itinere | Open | Thou art so fair ....

While here there is no King to protect here, it seems d'Artagnan has no problem finding trouble. First, there was whatever sickness drove him to such extremes in his love of Lucrezia - to where even he could not imagine feeling anything so strongly. He had thought he had loved Constance, but that had paled in comparison to what he had felt in those weeks with Lucrezia.

Now that whatever spell had been lifted, he's left without her to occupy his thoughts quite so fully as she had. He misses her, though. He just misses her.

But d'Artagnan is a man of action. This is why he has a pen (what a strange contraption this is), and a sheaf of paper. He is under the sun at a table, surrounded by a blizzard of crumpled paper. He is attempting to write a poem. An ode or tribute to Lucrezia.

It isn't going well. Raised as a farmboy, he is lucky to know how to read and write, so anyone less determined would leave the poem-writing to someone else. Not d'Artagnan! While he might have been somewhat stretched in his wits in those weeks with Lucrezia, he will tell anyone who dares to question him. He will even draw his sword to challenge someone if his honor - or his feelings - are challenged.

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The soft waves of her hair whisper over the back of her neck as d'Artagnan brushes it aside to kiss her skin there. And then his lips are kissing at the side of her neck and she's inspired to continue.

Do I dream?
Can it be real?
Your spell is so lovely a cover.
Love me.
Again and again
and again.
I have been blessed with your love.

It's so simplistic. But it's exactly right, as far as Lucrezia is concerned. She lifts the page so that he can see it. "And now, d'Artagnan. Read."

"As you wish," he tells her, smiling. Taking the paper, he looks over her shoulder at it.

"Your lips on my lips.
A warm breath.
Whisper.
Tell me your deepest desires...."

He slows as he reads that, looking around to make sure that no one is eavesdropping.

"Love me.
Love me.
Love me..."

"I do," he tells her, looking up at her. "I do."

The poem isn't over, though.

"Do I dream?
Can it be real?
Your spell is so lovely a cover.
Love me.
Again and again
and again.
I have been blessed with your love."

Once again, d'Artagnan looks at her. "Perhaps ... I mean, maybe it's me who's lucky. That's what I think."

As he reads her words, Lucrezia feels emotion surge within her. She'd felt something when she had written them, of course. They came from her heart. But hearing d'Artagnan speak them, it's as if he's the one who had penned them.

"I would hope that such is fate more than luck. Fate has blessed us." Setting the paper down, she turns in toward d'Artagnen and her fingertips smooth over his lips. "I have been blessed with your love, d'Artagnan."

Were they in France, she would be so far beyond him that he would never dare dream to court her.

Here? Here, they can be together and she can love him as much as he loves here, even without the fever that seemed to drive him for so long.

"Will you kiss me?" he asks, smiling at her sweet face.

Lucrezia knew full well her worth. Her marriage was about alliance and power for her father's papal legacy rather than love. Still, she had been naive enough to hope for love. Foolishly naive. But she had underestimated people's hatred for the name Borgia no matter her innocence in the matter.

"I will." She says softly, because here they could love one another. She was not naive enough to think it could last. But she could have this now. She was greedy for it. And greed was a cardinal sin. Perhaps she was truly a Borgia after all.

Lucrezia leans in to kiss him.

And d'Artagnan kisses back, his arms around her. It is a sweet kiss and he lets his eyes fall shut and he's smiling when it breaks. "I will never," he does note, "write such a fine poem. Will you sign your name to this so that I may hold it close to my heart?"

D'Artagnan's kisses feel like blessings, each and every one. Eventually, she has to pull back because they are in a public venue and there is such a thing as propriety to be concerned about. She has yet to adjust to the fact that such things are welcome here.

"I believe that you could, my love." She turns to face the table again and writes her name at the bottom of the page. "And perhaps someday you will."

He carefully rolls the paper, storing it inside his doublet, over his heart.

"Now that I have seen you," he tells her, smiling, tone light, but no less sincere, "I cannot be apart from you. Will you allow me in your company this evening, fair Lucrezia?"

Something about the poem resting over d'Artagnan's heart seems right. Lucrezia presses her palm over his doublet where she knows the poem rests and leans in to brush her lips against his again. Just a delicate brush of skin on skin.

Then she leans back and moves to stand, brushing her skirts away from his lap. "I would rather not be apart from you either." That, accompanied by the gleam in her eye, says she wants him in her quarters this evening.

She holds a hand out to him even as she lifts her parasol. "Will you walk with me? I've a feeling the city has a surprise for me today."

"Does the city often surprise you?" d'Artagnan asks, folding her arm around his so they can walk together. That sounds so ... optimistic. He can imagine that Athos would be rolling his eyes at something like that. d'Artagnan himself likes to think that these things can happen.

He likes that gleam in her eye, by the way. When things were so heated, they did find a great compatibility in bed. It was quite wondrous.

"Often in the same way in which it surprises everyone else." She says, her hand gently squeezing the crook of his arm as they walk. "Objects appear out of thin air, d'Artagnan. Is it not miraculous?"

The glance she sends in his direction is full of mischief. "Perhaps I cunningly focused my desires on something rather specific."

"Perhaps so." Maybe d'Artagnan focuses too often on people who don't, alas, appear from the ether. "What sort of surprise are you expecting today, then?" he asks, grinning.

"I asked for a church in which to say my prayers and thank God for his blessings." The word 'blessings' is punctuated by a slight squeeze to his arm so that he knows that she counts him as one of those blessings.

But for what they wished to do together, surely God, seeing as they aren't married, would hardly approve.

d'Artagnan, himself, is not very religious, not anything like Aramis, actually. He doesn't think of things like heaven and Hell and God very much.

"I would imagine," he tells her, "that if there is suddenly a church, that we shall easy see it."

Lucrezia thought that she had been put on the chopping block quite enough in the name of God's holy church of Rome. If her marriage to Giovanni was anything to go by, she had been hurled to the wolves in the name of keeping the peace in Rome. Surely even God himself could not fault her for wanting kindness and love in her life.

She gently squeezes d'Artagnan's arm in her hand. "We should remember to be thankful for what we have. For even as it is given, it can easily be taken away. I would not see us parted, d'Artagnan. Not when we have only just found each other."

"Parted?" he asks, shocked. "We will not be parted," he tells her with the certainty of youth and great stubbornness. "I have your words over my heart," he tells her, smiling. "That's surely strong enough to keep us both here, isn't it?"

It's just a heart beat when he speaks again. "They could not part us, could they?, if we were to marry."

Edited 2015-05-11 20:25 (UTC)

Open | Thou art so fair ....

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