Hello~ Basically, I have this damn treasure trove of random fics I've written in my life. Me and my friend Katie are like obsessed with Assassin's Creed, and if you're wondering who this Caterina girl is, it's her, because she like loves the character of Federico and I'm written these and others for her. They're alright, and they're relatively short, and the POV alternates. Sometimes it'll be hard to tell, so I'll tell you which is which. Read if you wanna, and review :)

lol and Caterina is kind of like a ripoff of Rosa. DEAL WITH IT.

Federico's POV

"Leave me alone, Auditore," she huffs indignantly, crossing her arms over her chest. In her breeches and her green cap, the necklace she had always had strung around her neck since the very first day she arrived in Firenze and before, her socks and nearly worn-through flats, she seemed more like a boy than a girl. An eleven-year-old boy that happened to have long curls and pouty little lips and lashes that curled up, that were so long Federico could have sworn she cut them from her hair and pasted them to her eyes.

"What's wrong?" he taunts, running after her. He was nearly a man, at fourteen years of age. A little beard was beginning to grow, his shoulders were so much broader, he was a head and shoulders taller than he was three months ago, and his voice was deepening. He could have been her brother, if one was idiotic enough to mistake his flirtatious jaunts for brotherly teasing.

Yes, Federico had a tender spot for Caterina. She was still childish, with flat hips and nothing to truly show her femininity except for her face, but she would be beautiful one day. She dressed like a boy, she swore like a boy, she did everything like a boy, but she was still a female. Even if she said not a man in the world could win her heart over like the thieves' guild had, like La Volpe had, like Alfonso and Franco, her little thief friends, did everyday, he was determined to be that man. But someday. Not now.

"I said go away," she groans again. "Just leave me alone. I want to be by myself. I want to be all on my lonesome."

Federico frowns, keeping pace with her surprisingly fast walking. She actually looks hurt, her lips set into a deep frown, her blinking harder than usual. Maybe he had gone too far with his teases this time. He only meant to make her mad, not to make her cry. COULD she even cry? Was she capable of crying? He had seen numerous scrapes, bruises, scuffles with Franco - who seemed not to care she was a young girl - and rough tumbles from rooftops. Never once did he see a tear shed.

"I'm sorry," he sighs. "Is it my fault? I didn't mean whatever I said.

She turns on her heel and shoves him away. It must have looked ridiculous to anyone who saw, the way she literally had to reach up to push him, the height difference. But she was angry. She was actually hurt for the first time, or the first time he'd ever seen her hurt, anyway.

"I said go AWAY," she repeats, all seriousness and excessive punctuality. "You are a PEST. You're like a DISEASE, Federico. Leave me alone just this once, please, I'm begging you."

She turns away, beginning her fast pace again, disappearing into a series of netted alleys full of puddles and drunks sitting in the damp corners. And he stands there. What did he do?

Caterina's POV

Caterina kneels in front of her trunk. It served as her wardrobe, filled with three pairs of breeches, a few clean shirts, new flats in case hers wore through too fast, scarves for the cold, and an extra cap. She kept these folded and strategically placed over the items that reminded her of her old life. There were times when she forgetfully tugged out a new shirt, and things came flying out, revealing everything, all the things that told the story of the little girl she was once. There are other times, however, when she does it intentionally And this is one of those rare times.

She does this only to clear her conscience, so she remembers that she wasn't born into this, that she would be married off by now. It helps her recall the nights she ate dinner with all of her siblings, the stories her father told her before bed, the giggles and whispers she shared with her sisters in the dark shadows of the garden as they saw their oldest brother with a girl. It helps her remember who she really is.

She isn't a thief. Not inside. She isn't as hardened as she makes herself seem. On the inside, she's just a piece of clay, dropped into a pot and sealed away. If someone were smart enough to break the pot, or stupid enough to shatter what she spent so long to build up, they would find her, a tender little piece of clay. And she would mold to their ideas. That's what La Volpe, brilliant old Gilberto, managed to do when he found her. And she loved him as a father. But she was waiting for someone else to crack the pot that La Volpe put her in.

With a long breath, she lifts out her breeches. Out come the hats, the flats, her scarves and her shirts to be placed on the floor or flung onto her bed. And she sits with a chest full of her life. Or what still remained of it.

Caterina reaches in. She pulls out the small shoes she was wearing for a month before La Volpe found her in Napoli. Riding boots. She remembers choosing them out of her closet, lacing them messily, and tossing her silky slippers she wore around the house onto the floor. They were muddy and dirty when La Volpe found her, but were shined and cleaned of any scuffs long ago.

Below that, a bracelet. Her sister, Ariana, who was still alive but somewhere else in the world, made it for her, out of extra string. It was neatly braided, made of blue and white, and it would still fit her wrist. She runs it between her fingers, and almost smells the salty air of the Mediterranean around her, the hour she sat on the loggia overlooking the ocean as her sister made it.

And her dress. Blue Venetian silk, patterned with the flowers whose name she couldn't remember but adored. A velvet bodice, satin strings, the lacy ends of her sleeves. The bottom of it had been torn and muddy from all her painful walking, and at the time she was found, it smelled horribly of the days she spent hidden belowdecks to get to Napoli from her home of Sicily. Since then, it was hemmed by an actual professional, a friend of La Volpe's, fixed beautifully. It slips through her hands, and she feels tears fall from her eyes. She clutches it to her chest and inhales deep.

And in her privacy, she hears the familiar creak of her window opening. Turning over her shoulder, she sees Federico, in his familiar red doublet and brown breeches and brown boots, his hair tousled and his lips pursed at the sight of her. He knew nothing of her old life. He didn't know the truth, though she knew he suspected it.
"Leave me," she whispers. And he obeys, slipping out again.

the ending was kind of lame but I was at a loss.