@desxde ( cont. from here )
                was at the wrong place at the wrong time, that moment. Yet, he was exactly where they wanted him to be. First they ruined his castle, broke it and tore it to bite-sized bits that would then be taken as souvenirs of the old rÊgime; and now there was one more thing to tear down, one last reminder of the nobility that ruled over Lacoste⌠or at least, owned the biggest house there. There was no ruling involved - the anger of the people seemed misconducted, if you asked the Marquis himself. Of course, nobody could tell the angry mob this, and it was only a matter of time until they knew of the whereabouts of the author.
    He was a man of average or slightly below average stature, with almost delicate wrists and ankles, and a pallor reminiscent of the dead. Though when the first punch was delivered, the blood of the living rushed through his body, to pile under the skin and then trickle from the newfound gashes - and the delight sprang from the attackers and their laughs and their gasps and the new punches, kicks, and stabs. Unending torture, not of the good kind that he would remember in years to come, looking at the scars that would form with stories of I was in Paris and this actress- or Once I left my castle-
     And through his red film vision he could only see vague indications of reality. Fiery eyes, cheap clothes, the ground, and then, that angelic beauty - he thought he was dead for a moment, dear reader - but then he processed it entirely. Lucrezia, he mouthed wordlessly, What in the world are you doing here?
News about the events in France had quickly spread over Italy. Violence rules the streets, they said, the people want their revenge. Lucrezias heart still cringed at this development, as she watched the beautiful landscape that she passed in her carriage. Everything seemed so quiet, so peaceful, but she knew it was a deadly silence, awaiting more bloodshed, more horror. Yes, she did support the ideas of the revolution, but not this, not what they became now. Should theyâve seen it coming? Did they all underestimate the rage of the oppressed?Â
The Borgia wasnât fully sure, what lead to the decision of this journey. Everyone had warned her not to endanger herself by stepping on french soil, especially not in her position. Yet here she was, without any true protection. Perhaps it was the worry that consumed her so far away from dear friends. And deep inside she feared for a certain one. For Donatien. He was a nobleman and therefore a first target. In his last letter he had reported a heated-up atmosphere and swelling discontent. Nobody would care about guilt, even less when it came to someone with a damaged reputation like the marquis had.Â
That was the reason for the stop in Lacoste. Lucrezia swallowed before she left the safe carriage, trying to prepare for what she might see. But once she laid eyes on the place she loved so much, the woman realized that the situation was worse than sheâd expected. The castle where so many lucky hours had been spent was a ruin, a symbol of all the things that were lost forever. She hurried through the streets, searching for any sign of her friendâs fate, filled with despair. And suddenly her moves froze. It took a few minutes until Lucrezia recognized the man who squated on the street, bruised and broken.Â
âDonatien!â Quickly she was at his side.  âDear God, what have they done to you?â She needed to get him away from here, that was the only clear thought in her head. âCan ... can you walk?â
