RIARIO, God's sent, child of Pope Sixtus the fourth, was a proud coward. He just didn't know it yet. He would do anything the Pope asked him to do. He would fetch his water and he would kill men for him. He would dirty his hand with all the blood of all humans, so long as the Pope's hands stayed untouched and cleared of sins. He worshipped him, blindly and willingly, like a dog to his master. After all the Pope had done for him, how can the act of corrupting his soul ever going to hold up?

And so, Girolamo loved him, feared him, adored him, worshipped him. Even when the Pope was as naked as the day God's gave him his life, even when his dick was dripping with bath water and dangling like children's toy, he feared. The Pope had the wrath of the almighty imprinted on his face.

Girolamo was, once again, on his knees, ready for the Pope's punishment, waiting for the man who he called Father to draw out the sword from its sheath which he held in his palm. The sword glistened in the firelight, shining blinding colors of red and silver. He remembered when the Pope – then just his uncle – gave him that sword and patted him hearteningly on his shoulder, and said, "May God help you."

How time had changed. He raised his armed hand, and just as Girolamo thought that his faults can no longer be forgiven, the Pope hit on the eye of his most loyal servant with the hilt of the sword, where he would make sure his beautiful face was marked. Just to make sure he remembered Pope Sixtus's disappointment every time he looked at himself in the mirror.

That moment flashed by and embedded in his mind like the Plague. He remembered the words carved into the hilt flying to his face in slow motion, just as blinding white light exploded behind his closed eyelids. It didn't hurt as it was numb – agonizingly numb. He was desperate to feel something other than this numbness, this emptiness that no action could fulfill. But all the missions given by the Pope had honed him into an emotionless killing machine. What could he possibly do but feel numb?

The Pope made him who he was, and he was grateful for that, no matter how despicable a person he was turned into. He thought of this as his body lied thick and heavy on the cold ground, watching the Pope's bare feet patting back to his awaiting bath.

All he knew was to welcome the pain that was finally creeping up to his face and smile.

When he returned to his chamber, he looked in the mirror and saw the faintest words imprinted on his cheek.

May God help me.

Sometimes he couldn't help but feel like a child at the Pope's mercy, repeatedly and overly used and abused.

Sometimes, even God wasn't enough. No faith can help him from the loneliness he was hiding inside. If he was God's sent, then he wasn't supposed to suffer from this mortal feeling.

Sometimes, he felt like he was just as stupid and naïve as a child.

If this God couldn't help him, then no God was enough.

But he knew better than to betray God and Father. His thoughts were sinful. He couldn't help it. So may God help him.

He hated chasing after Da Vinci. He hated this seemingly ancient feud, mice and cats, sheep and lions; never ending, never resting.

He was tired. Why these pointless things? Of course the fact that Da Vinci could outsmart him enraged him. But after all, both he and Da Vinci were brilliant people, just in many different ways. Differences didn't bother him. Normally, he would leave the man alone after he was tired of his games and let history be written. Why should he care anymore when he too, was writing his own history? As long as they kept their distance, they both can be heroes in their separate worlds.

But the Pope turned it into something else. He pushed him back on track, declaring Da Vinci as a great threat to Rome, and there was nothing more Girolamo could do. What the Pope desired, he gave it to him. There was no other way around it.

Things got personal between him and the maestro. Da Vinci fooled him around with a giant fake crossbow that could hurt Rome the way a fly could hurt a flower.

He felt like a jester.

A physician pulled out a piece of wood out of Girolamo's bicep, and he winced and cursed at Da Vinci for the pain he was enduring. He heard an endless string of apologies.

Truth be told, he had never felt more alive. So this was the game the great Da Vinci wanted to play. The thrill was on. Girolamo's grip secured around the physician's neck in a blink of an eye. The man's face instantly turned red.

"Shut your mouth and do your work." Or else, he'd kill.

Just as when fake giant crossbows and petty tricks could not anger him anymore, he heard from Lucrezia, the scum of Roman streets. The last time he had heard of her was when she was banned from Rome, at the Pope's order. His last thought of her was that she deserved it, the sorry excuse he had to call cousin.

He couldn't loathe her though. Not after all the fun they had together. Not after that day when the Pope, then just a Cardinal, gave him a simple task. Train her, he ordered. Prepare her. Let she be ready for what the world expects her to do.

Lucrezia might be the Roman scum, but she wasn't worthless. Beneath all that dirt and dust, she was quite… something, a little beast locked inside a charming belle, the way she squirmed under him as he broke her innocence, the way she sneaked back his chamber for the second night, begging him to relieve her aches with his touch. They both learned something, the scum and the coward, the taste of maturity, and the feeling of obeying someone other than the Pope.

It was he who made her who she was, not a whore, but a heartbreaker. And she was fucking Da Vinci, and de Medici, at the same time. Quite an achievement she'd made. His cousin had gone far, more than he ever thought she could. But he didn't care.

Da Vinci and de Medici were only using his leftovers.

