I am truly fascinated by these two and since there is a huge lack of M rated fics for this particular ship, this just needed to be written.

A huge thank you to the awesome PBK, aka duchessofdisaster, for betaing this for me. Check out her stories as she is the Queen of Dalaric and all things slashy.

I own nothing and just so you know, I don`t approve of any form of incest in RL.

REVIEWS=LOVE.

x x x

I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion - I have shudder'd at it

- I shudder no more - I could be martyr'd for my Religion - Love is my religion -

I could die for that - I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet -

You have ravish'd me away by a Power I cannot resist: and yet I could resist till I saw you;

and even since I have seen you I have endeavoured often "to reason against the reasons of my Love."

I can do that no more - the pain would be too great - My Love is selfish -

I cannot breathe without you.

(Jonh Keats` letters to Fanny Brawne, 1819)

The Refuge

The woman sitting in front of the grand silver mirror, Cesare can hardly recognise as his own sister; yet he could never mistake her for someone else.

She looks glorious; her skin glowing in the semi darkness of the room, with golden hair spilling lavishly on her shoulders, soft, silky locks reflecting the flickering lights of the candles. Her movements are light and gentle as she glides the comb through her hair. Her night shirt is almost transparent, suggesting the curves of her body, and he draws in a breath as his eyes travel over them.

Suddenly the room is heavy, laden with silence and he has to suppress his desire to turn and run away. He stands inert, frozen on the spot, not daring to enter, unable to take his eyes off her.

She senses his presence, or perhaps she has seen his reflection in the blurry mirror. She turns to face him slowly. If she is surprised to see him standing there, her face betrays nothing.

He has been discovered. He chuckles darkly under his breath at this reverse of the roles, for it was her habit to spy on him. He already regrets his decision to visit her. It was not in his nature to brood and yet, brooding, he found himself outside her chambers, pacing like a stray dog. Sleep wouldn`t come to him this night. He came here seeking solace in her company, the comfort of her arms and conversation, one last time before she is snatched away from him and delivered to that Sforza brute.

By him, no less. The irony isn`t lost on him.

"Cesare..."

There is no trace of the usual gaiety in her voice; he senses something else there, something that troubles him. His eyes linger on her face and fail to leave it.

"Lucrezia,"

His mouth is suddenly dry. He dares not call her "sister" anymore. His eyes do not see her as his sister, his blood. He sees her for the beautiful woman she is and she makes his blood boil.

"Come," she says softly and before he can stop himself, his legs are already obeying her voice, rather than his own will. He's drawn to her like a moth to a flame, always seeking her presence, never finding her close enough.

He kneels beside her, eyes not daring to meet hers, for fear that they would betray his conflicts.

"What is wrong, brother?" she asks, her small hands cupping his face, her gentle touch a balm on his bruised soul.

"Alas, I am your brother." He says ruefully. Seeing the hurt in her eyes, he regrets speaking. Perhaps she would not understand. He has hard time understanding himself.

He wants to flee the room, to get away from her, but the pull is stronger and he stays at her feet, like the lost dog that he is.

"Don't you love me, Cesare?" she asks.

"More than you will ever know."

The simple truth of this statement hangs between them like the heavy scent of oils.

"Then why this disquiet?"

"Forget I said anything. You should rest now. It's your wedding day tomorrow." He stands on his feet and turns to leave the room but her hand stops him, once again.

"Stay with me, brother. Don`t leave."

He can't deny her but she has no idea of the implications. He tries to read her face, to find something, anything.

"You don`t know what you're asking of me," he tells her.

"Perhaps I do," she replies. Her gaze holds him steady. "I am to be wed tomorrow, Cesare," she continues, silent desperation creeping in her voice "and we are to be separated for a very long time, if my husband wishes so."

"As if I'm not aware of this." He almost spits, voice trembling with anger that burns him and threatens to find its way out. His teeth are clenched; he wishes nothing more but to break something and scream in rage.

"But let me promise you this, sister: nothing will ever come between us. Not even death."

"Hush, Cesare, hush. Do not speak of death." The silent plea in her enormous eyes reaches him where her voice fails. Her gaze falls on his hands, holding hers, and she slowly turns each to kiss their palms; one gentle kiss light as a feather for each palm. She gives him kindness when he deserves none. An array of emotions surges through his body, the thumping of his own heart deafening his ears, when her voice reaches him again.

"I want to leave you something to remember me by" she says as her head tilts backwards, exposing the silky skin on her throat. They are dangerously close to each other, his tall frame looming over her smaller, delicate one. He wants to plant kisses all over her skin, to cover her body and mark her as his. He pushes the thought about Sforza at the back of his mind, for the very thought of him touching her might drive him to madness.

"Do I need reminders of you?" he breathes, lips almost touching hers. He has done that many times before but now it feels different, the innocence (if there's ever been innocence) between them lost.

A smile, a knowing smile curves her lips; indeed, he needs no reminders of her.

"Kiss me, Cesare."

She knows that he can deny her nothing, least this of all. He squeezes his eyes for a moment, teeth grinding in a silent battle with himself, with God and morals. But he knows that he has lost, that God has lost and that she has won.

God should understand.

The remnants of his restraint fall apart and before he knows, his mouth meets hers in the most vehement of kisses. She parts her lips to allow him entrance and his whole being rejoices at the sound of her soft moans. Her mouth is soft and sweet and warm and begs to be devoured.

He feels utterly, entirely alive.

