fentina lente

“Yes, on occasion.” Eivor admitted with a slight tip of his chin. Every year on the death day of his wife and daughter, Eivor sought drink to forget what happened to them. On Liv’s, his daughter, birthday. Some nights when when found himself utterly alone with only the memories of battle playing over and over in his mind. This was not an every night ordeal but it was known to happen. He was not afraid to admit that much. Just as Eivor was not afraid to admit many of his short comings. “You do not strike me as the sort that has been hardened by battle but those things- The things men do in order to stay alive, they can haunt you.” He went on with a bit of a nod. His blue eyes nearly looking past Lorenzo for a moment. 

Shaking off the crys in his memory, the sound of steel on steel, Eivor placed his focus on the present. He let Lorenzo go once more. His freed up and moving to rub at the back of his neck as the other man spoke. “A shame, really. I cannot imagine it was anything short of bliss.” He hummed. A smile once again returned to his lips. One that was more of a dare than anything else. “If you should ever change your mind, do come find me. I am rather easy to spot in that crowd.” Eivor pointed back to the feast happening inside. “I do hope you find some way to relax here, Lorenzo. Tension do not do you any favours.” He added as he took a slow step back. 

⚜

Truly, Lorenzo could not even begin to imagine such haunting. The things men do to stay alive. He had been trained, to be sure, with weaponry, but only ever as much as necessary; his skills may suit a tourney, but he did not truly believe they would save him were he ever to be placed in battle... though it was an unlikely possibility. “Perhaps; you may have guessed that I have never faced the sort of haunting you speak of.” His nights had ever been short, but it was work that kept him awake. Work, and the enthused reeling of a mind always full—though, of late, his thoughts were not all pleasant. Grief did not last with him, but it was not death that weighed on him now.

Which was why he must walk away, he supposed. “I suppose I know where to find you,” he said, his smile growing a touch false—though Eivor was certainly right in that there would be no difficulty in recognising him, even in a crowd. He nodded once, taking his leave. “You’re quite right; I am made for cheer and good humour, though it does not seem eager to be found again tonight... and I do not think my company will be what you seek for the evening. Then—until we meet again, Sir Eivor! Hopefully with some memory of the other,” he added, slipping into more genuine teasing for a moment.

“Indeed,” she answered from beneath the lip of her cup, caressing the petal with gilded gold as she watched him turn over the sentiment behind such delightful eyes. Lorenzo de Medici was famous among the European world, indeed, but Eudoxia had yet to see him worthy of such prestigious legend. Slowly she rose from her seat, exposing herself from beneath the many waves of fur and silk. She knew, without second thought, that it would be the Medici House that would bring fortune to the world — who would reap their rewards from tomorrow till centuries in the god godforsaken future. 

She walked past Lorenzo, allowing the scent of spiced wine to linger — her satin draperies dragging upon the floor till she found peace by an opened window. Eudoxia felt caged when inside, when corned by four walls and an arched roof. So she held the wall, and looked to the horizon where horses lay near whilst taking to their graze. She had only just left the acquired isolation with her newborn baby when word had been sent to prepare for their journey to Paris; “I would invest in alum, but first I would require the documents… To see with my own eyes, and to be looked over by my steward, ” Eudoxia answered, before turning to look at Lorenzo from over her shoulder — meeting his gaze from behind her dark coiled hair. “Would you suggest it?”

⚜

Quiet had never been Lorenzo’s preference, whether that be with clients, or family, or others. It was rare for him to be struck mute, rarer still for him to find comfort or ease in silence; his tongue itched always to fill it, with sweet and flowery words, with vain hopes that sold for their weight in gold. Even though he had learned at length where speaking would only hurt interest, it was difficult to hold his peace as the crown princess rose with barely a word. He bit his tongue on additional explanations, watching her from the offered seat as she took place by the window.

