achille's apple || [for ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
popesdaughter]
Mar. 12th, 2014 12:56 pm[The French palace is in a state of organized chaos. Servants and soldiers alike take the corridors at quick trots to get where they are headed, the sounds of their feet like the crush of ocean waves growing and receding. Bedrooms have been made up neatly with fresh linens on the beds and fresh water in the basins. Pennants with the Borgia colors hang alongside the French blue and white-- an oddly riotous combination. Both guard and kitchen shifts have been doubled.
As with their wedding, King Louis himself has taken the christening of Cesare and Charlotte's daughter as his own household's commission. The Pope will come to France and bless small, dark Louisa in the chapelle du château de Versailles. Everything is political and they are all just chess pieces to be moved around the board though for once, Cesare does not care. His mind is elsewhere.
He waits on the steps of the palace with poorly concealed impatience for his family. It is not his Holy Father that he cares to see, it is not the Vicar of God who has Cesare recently bathed and shorn and dressed in his best-cut doublet. Even with the cool snap of the bright spring breeze, the scent of lavender clings to him. He has told his young hostler twice to saddle his horse and twice to wait and now the poor boy stands behind him, chest heaving like a bellows.
The afternoon sun is hot; doubly so through the black leather and cotton he wears. Cesare does not feel it; he feels nothing but how close his sister is.]
As with their wedding, King Louis himself has taken the christening of Cesare and Charlotte's daughter as his own household's commission. The Pope will come to France and bless small, dark Louisa in the chapelle du château de Versailles. Everything is political and they are all just chess pieces to be moved around the board though for once, Cesare does not care. His mind is elsewhere.
He waits on the steps of the palace with poorly concealed impatience for his family. It is not his Holy Father that he cares to see, it is not the Vicar of God who has Cesare recently bathed and shorn and dressed in his best-cut doublet. Even with the cool snap of the bright spring breeze, the scent of lavender clings to him. He has told his young hostler twice to saddle his horse and twice to wait and now the poor boy stands behind him, chest heaving like a bellows.
The afternoon sun is hot; doubly so through the black leather and cotton he wears. Cesare does not feel it; he feels nothing but how close his sister is.]
