Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed or any material related to Ubisoft in any way or form.
A/N: Honestly don't know what was going through my mind when I wrote this, but I thought it kind of fits with the character. Now, please be aware that this fic is very dark, twisted, and generally a very "what the heck were you on when you wrote this?" story. My explanation: I have an affinity for the Doctor in the multiplayer of AC Brotherhood, and it made me wonder just why exactly Malfatto likes to go around murdering the courtesans. From that, this little… horror fic… was born.
The Courtesans of the Rosa in Fiore didn't understand why someone was murdering the young women of their ranks, why each month they'd find another of their sisters' bodies abandoned in an alleyway, mangled and bloodied. It wasn't until one of the victims returned, already beyond curing, to relay the story of il dottore.
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Every time Malfatto gazes at a Courtesan, he sees her: brown hair spread in decadent waves across a sweat-stained pillow, pale creamy skin laid bare along a mattress stained with blood and other body fluids, lips made into a brilliant ruby hue as she panted and tried in vain to form words.
But what he remembers most are her shimmering emerald eyes as she gazed up at him, nothing but the purest innocent love in those glistening orbs.
He was once nothing more than a normal dottore hawking his wares—without the use of leeches or bloodletting—cures that were tried and true, and would heal any common ailment. He had a good business, with a good clientele, but he remembers the sickness he felt as his wife begged him to test his newest concoction—one which would improve a couple's chances of conceiving a child—on herself, the agony as he gave in and his syringe plunged into her flesh, watching as the serum slowly depleted until there was nothing left and all he had to do was wait; wait until she woke him in the dead of night, eyes and flesh burning as she tore off her clothes and his, pushing him down onto his bed to bring them both to climax over and over again, more times than he could count, until he fell into a senseless stupor atop her.
When he finally came to and roused himself, there was little he could do to save her. She wept as her body convulsed around him, arms curling around him in a death grip, screaming in pleasure and fear as an incessant flow of blood issued forth from between her legs. Eventually, her screams died down to mere whimpers, which seemed even louder and more painful to his ears. Finally, he felt the soft mounds of her breasts depress as she released her last breath, and her body went limp beneath him.
Even in death, Malfatto thought, she was beautiful.
From then on, he swore to himself that he would never recreate the serum his amata had been victim to, the one that had taken her life through an insatiable carnal want that tore apart her insides until she hemorrhaged to death. Instead, tormented by guilt and grief, he turned to the art of making poisons, becoming merely a shell of a man as he tested each fusion's effects on the hapless Courtesans of the Rosa in Fiore, who took their evening strolls along the back alleys of Roma, the ones in which their screams and pleas for help were seldom, if ever, heard.
It was only that one summer day, when he was chased by the most infamous assassino in Roma—felt the burning in his lungs and the sweat running down his back—that the cold bite of a blade plunging into his carotid finally gave him the release he desired. As he looked upon the death angel garbed in white, a small smile broke across his face, for in the angel's face he could almost see the face of his beloved wife, and he gave himself at last to the blinding field of white.
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A/N: Could be a lot better I think, and I may rewrite it, but as for now, it seems that this is all I can do with this story. Thank you very much my dear reader for getting this far, and I wish you a very happy New Year.