His hands find their way to the back of her head, burying his fingers deep into the silken locks of gold, pulling her closer still, anchoring her small body to himself. Her response surprises him as she grabs a fistful of his hair and pulls him, hard, plastering herself to his lips. He feels dizzy, his head spinning, heart racing, his whole being enticed by her soft lips on his, by her entire presence. His hands tremble at the touch of her and crave to taste more of her.

He is sure she has felt the hard, painful bulge under his robes and decides that he should put an end on this madness before it goes too far.

"We need to stop, my love." His voice is hoarse, lips reluctant to let go.

She stands before him, face flushed, gaze clouded, hair dishevelled from his hands. She is confused, perhaps a little hurt by what she perceives as his rejection.

His mind conjures up the image of their father, the Pope, and his face if they are to be discovered. Cesare tries to hold on to that.

"You belong to God now Cesare," she says, a hint of sadness in her voice, "and when tomorrow comes, I'll belong to my husband."

His chest tightens at the inevitable truth of her words. What is left unsaid lingers heavily between them; once, they belonged to each other only.

The next time Cesare sees his sister, she is wearing her wedding gown. He plays the cardinal, and she the blushing bride. He performs his duties - they both do - as expected of him, to the delight of their (Holy) father.

Sick with jealousy and fury, he takes his mother to the celebrations in a last attempt to defy the Pope and make her happy. And he succeeds. Her face tells him so when she gifts him with a smile, reserved only for him. This somehow makes it more bearable, if not right.

Lucrezia returns to him a woman with a new, vacant look inhabiting her face and a new life growing in her body. For the loss of her innocence and the bruises on her skin he swears that he should kill the swine.

That night he finds himself wandering outside her chambers again. This time, it is she who needs his comfort; at least he tells himself so.

He enters her chambers freely, not bothering to knock or otherwise ask for permission. She sits in front of the same mirror, going through the motions of brushing her hair. Her movements - once light and graceful - now seem to him automatic, lacking vigour. Perhaps she is tired.

She drops the wooden comb as he kneels beside her once more and he takes her hands in his, planting a kiss to each wrist.

"Talk to me, my love,"

"There's nothing to talk about, brother. I'd rather forget."

He wants to ask her so many questions; about the father of the child she is carrying. Whether she loved him. Instead, he nods in silence.

The hard bite of jealousy wrenches his heart but he chooses to ignore it; instead, he thinks about her husband.

"The Sforza pig should suffer for this."

There is promise in his voice and her lips curve in a smile but she says nothing to encourage his violence.

A long moment passes in between, before she bends her head to seek his mouth again. They find each other's faces, hands stroking, brushing, caressing. Her skin is satin and perfect to the touch and he revels in the sensation. Her breasts are fuller, harder with her pregnancy and her body has acquired curves that were lacking before; the knowledge that she is a grown woman now ignites the fire in his veins and maddening desire to posses and claim, erase all memories and all trace of others before and others to come. His blood is too loud in his veins so he chooses to run from her again.

Cesare doesn't even remember the last time he confessed; there is no priest or God that would ever condone him for his many sins, no prayers enough to wash the blood out of his hands. He needs no forgiveness because he holds no regrets; he is determined to take whatever he wants and become the man he always wanted to be, regardless of how. This is what it means to be a Borgia and Cesare has finally come to accept it. He has learnt to deal with his enemies (Juan included) in the most relentless of ways. The cardinal robes will weigh on his shoulders no more; only the dark, menacing cloud on his soul.

Once again he seeks refuge at her door.

"It took you long enough, Cesare."

He smiles at her, astonished. She knows and has known what he has only suspected, tried to disown.

She helps him shed his clothes, the pupils of her pale eyes enormously dilated as she watches his every movement. Her soft hands slide over his naked body, stroking his chest, exploring every sinew and there is awe in his eyes for her boldness. His mouth seeks hers once again, hungrier than ever to caress and feel with all the fervour he`s been holding on for so long.

His hands undress her, eagerly seeking contact with bare skin; he feels her loud, thumping heart in her chest as her breathing accelerates and he wants to take her now, this very minute.

He has to slow down and be gentle with her.

He finds himself fully entrapped between her legs and he is painfully aware of the steel of his erection and the enormity of his need. Unbidden, a groan escapes his chest; but he wants to prolong this moment, Cesare has waited long enough for this, he can wait a little longer.

His sister's hands clutch at the sheets as he leaves a trail of kisses on her jaw, down to her collarbone and further to her small breasts. When he takes one rosy nipple in his mouth and sucks on it, harsher than he intends, she moans his name in abandon and it`s the most beautiful of sounds. His only regret is that he wasn't the first one to be there and he won't be the last but for tonight she belongs to him and that should suffice. He holds a gentle grip on her hips as his mouth finds the crevice between her thighs and his tongue starts teasing her slowly. She is already wet, waiting for him and her taste is divine.

A loud cry escapes her and turns into frantic pants as his fingers penetrate her, stretching her slowly, making her ready for him.

She glides her hands over his shoulders, her nails clawing and defacing his skin; it is a glorious pleasure, mixed with just a touch of pain.

When he senses her ready for him he climbs back and enters her slowly, afraid that he might fall apart any moment now. Her velvety walls sheath him in warmth and he is falling free, into her, into her body, into the bottomless pits of her grey eyes and he is swallowed whole. Their fingers entwine. Cesare knows he has finally found his safe haven, his only refuge, as he guides them both to the verge of release. He can feel her coming undone, her walls clamping on him.

There is no battle this time, no reasoning with self or God; he doesn't even remember God before his lips find Lucrezia's once more. His need for her outweighs all reason and all scruples. Nothing else outside her exists; in her, he finds his Heaven, his Hell. She is his fantasy, his only daydream, and for as long as he has her, he needs neither God nor man.