First, a warning: it is my first attempt at writing for the Courtesan. Fiora is not a character I like and whatever few depictions I read of her did not stick. I don't think she was a deceived girl who turned to the Assassins because she thought of the Borgias as bad, as I sometimes see. She is calculating and ruthless - had to be, otherwise she would never have survived. I still hate her for killing Lupo, though her reasons were not groundless. (I should write something about Lupo on this... maybe.) /rant
This takes place roughly after her run in with Malfatto - when he tried to kill her. If that's a spoiler - wiki is here for you. (My guess is that he managed to get some poison in but not enough to kill.)
Disclaimer: I own nothing, the Rabbids do. And since it's AssCreed and that I don't go beyond what happens in the game-verse, no warnings are needed.
Lying across damp, chilly sheet – window opened on the cold night. Moon watching unblinking, bleak face condemning. You reap what you sow. She could not move – maybe she will die now. After all she saw and all she did – she forever was the same. A courtesan – fallen prey to the empty gaze of waxed terror. No different from the girl lying in a pool of blood – silent scream slashed across her face. Fan useless in her unmoving hand. Thinking back. She believed him – believed his words – not love – fanciful admiration in a heart too versatile – set on ambition too high. Her reward, the mask of deceit slipped on the face of hatred.
I saw you – I followed you – your orders and your voice. Lead turning to a leash. I am no barking dog, who do you think I am? What am I if your creature. Creation of ambitious dreams of higher spheres – away from the grime and filth. Away from men's hating gaze – on to calculating glance. I am not yours to keep anymore. Syringed acid that melted the chain away – loyalty has no place in a whore's bed.
Cold as the river aimlessly walking – the shadow of whoever she could have been. From child to woman to whore to templar to murderer. You're better off dead. Words echoing in her head – unsaid still heard. Thin arms around her frame – on the roof shade inking its way towards her. Silent, watchful guard-dog on her trail. A flick of her wrist – Go away, it's not your place. A plea she never thought would pass the barrier of her conscious mind. Unseen and unheard nod - a rustle of fabric high above. Away. Sad? Terror seeping through her bones – she should have died. Why? Luck had nothing to do with it. Sitting on a bench, thinking. She knew why – she had been chosen, flaunted and used – discarded to appease the madness of one man. She had betrayed – luring men to their death – without second thoughts. Of qualms, she had none. But it was not supposed to end like this. In the distance, the Sant'Angelo bridge. Dark figures and one falling limply in the filthy waters. He said they loved her – they loved her dead. Walking on a tightrope, her balance thrown by fear. Ageless, ancient terror – embodied in one mask – of a bird, of indifference, of scorn. Let there be scorn, let there be hatred. A vendetta is easy. And he will pay. Pay for them all. And this one – loathing courtesans – as much as she had come to loath men. Blood will run – in and out, until it runs no more. She turned her back – Baltasar would wonder. Il Lupo would not understand. They are dead to her. As she is dead to him. His words are empty, lying in freshly upturned earth, graves dug out for crows to feed. Her fan felt cold in her hand, blood drying in the mechanism – poison not enough to kill her – enough to slow her down. Vulnerable as she had vowed never to be.
When you come to a dead end, you have to take turns. And she will. Her hand gripped her fan until her knuckles turned white. He will not win – not against her. She will survive him. Even if she has to help his enemies. Allegiance does not mean a thing in a country where parents murder their children, where people are bred to butcher others just because they can – not even for the money. Having no qualms about killing never meant she was agreeable with the idea of meeting her own end at the hands of her 'master'. She was the slave to no man. She was a courtesan, not a mere street whore. Whatever the good doctor thought. Dread seeped down her spine at the thought. She knew he was still there, lurking for prey. Maybe not now, the wound too fresh. She had to hide – surprised passed, he would never let her go again. The next time will be the end. Unseeing, her feet led her to the Isola Tiberina – the lair of the Assassins she had tried to destroy for years. The ones she had sought to undermine and kill would be her only protection. It was not a change of heart dictated by whatever chivalric notions – the logical way to act for those who turned coat against the hand that once bound them. From there, she would fight back. From there, she would exact revenge on Cesare for her own arrogance and foolishness.
She could see a shade looming from the other side of the bridge, refusing to cross. A wolf trained not to disobey. Trained never to cross – staying out of sight – hidden weapon. He will die. They will all die. They say Hell has no fury like woman scorned. They could not be more right.
Any thoughts? I would be happy to hear your opinion about this story. (I write for my own enjoyment but it's always better if you enjoy reading my stories. And if you did not, I can still improve. Hopefully.)