“I would recommend it,” Lorenzo said, lacing his fingers together. “Alum has few other sources to be found through the continent, and its uses are plentiful.” He rested his chin upon his laced fingers for a moment, eyeing the richness of her furs, the breadth of her hair. She moved from business to coyness in a moment... though Lorenzo was beginning to consider if that was simply her way. He could not, of course, expect her to make any agreements without the necessary documentation—the question was if her words indicated some further expectation. “I would not expect any less, Your Highness, certainly not from yourself.” The heir to the Glinski fortune must be as careful as he himself was. “The documents will be prepared at soonest notice—but I do wonder, Tsarevna, if you would not prefer to speak of the details of your investments directly, or in writing? Some arrangements are best agreed upon face to face, where writing can be misunderstood.”

♔

Thomas weighed the potential of each idea against the next, measuring in stride their merit in his eyes and in anticipation of the King’s. 

Though they could cut across the greater landmass, and reach their destination by foot, the English preferred ocean passage - for Portuguese blood did permeate their bloodline, with its predisposition for salt air - and it was rite of passage to master the crossing, to earn legs aboard made of something stronger than on land. And yet, such respite would only benefit their journey to the Ottomans, perhaps China - where land travel might be preferred to Russia, or ship’s voyage ended at Córdoba before reaching Firenze at all.

And yet – the value was deeper than amity, then a stop along the way elsewhere.

Indeed, trade seemed of sturdier stock, and if England were to shepard in new thought, they must reach beyond the edges of their isle for it. Beyond France - who despite spilt blood, remained twin flame - and across the Holy Roman Empire - whose progressed seemed more hunger, the Italian League made itself a beacon of such bounty. 

“And you shall have both, on condition,” Thomas nodded, resolved in this decision. “A good word, conveyed in earnest to his Majesty, upon the delivery of your own communication to the Vatican. And if our petitions are successful, so will be yours. I will host your retinue myself - my support made evident - and secure an audience with the King.

⚜

Lorenzo sat back in his seat with a grin. Though Thomas’ yes was so far conditional, Lorenzo had no intentions of refusing to follow through with his offer; in turn, he did not believe Thomas the changeable kind, who would upon furthering of his request, decide he owed Lorenzo not. This was a personal matter; that he had approached one who had, before tonight, been entirely a stranger, spoke of the urgency of his desire. He would surely not risk alienating him—disregarding even whatever friendship Lorenzo seemed to see within him—when the status of his siblings depended upon it.

“It shall be done. You understand, of course, that any appeals to Rome take... time.” Though the Pope was in Paris, and any communication between them should be quick and easy, that was truly never the case when it came to the Church. Lorenzo had long-suspected that this was a matter only of driving their appealers to desperation, and encouraging further bribery, but... this was the Church, and there was naught to do about it but wait. “But I shall communicate to you when—and what—I send in writing, and look forward to your encouraging King Edward’s ear.”

That matter dispersed with, Lorenzo clapped his hands upon his legs, and leaned forward. “Now, I do believe that is the sum of our business, but... it is early, still, and I believe we have much in common that would make for a pleasant evening of good company and excellent conversation?” There was, after all, nothing like the forming of a friendship that would not be disregarded. Lorenzo stood, and offered Thomas a hand to rise. “If you would join me, Your Highness, I have some writings just here...” 

- &&. ❝ YES, ❞ SHE HOLDS HIS hand firm. There is fear in his eyes, however, fleeting thoughts, she recognises this: doubt. The same anxiety was reflected in her own eyes, if Yicheng stared hard enough, Lorenzo’s face melted, contorting and constricting until he became something else entirely. The scene disturbed her, but she could not tear her eyes away, she watched on, eyes glued to the sight her mind was playing out; she stared until Lorenzo was not Lorenzo anymore, she stared until the person looking back at her was herself. 

Yicheng resists the urge to scream, confronted by the mirror image of her own self-doubt. She blinks frantically. Her eyes opened once more to find that Lorenzo had returned, unmoving and still sporting that same innocuous gaze, waiting for her to say something - anything. ❝ Yes, ❞ She repeats,  ❝ I swear it. ❞

.

