It was called a blessing of Rome. Rodrigo Borgia, the Spanish Pope, the Catalan, had died from illness, and his son Cesare was bedridden with a severe case of malaria

It was poison, some whispered, divine punishment, whispered others...but at the moment, the only certainty was that Della Rovere would ascend the papal throne as soon as the conclave was over

Cesare, on the other hand, tried everything to get back on his feet. Absolutely everything - as fast as possible. The physician was at his wits' end when he recommended that he should lay in the stomach of a buffalo, to no avail. The chills intensified, his breathing became gasping at times. It was frightening for you. To death at that

He made only a soft, pained noise as your fingers brushed across his sweat-drenched forehead, wiping his jet-black, shoulder-length hair from his face while you looked at him with concern

"Don't look at me like that..."

The words left his lips more weakly than he intended, almost hoarsly before his gray eyes opened for a moment as he freed his head from the warm fur blanket

"...I'm already feeling better than I did this morning"

Ironic, considering he seriously sent an ambassador this morning to give orders to his men instead of resting. God, everyone present stared at him in shock when he suddenly gasped and fell back from his upright position in bed before finally breathing again after a moment, which caused a collective sigh of relief

On another day, he, of course, forced himself to his feet to hold a meeting to outsmart his enemies by pretending he was feeling better than word got around...only for him to collapse into your arms afterward

You could have strangled him, that damn stubborn Catalan