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When he is at his leisure, Micheletto prefers to listen most carefully for the almost imperceptible sign that soul has parted from body. He believes he has almost isolated it, the last sighing breath, the fluttering of the heart just before it stops, the slowing and cooling of the blood on his hands. It makes killing close-up that much more satisfying; the silence is a benefit, but not the whole reason he so excels at dispatching the inconvenient for his patrons. After all, he has stared down death enough times that he would much rather greet it as a friend than watch from a distance.
It is what he is good at; it is what he savours. Even as his mama believes his hands to be that of a healer, bringing life to those he touches, he knows that he provides a different type of healing. His hands are skilled beyond measure, expertly practising the medicine that cures all ills.
Yet tonight he is not at his leisure. Tonight, he dispenses the worth of his hands in service to his lord. In service to the man he keeps safe as often as he apportions his lord's vengeance.
The gutter rat has been following Cesare for nigh on seven days now, learning his routine, looking for an opening. Micheletto will not forgive himself for not noticing the man right away, for it was six days ago that he first caught sight of the would-be assassin, settled in an alcove across the way, watching Cesare and his sister leave their home for a turn around the square.
He was far too studiously casual, too quiet and still to be anything but a threat. And so it was that five days ago, Micheletto spotted him in a crowd asking for alms as the Pope himself passed, his hands held out, but his face turned away from the dazzling white raiments to Cesare's apartments high above the street. Four days ago, Micheletto began considering the merits of cheese cutters and bread knives, eyeing the lingering threat even as he himself lingered in the shadows just behind Cesare's shoulder.
The man was at least reasonably competent, in Micheletto's estimation: he was clearly plotting and planning for his best chance, taking note of Cesare's habits and quirks, looking for the best way to both bring about Cesare's demise and escape cleanly back to his masters, a job well done.
In this, he was measured and careful in a way the others sent to threaten Cesare were not, but in one thing, Micheletto is certain: this would-be assassin may have planned for all of Cesare's movements, anticipated all of his appointments and whims down to the last breath, but he has not planned for Micheletto.
There is no planning for Micheletto. Not when he is in the service of his lord.
Three days ago, the heat of an evening became so oppressive that Cesare ordered his windows left unshuttered to let in the cooling night air. They have remained that way since, curtains fluttering enticingly in the gentlest of breezes, a light caress to wood and stone.
In deference to that self-same heat, Cesare sleeps in the nude, eschewing undergarments and all but the thinnest of sheets.
For three nights, Micheletto has stood watch over such impressive vulnerability, more pleased than he would ever admit that his lord is able to sleep so soundly with his barely-leashed attack dog no more than an arm's-reach away. It is a measure of his usefulness that Cesare has come to trust him, and it surprises him even now how little he wishes to bite Cesare's hand.
That hand now rests tucked beneath the pillow that supports Cesare's head, his face turned from Micheletto's hiding place behind the thick curtains spilling down the walls, keeping drafts at bay. It is simple work to arrange and drape so that he maintains his sight-lines, chamber window and door, shadowed corners and ample bed all easily monitored, all subject to his gaze.
In these three nights, he has been privileged to see a more private side of his lord, a deeper layer than Cesare shares even in their most intimate of moments. There is no artifice here, no machinations, no glitter of deceit in the corner of his lord's eye. No, this is the man laid bare, without rampart or bulwark, cannon or moat to prevent invasion of mind and spirit.
He disrobes in front of Micheletto, leather and velvet layers peeled slowly away, stripping down with the help of a servant whose name Micheletto does not know, and does not care to know. So long as he is efficient and distant, so long as he leaves when bid and does not linger, Micheletto does not need to know his name.
Cesare talks of nothing as he is made ready, waving off the servant as he offers a light chemise, his attention on everything but the man. It is as if he is not there, a strange involuntary invisibility akin to Micheletto's own, just as carefully crafted, yet with a far more civilized end in mind. Once Cesare is naked and gently cleansed, the man tugs back the sheets, arranges the bed, and melts, as if as insubstantial as a ghost, into the air.
Once they are alone, Cesare settles on his back, beneath his sheet, his conversation turning to far more weighty matters, the slow work of untangling the source of this latest threat a continual thread to be tugged and loosened, loosened and tugged. For Micheletto, the source is of less interest, its only purpose as the next target in his sights. Yet he is more than willing to be the ear into which Cesare pours his poisons, the keeper of his secrets, the vessel of his vengeance.
It is not long before Cesare's voice softens, rounds, slurs into nothing but a quiet susurration of breath, lulled into sleep by the certainty that Micheletto will cut the throat of any interloper who dares to nudge a toe over the barriers of door and wall. And as sleep overtakes him, lit only by a guttering candle left unattended and the light of the rising moon, Cesare's sprawl curls in on itself until he has rolled onto his stomach, slid his arms under a pillow, and shoved the sheets down to pool at the small of his back. Every evening is the same, a study in Cesare's quietest hours, nary a care wrinkling his brow, nor a worry tensing his muscles. He seems a decade younger in these hours, and if Micheletto was given to indulging fancies, he might wonder what it would be like if Cesare had not been born a Borgia at all.
But Micheletto is not prone to fantasies. His world is made of blood and sinew, blade and whip. It is what lays before him, not what rattles around in people's heads.
Micheletto will stand watch for many hours, Cesare's safety a strong ward against the perils of sleep. He catalogues every twitch of curtain, every shift of shadow, every sigh of breath. And it is only his sense of duty, and not the slow stirring of his cock that has his gaze slipping down his lord's back, considering the curve of spine, the arc of muscle, the smooth skin that Micheletto is charged with keeping unmarred.
