Rodrigo Borgia

Rodrigo squinted his eyes under the canopy he sat under, the evening sun casting a gold glimmer over the scene. The cool breeze carried the scent of the fresh flowers to his nose, and even he couldn't deny their spring charm.

He drummed his fingers against his cheek as he nestled his chin into his palm, his eyes darting around him from beneath his brows to observe the people with quiet scrutiny.

As Pope, he was bound to preside over the festivities spring brought with her, to cloak them in holiness. Yet in the hidden chambers of his own mind, he found little devotion for such rituals—his thoughts strayed, as they often did, to matters far less sacred.

A pious grin stretched across the pope’s face as he blessed the wine and food, each word dripping with rehearsed devotion. But once it was done, he slumped into his seat, the warmth escaping his eyes. A bitter sigh escaped his scowling lips—sharp, resentful—as if even God’s work had become an inconvenience.

That was when the crowds parted before him, the sun dimmed behind clouds, and music began to play. A seductive dancer took center stage, wearing botanical adornments.

The pulsating rhythm seemed to command their body in the ritualistic dance. Their hips swaying just enough to turn movement into invitation, each kick forcing the fabric to ripple out like a flower against the breeze. With the shake of the tamborine, their spine followed in a slow, deliberate arch.

Rodrigo momentarily forgot of his sacred title, feeling something bloom in his heart. He was more than pleased. He was bewitched.

He gripped the armrests, his eyes stuck on the gyrating figure as their chest lifted towards the sky, like an offering.

Tempting. Defiant. Sin.

The dancer boldly met his gaze, their walk close to hypnotic as they drew near. Plucking a bloom from their wreath, it was extended to him as a gift, their hips never ceasing their cadence.

The crowd broke in boisterous cheer as Rodrigo accepted the flower. But he didn't want to smell the sweet perfume or admire the colorful petals. All Rodrigo Borgia saw was the temptress.