while his throat wept scarlet.
The hysterics lasted for hours, in bursts of emotion so strong they tied her stomach in knots. Lena tried to eat but grew weak, unable to keep down even the mildest broth.
“You must eat,” Silvia would say, frowning over a steaming bowl and prodding a spoon at Lena’s sealed lips. “You are no good to anyone this way, sweetheart.”
That broke through. Perhaps she could go after him. It might not be too late. Lena forced herself to eat and drink and regain a bit of vitality, but every mouthful of food turned to ash when she considered how foolish it was to hope.
At last they found a cheap enough horse and Michelangelo left them, waving solemnly as Lena watched from the gate.
He would return, she knew, empty-handed and she would have to find a way to go on.
Ezio groaned and rubbed his backside. He hated horses. This one had a lumpy back that no saddle, however padded, could soften. Behind him, a modestly comfortable carriage carrying his family and Leonardo rolled along. He wanted to set a strong example for his young son and so rode out ahead, dropping back every few miles to chat through the window and make faces at his giggling daughter. She was incandescent. Boats and horses and carriages. It was all a great, big adventure.
They reached the town of Campos, aptly named for the flat pastures that spread out around in every direction. It sat elevated above their destination, a steep hill leading down to the little village and cottage he had last seen months earlier. Late summer exploded around them, the meadows vibrant with wildflowers and farmers in straw hats, their scythes scraping at wheat, pausing their work to wipe at their foreheads and watch the carriage roll by.
Throughout their journey, which was uneventful except for a frantic moment when the tossing ship nearly sent his son barreling overboard, Ezio suffered a building sense of dread. It might have turned him melancholy but for the company of his wife and children.