He most certainly does not wonder what it would be like to touch that skin, bared to the air, to Micheletto's lips and tongue. He does not wonder what it would be like to cover Cesare's body with his own, tracing the length of his lord's body with his fingertips, making him arch and moan. He does not consider what it would mean to sit astride Cesare as he sat astride Augustino so many times before, rocking back and forth even as Cesare presses up into him, stretching, filling, making him whole. He does not imagine the words on Cesare's lips -- command or plea, Micheletto does not care -- nor his touch -- rough or gentle, whatever it might be.
These are things that could not happen, that cannot happen, that will not happen. Cesare is not Augustino, for all they look alike, and while Cesare shows not a flicker of the same perversities Micheletto shares with Augustino, neither does Micheletto believe that Cesare will ever abandon him. Cesare is as indentured to his dog as Micheletto is to his master.
The flicker of drapery at the corner of his vision is what first alerts Micheletto to the danger at hand. The window dressing twitches, then settles, as if caught in nothing more than an errant breeze. Long moments pass, and then a darker patch of night slips over the windowpane, barely pausing before it glides across the floor, towards the bed. Micheletto can almost admire this man's technique; he is the most subtle of the assassins he has met while in the Borgias' employ. Instead, he grips the wooden ends of the garrotte tighter between his fingers, and waits for this shadow-man to creep closer.
He is a breath away from Micheletto's hiding place and almost within arm's reach of Cesare when Micheletto strikes. The drapes drag across Micheletto's shoulders, cling to his hips as he moves free of them, arms already outstretched, wire loose between his hands, ready to be drawn tight.
It must be quick, it must be brief, and above all else, it must be silent.
The loop whistles softly through the air, clearing the crown of the man's head and pattering against his shoulders barely a moment before Micheletto pulls it tight, jerking backward to unbalance the man and better use his weight against him. But this one remains more impressive than the rest; perhaps the quiet hiss of the wire or the warmth of Micheletto's body alerted him, but even though it was no more than a second between stepping out of the shadows and pulling the garrotte tight, the man now stumbling backward against Micheletto has managed to slip two fingers between neck and wire. He tugs forward, succeeding in doing nothing more than delaying the inevitable, but it's enough to cause trouble, enough to buy him precious seconds of breath, borrowed mouthfuls of time.
They knock against the wall, Micheletto and this interloper, twined together in an unholy coupling, bound by separate duties sharing the self-same outcome. In the darkness, it is as if Micheletto is strangling his shadow-self, a double dispatched to do the one thing that is now far beyond Micheletto's will. As they tumble to the floor, the draperies thumping down behind them, torn and stained in the course of the struggle, Micheletto's senses narrow down to the harsh rasp of his victim's breathing, the gurgles that come from his throat, the warm splash of blood coursing down his fingers, trickling down his arms. Struggling to his knees, Micheletto grapples with this extra body, faintly annoyed at the trouble he's causing, the way he is interfering with a simple task, complicating and corrupting Micheletto's finest artistry. He manages to force a knee into the middle of the man's back, exerting pressure as he pulls the garrotte tighter, pleased at the satisfying 'pop, pop', the howling, burbling moan as the wire severs the man's fingers.
No impediment in the way, it is the work of moments before the man starts to settle, begins to give in to the inevitability of his death, finally allowing Micheletto to practise his artistry. The gurgling progressively quiets, the flow of blood slowing, but even though he is not at his leisure, even though he is a moment away from toppling to his back under the weight of this body, he is almost certain he can hear this failed assassin's heart slowing, his soul perched on his lips, taking flight with the last breath.
He lies still for a space, respectful reverence to the passing moment before he unwraps his wire, gently lays the body aside so he can get to his feet. He blinks as he rises, the chamber far brighter than he recalls until he sees Cesare, sitting upright, one eyebrow quirking upward, a candle held aloft to better see the carnage beside his bed.
Cesare smiles as Micheletto wipes at the blood on his face. "Impressive," he murmurs, and Micheletto can feel the way Cesare's gaze slides down his bloodied clothes, the heat there something Micheletto would never mistake for prurient interest, "If a bit noisy."
"Apologies, Your Eminence," Micheletto half-bows, "but you must excuse me while I take my companion for a stroll to the river. I believe the night air will refresh his tired limbs."
Cesare nods. "Come back when you are done." He wets his lips, a flicker of something Micheletto cannot identify lurking in the corner of his eyes, "We have much to talk of and I do not believe I will be sleeping."
Silently, Micheletto reminds himself to return with rags, and perhaps a small water bucket and brush. He murmurs assent, bending to wrap the body in torn draperies, scrubbing at what blood he can see in the candlelight that does not quite stretch past the bed to the floor. Once the deed is done, he begins to drag the dead weight across the floor, stopping to heft it as he reaches the door. He glances back just in time to see Cesare's eyes on him, to catch the faint hint of a smirk as he blows out the candle and fades into the dark.
Micheletto knows death. It is the thing that gives him life, that permeates his bones, his purpose on this earth. He is as familiar with it as he is with every curve and angle of his lord's face. But love, that remains a pretty puzzle. This fierce devotion to Cesare, this strange desire to let his hands serve his master's heart goes beyond simple application of his most excellent art. For all Micheletto can find the ending of a soul, he is at a loss when searching for its secrets. Perhaps he is not meant to know; perhaps he does not need to. Or perhaps when he is at his leisure, keeping close to his lord, perhaps then he will untangle this one knotted wire, straighten its snarls into something that goes beyond all of his arts.