The subject of marriage should’ve been left to his own devices. Though he very much desired to marry Lorenzo’s sister, Cesare had hoped for less pressure from his friend. To be commanded by others never sit well with the count, considering his lovely sister-in-law had done so in the past, commands which he had to follow without question. With Lorenzo, however, he’d hoped for another way. Cesare tensed his jaw at the other’s threat. “Will you believe me if I said I have my reasons? Your sister’s Florence’s true gem and and an undoubtedly treasure, nothing I could afford to lose,” he looked away now “I’d much rather give her all the time she needs to properly adjust to any changes. With the annulment and new surroundings I suspect your sister has much worse ahead of her than my waiting proposal.” a true statement. Despite his confidence and narcissism Cesare knew he had blood on his hands. And Caterina? A true beauty, unmatched even, just blooming into an independent, strong woman. Who was he to insert himself into her world like this? Despite his own wishes, the wishes of her brother? Would another arranged marriage break her for good?

Cesare could feel the tension inside of him leave for just a moment. A chuckled accompanied the sudden relaxation. “I don’t have much to report. In fact, I haven’t seen your sister in quite some time considering my role as ambassador keeps me quite busy. There’s a time, and place, for Caterina and myself. That is, with all due respect, not France.” he murmured while hiding his lips behind his cup of ale. The French shouldn’t feel offended, as they usually did so quickly, by his words. His attention, however, returned quickly towards his brother, whose hand he could feel against his neck, pressing now. “Give me time. I will do right by her,” Cesare announced before trying to take a sip from his ale, only to choke on it. He coughed several times and let his cup fall against the table. “Now you are teasing me.” and he hated that it worked, “but I must disappoint you, dear brother, it’s not working.” He now leaned further towards the grand duke, one corner of his lips curled upward into a smirk. “Why are you rushing? We’re both young and time shall bring us together once again. Or are you trying to bind me to your noble house - so desperately? Of course, as you know, always have known - nothing would please me more than be a part of you.”

Cesare’s response was as genuine as they came, and yet—that was the very source of the problem. Lorenzo might understand, perhaps, the wish to offer Caterina the very best Cesare had to offer; she may have married and left to Paris years ago, but Lorenzo could never see his own, dearest sister as deserving of any less. But—she remained, even so, one who suffered still the discomforts of being a woman unmarried, and a mother besides. Their son may bear the name of Sforza, but was known so far as baseborn. No whispers were made near his ears, and yet, Lorenzo knew they must exist. “Precisely so! Would not you offer her your support, your everlasting promised presence beside her, when you know that this, our location, our being in Paris, will give her difficulty?” 

They were cut from the same cloth, Caterina and Lorenzo; both found it burdensome to turn to others to unload their weights, whenever there were weights to carry. But even the knowledge that they did not bear their burdens alone was a gift; Lorenzo had never realised just how much he valued it until he felt now its absence. At least one Medici ought to have happiness now. “Why is it not France? I do not like this place any more than you, my friend, but can not the dislike be cut by the forming of ties hoped for?” He shook his head, though he knew he could believe that statement at least; for all that he nagged and coerced Cesare now, he knew that he had not the make to do wrong by Caterina—only, perhaps, to take too long to do what he promised. 

Lorenzo smirked, shook his head. He was surely not mistaken in sensing, behind the smirk and the charade of confidence, a hint of frustration. “I am not, and you shall discover it soon enough, when the first of your rivals makes his presence known to Cat,” he said, taking a large sip of ale, before refilling Cesare’s yet again. “And I do hope you remember, Ce, that you cannot flirt me to distraction.” He leaned forward, tapping his fingers against the table. “There is one competition, at least, that you cannot hope to win.” 