He slept with Lucrezia for another night when she came back, as she insisted. He asked her what he had in store that the two other men could not satisfy her. She said that sometimes two men were not enough. She asked him what happened to his cheekbones. He said it was fate. She said fate made her want to put his dick in her mouth.

The conversation ended.

At sunrise, it slipped from her mouth that she was carrying Da Vinci's blood, while the man himself was searching for the book that holds all the knowledge in this world. The Book of Leaves.

Would God punish him if he questioned his existence? How odd. Father said the life of God's subjects were entrusted in his hand, how come he couldn't control his own life? How come it felt like his world died every time morning came?

He said nothing, and let his cousin do all the talking, which was only three words in length. "I was careless."

I was careless. He smirked. It took all of his willpower not to kick her out of his chamber and onto the streets right then, back where she came from, letting her bare her child alone in misery and without any kind of protection, just so she learned her lesson. But he just sat there, looking at her.

"Please help me." Little words whimpered from her pink mouth. "I have never asked you to do anything. Not even a favor."

He wanted to correct her, that quite in the contrary, he had done for her more favors than she could ever repay. If only she knew.

"How do you want me to help you, Lucrezia?" His voice was so calm and low that it could have been dangerous. "What do you want? Protection? Wealth? How can I, your humble servant, help you?"

He couldn't resist his anger anymore. He lashed out, "Your child will forever be a bastard. You will be disgraced forever. Your best chance right now is to go back to de Medici. At least there your child can be a servant instead of a beggar on the streets."

"No, I just need to find a husband. Someone willing to shelter me and take my child as his own."

"And what kind of idiot would do that?" He snapped. Lucrezia stayed silent. "All those years of fraud and deceit and you couldn't even find one person stupid enough to wed you?"

Words died on her tongue. He knew there was something else she wanted. He couldn't actually pinpoint it out. Lucrezia was more than capable to do that task. There was something else. Something...

"Why are you here Lucrezia?" He asked suspiciously.

And then he thought of her seductive words earlier that got her ended up on his bed.

Lucrezia looked at him. Her knowing green eyes said it all.

"You sly bitch. The nerve you have..." He raised his hand at her, but she didn't do as much as flinch.

He had taught her well.

"You can't have me. You will never have my affection. I am bound to no-one."

"I don't need your petty affection," she snapped, as bold and fiery as the day he first laid eyes on her, "just your damned reputation."

In the midst of her rage, she slapped him hard, his head cocked to the side. Rage consumed him, but just as he was about to strike back, he saw the desperation in her eyes. Lucrezia is falling, deep into the abyss. He remembered the day when he found out that she believed in love. Love was all. And here was her reality, loved by Da Vinci, but so much that he could give up the mysteries of the world. Adored by de Medici, but never truly and completely hers.

"You are on your own my darling." He whispered. He lowered his hand and watched her green eyes looking into his dark orbs as he tucked a strain of her hair behind her ear. "You are so attached to every affair you're involved, and now, you really have no one."

"I was hoping that I could have you."

He smiled bitterly, "No."

"Just one more day," she pleaded, and before he could refuse, her lips were already pressing firmly on his.

The new girl servant brought in breakfast for the woman. Lucrezia welcomed the plate full of food with a disturbing cheerfulness and sunshine. He was deeply annoyed, no doubt, and waved his hand, dismissing the servant girl.

Through the corner of his eye, he spotted the servant spotting him, but when the cheerfulness radiated from Lucrezia was too overwhelming, he was just too annoyed to care. He walked out of the room and started his plans on overthrowing Da Vinci once again.

The journey to the Book of Leaves had one route, one direction, one destination, and there could be only one ship. The Pope actually listened and declared the Book must have a way to take over Florence and make it Romance forever. And so he was sent away, to do what he must.

A map. A ship. A plan. He stole it all from Da Vinci, and it seemed too easy. Of course, he had not expected Lucrezia and her so-called friend to sneak back into the ship and stole back what was theirs, but it wasn't so much of an obstacle… just another minor bump in the road. He looked at her, tip-toeing in the end of the board, watching her pleading with false words and begging with her soft green eyes. He smirked, already knowing that this was just a trick, a play to cover her identity before her friend's eyes.

He saw the faintest smirk on her lips and wondered whether this was goodbye. He didn't miss that genuine look that she gave him before she fell gracefully into the ocean.

He encountered a surprise that uneventful evening. The servant sneaked in, confronting his evils and holiness. He didn't have a care over her words, but he couldn't help but admire her bravery. His mind wandered, and he noticed the subtle curve of her face, her lovely dark skin and her wet, dripping hair. She made quite a show, begging him to let her stay. He just wondered how different she was, yet so attractive, so convincing. He said yes. He found himself fascinated with the idea of her, her story about the princess and the traveler and their night together. She showed him her skin, and he found out that etched on it was an entirely different universe, one with just as many stars and mysteries as the one he lived in, one he could touch and caress with his fingers. Their breath was slow and ragged, their bodies moved in sync with such passion and endearment that astonished him. He thought about the contrast of their skin, one as dark as night and the other as light as sky. He thought about their uniqueness, he thought about the spark in her eyes.

