She had been exhausted that night, nearly falling asleep during her bath. She had collapsed into her bed naked, not even bothering to dry off. She had returned to Monteriggioni that afternoon and it had taken her several hours to tell her allies all that had happened and several more for the doctor to stop fussing about her wounds,particularly the hash in her side.
Her uncle and Machiavelli had been quite upset over the fact that she had chosen to let Rodrigo Borgia live. She knew that she would most likely live to regret her mercy, but she had been tired and half dead and just so fucking sick of killing.
She had arrived home nearly unconscious, her uncle practically carrying her as blood dripped down from the gash in her side. That night in the bath she had traced the stitches holding her wound together, frowning at the blood that seeped from it, staining the water. Undoubtedly it would scar. Another to add to her collection.
At least it was in a place few could see, unlike the line that slashed through her lip. She hated the scar on her face. Not because it was ugly but because it was noticeable. If one were to say to a guard that the murderer had a scar stretching across their face it would be easy to identify her as the culprit.
It was all Vieri de' Pazzi's fault, when he had thrown that fucking rock at her like a coward all those years before because he had known he couldn't take her in a fight. Though lord knows he had tried. He had ambushed her in an alleyway several times, he and his idiota friends. She had always broken free and clambered up onto the roof of the nearest building, but not before she had punched him in the face a few times and given him a nice kick in the groin for good measure. Her feud with Vieri seemed so petty now, after all that had happened. God, she had been so innocent then, completing her first true killing in the name of the brotherhood. Compared to how she once was, blood is practically dripping from her hands. She doubts that she will ever truly be able to wash it all away. But all that's over know. She was finally done.
Her sleep, for the first time in years, was peaceful. She had finished. She was done. She could finally put down her blade and rest. No more killing, no more fighting and running until she could barely even stand. She would still be an assassin, of course. She would still go on missions for her uncle. But no longer would she be fighting with the knowledge that she had to avenge her father and brothers weighing her down. She had fallen asleep with dreams of the future mapped out in her head. She could finally attempt to repair her relationship with Claudia, who had always resented her a little for being above the rules, for being able to fight, to travel and wear pants and wield a sword and bounce from lover to lover while she was stuck in Monteriggioni managing the villa's finances and being badgered by their mother to take a husband. Ezio had never quite figured out what made her so different from Claudia, why she had practically been raised a son while Claudia was forced to be a lady. Perhaps it was because she had grown up alongside Frederico, and that he had taken her everywhere with him.
Frederico. It still hurt to think of him and of father and of little Petruccio. She still saw them swinging from the gallows in her nightmares, faces purple and tongues swollen. She was forever thankful her mother and sister hadn't been there that day to witness their deaths.
She had been woken rudely from her sleep by the sound of cannon fire and, assuming it was only target practice, simply rolled over and swore quietly to herself. The peacefulness of sleep was already leaving her, no matter how much she clung to it.
Then the world exploded. A cannonball tore through her room, showering her with splinters of wood. Ezio tears the sheets from herself. A hiss of pain escapes her lips as she peels them from where they had dried to her wound and she feels blood begin to run down her hip. No matter. She would worry about that later. She threw on a simple cotton shirt and trousers before donning her hood. She doesn't even bother to put on her armor. She grabs her hidden blade and thrusts her sword into her belt before moving to the gaping hole that had once been her bedroom wall and leaping out. She runs along the rooftops, desperate to get to the gates, to find out what was happening. She takes control of a cannon as one of her uncle's men tells her that it was the Borgia who were attacking, led by Rodrigo's son, Cesare, and that her uncle was fighting outside the walls, trying desperately to hold them off long enough for the people to escape.
She made shot after shot but it seemed to make no difference. There were simply too many men. Monteriggioni was already lost. It was just matter of time before they breached the walls.
The gates finally gave in, crashing to the ground, and the enemy flooded in, led by Cesare himself. She had certainly heard of him before but this is her first time seeing him in the flesh. He's tall, with dark hair and a pointed beard. He is young too, younger than her by several years. She doesn't have long to look him over however, as she sees the man that is being dragged behind him. Her uncle. With urgency dulling the pain from her wounds, she climbs from one rooftop to the next until she is directly above them, ready to strike.
Then Cesare pulls Mario to his feet and shouts "Ezio Auditore, I know you can hear me! My father sends his regards!"
Before she can react, a gun has fired and her uncle's body is lying in the dirt at Cesare's feet, blood flooding out from the gaping hole in the side of his head. Her mind goes red. All thought, all reason has left her and all she can think of is avenging her uncle.
With a scream of fury, she runs forward, preparing to jump off the roof and thrust her blade into that bastardo's neck. Then pain explodes in her shoulder and she is falling falling falling and landing in a crumpled heap. The bullet wound in her shoulder burns like fire and judging from the wetness running down her side, her stitches have likely burst as well.
She tries to get up off the ground, to stand, to fight, but her limbs are heavy and her mind foggy. Her strength fails her and hands pull her up and begin dragging her by the shoulders. She shouts at her uncle's men, telling them that she can walk, and she stands unsteadily.
Then the enemy is upon them and she is fighting for her life, though she barely has the strength to lift her sword. Somehow they make it to the Villa, to her mother and sister, and she leads them down, down into the sanctuary and through the passage she had discovered upon unlocking Altaïr's armor. With every step she can feel herself growing weaker and the red staining her shirt has seeped through her robes. They finally make it out, out into the countryside, and she stumbles, falling hard to the ground. There are voices above her and she can make out her mother and sister's faces, and when her hand goes to her side it comes away slick with blood. Everything is blurry and the voices around her become more frantic. She feels someone lift her from the ground and she tries to protest, tries to say that she is fine, but the moment she tries to raise her head the world turns dark and she knows no more.