——

though the room was sumptuous enough, cristobal did not allow himself to feel comfort, to become complacent. to do so, after all, was to forget that his first priority was to aragon; he might be forced to keep from running his sword through every córdoban he saw, but he would never forget the sting of his homeland’s loss.

a heavy sigh escaped his lips. “it is,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair. “though only part of it. i take the neapolitan betrayal even worse knowing that they are kin,” he opined, a dangerous tone coloring his voice as he thought of how deeply the betrayal had cut his family, as if his cousins ever had the authority to think they could barter with the land of aragon, could encourage goodwill with other nations while those of their own blood suffered and remained displaced.

eyes narrowed as he gazed upon rome, a city where cristobal had always felt welcome, a city where a trastámara sat as pope; one might be forgiven for assuming it was a city where cristobal had firm influence. ( but while he might influence the pope to publicly back aragon’s claim over córdoba, he had not enough to draw the cardinals and other nations to his cause. ) “what help do you need in rome, medici?” he inquired. “i have influence there, but it is not an advantage i squander.” —

⚜

He could not miss the darkening tone of the prince, both words and voice indicating just how deeply he felt this betrayal. It was true enough, and fair, he might suppose... but that one of those very kin whose loss of trust Cristobal so felt was Lorenzo’s own wife. Lorenzo leaned forward, fingers pressed firmly into the table to make his point deeply. “I understand, of course, Your Highness—but I hold in good faith that our agreements, once made, are about land. Territory, and other matters solid, must define the terms of our agreement. Your passion and anger, just though it may be, cannot be the basis for our dealings, for they are not emotions that lend to satisfaction.” He would not have Cristobal turn his gaze towards closer shores, even finding the satisfaction of whatever his initial goal may be.

He waved a hand over the map, shaking his head. Rome was not his concern; his own ties and alliances in Rome were more than enough to achieve any of his personal—and other—goals there. “It is not Rome that concerns me, but the border it presents between myself and Napoli. I cannot claim to know Ferdinand’s immediate plans, but... were he to make any dangerous moves, a distraction to the south may be... advantageous. He cannot fight a battle at two fronts.” And surely even Ferdinand was not ambitious enough to believe a war for conquest was the battle to fight before a war protecting his present territories. 

.

Too much had changed in the past few years. Luzia hardly recognized those around her, except Lorenzo. Though changed and undoubtedly grown up, the core of his being had remained the same fun-loving and dear friend she loved like a brother. All titles and positions weren’t as important as an honest, genuine friendship. Luzia playfully rolled her eyes as he spun around her. “Lorenzo, duca, enough with the formalities. I intend to be your friend first, a noble from Castile second. For as long as we walk together, of course,” she raised her eyebrows accompanied by a soft giggle. 

“I’d love to,” she raised her dress slightly while turning around to face away from the castle and towards the gardens. With her lips pursed Luzia listened to his words. Her mind immediately jumped to their fun past, the days in which she had no title to really accompany her name, at least not a title linked to another man but her father. She fondly remembered simpler days of laughing, games and dances. How naive she’d been back then, however, the reality of them having grown up did serve as a great reminder of their own strengths and the way they’d thrived despite the hardships. “Yes,” the marchioness laughed, “I’ve been constrained to marry and find, perhaps, more suitable lodgings for myself.” she left it at that, “I do miss Florence. The sun, the good wine - not much quite compares to your generosity and the beauty of your home, Lorenzo.”

He laughed in return, but agreed easily. Though it was impossible, of course, for either of them to be simply friends, they could at least try. It was easier, he supposed, when faced with one whom he had known when he could, if he believed it, be merely a friend or an enemy, with their names and titles—which then many of them had had none to speak of, heir being a designation only and not an appellation—laid by the wayside. “Ah, so it is only ad interim that you shall be my friend first!” he teased, before shaking his head to cut the jest.

“Have not we all?” His own marriage had come a scant few years after the majority of their acquaintance; at this time, he could name perhaps a handful of those of his friends from youth who were not wed in—suitable manner yet. That was the way of their sort; inescapable, though one may wish to escape it. He had never found the thought particularly troubling himself, but he knew of many who did. “Though your more suitable lodgings do seem to suit you also—at least, such it appears. I hope it is true beyond appearances also.” He hummed, throwing a glance to the Parisian sky, picturing under it the dome and hills that marked the background of all things in Paris. “Ah, and not much can,” he said, grinning. “Unless Florence’s hills are your home, you shall forever be marked by an absence of the beauties it offers.” He hummed. “Have you considered visiting? Does the march enjoy art, or perhaps wine?”