And made sure he would never forget.

The girl – Zita, wasn't in his arms when he opened his eyes, but before he could suspect anything, he saw her out of the corner of his eye, leaning against the door frame, very naked, very defenseless, but he found it beautiful and with grace. She gave him a soft, genuine smile, and he smiled was a sharp pain in his chest, a clenching, and agonizing sting, gripping his chest like a fist. He gritted his teeth to not let the feeling overpower him. He controlled the attack, and when it died down he was out of breath. He immediately thought of being poisoned, but he knew it was not the case. What he felt, was the exact opposite to that chronic numbness. It was the beginning for many others to come, the first sensation he had had for a really long time, one that left him defeated. Zita had made him feel.

He wished he could recall moments like this when he was younger, but he couldn't. His childhood was one that filled with death and ghastly missions from the one he believed in. There were pats on the shoulder and disbelieving compliments, but never this. A woman's small and delicate smile. So honest and pure. So innocent and untouched. She smiled, and he couldn't help but grin. He felt even more alive then the pain and humiliation Da Vinci caused him. His life didn't end at the very first sight of the sun, not for that day. For the very first time, Girolamo felt as if there was more to life than an old dirty book.

When he killed, he never noticed much. Details were too unimportant. When the task was achieved, he was done. There was nothing to think about. There was no need to begin the cycle of remorse and redemption. Today, he began to notice.

Sounds. The creaking sound of his men's footsteps. The waves crashing on the sides of the ship. The slightest, most gentle breath of Zita's and his.

Light. Candles flicking back and forth, battling their own invisible enemies. Plans, maps laying across the desk.

And Zita. Her dark skin looked warm, too soft and smooth to touch.

Smells. Sea. Salt. Damp.

Zita.

Zita stirred awake, and out of a sudden, all thoughts were lost. To damn with his sanity. He wondered if this was the reason why Lucrezia was so foolish. The delirious state of being. But again, he had never cared to ask Lucrezia whether she was well, let lonely if she was delirious.

Maybe life was not so cruel and unfair anymore. Maybe all the numbness would come to a halt, for he could not stand lurking the shadow any longer. The suffocation must end.

He had finally figured out what the new emotion he felt with Zita was. It was a long process. Girolamo analyzed his every thought, every sensation, every feeling, every tingling moment, even those moments when he felt as if an iron was gripping his heart. The answer was new, novel and strange, and it had not been easy to accept and familiarize himself.

It was bliss. Absolute bliss. There was no other way.

But nothing mattered anymore. Nothing. Not even the Book. Not even his wrecked ship and his encounter with Da Vinci. Why would anything matter? Zita was long gone.

It was less painful to live in a world of complete darkness than to find a shred of faint hope and then lose it forever. Zita, bliss: they came and went like the wind.

He went home, defeated. He thought maybe Father could give him some solace, some peace. But he was dead wrong. The Pope talked about love. But his love was all conditional, intentional, misleading and false. Love thy God and you shall be rewarded. Love me, and I shall shower you with affection. Love. Could the Pope's love hold up to the feeling of Zita in his arms? The feeling of her warm breath on his skin? The way they bonded without too many words? He accused Girolamo of turning soft and weak. His heart wanted to twitch with shame and embarrassment. But no, he was never soft. Nor weak.

The punishment must cease. The hilt of a sword to the bone. May God help you. A true reminder of irony: a weapon of murder blessed by God; a killing machine with good faith; and a Pope with cruel intentions. The world is riddled with falsity and wrongdoings. He knew of them but never acknowledged them. He never cared about rights and wrongs.

But from now on, it would all change. He couldn't help it anymore. He had nothing to lose, and so much to gain. He had tasted agony. He had held her when death stole the light out of her deep dark eyes.

A single tear ran down a face etched with fear of a slumped body on the ground. The Pope was taken aback, shocked by the true evilness of his own creation. There was no room for disappointment. The look on Father's face wasn't something Girolamo Riario could ever forget.

The empire they built together had tumbled apart. It was all over. There was never any God's sent. There was only, the forsaken.

His world was incredibly dark now, darker than his good days, darker than the nights plagued with terror. His world had finally collapsed, as the Pope collapsed in front of him, knees first. Pope Sixtus the fourth was kneeling in front of him. Worlds are burning, debris scattering, dust flying, fire catching. Chaos.

"Son?" and the Pope looked up, and he tried to find something familiar in the eyes of Girolamo as if the situation can still be fixed. Girolamo was crying, yes, but no whimpers or sounds were made. Instead, he only found hatred.

Girolamo remembered the days Father was still kind to him, the days that he gave him everything he could ever ask for. He reached for the last shred of gratitude, the last light of compassion for the dying mortal man in front of him. He kneeled down, embracing the man's head into his arms, whispering the words both he and Father knew so well, before twisting the knife and ended the man's life.

May God help you.