A/N: From here on out, I dedicate this story to my lovely Phantom Nini. Lots of love, sister! :D
Notice - phrases written in Italian:
Dottore - doctor
Va bene! - Alright!/Good!
La tua voglia é mia ordine. - Your wish is my command.
Figli di cani - sons of bitches
Tieni! - Here!
Si - yes
Spagna - Spain
Un strumento - a tool/an instrument
Principessa - Princess
Ma che cazzo? - What the fuck?
Porca puttana! - Holy shit!
Stai bene? - Are you alright?
Buongiorno! - Hello!/Good day!
Ragazza - girl
Grazie mille! - Thanks so much!
Padrone - master
Città - city
Meraviglioso - marvelous/wonderful
E' il mio obliggo. - It is my duty.
10. In The Dark
~ Rome, 1494 ~
Voices. Moves. Shivers. Breaths.
Dafne couldn't feel her face, as a hand steadily coiled down her stomach, throwing something over her. She tried to open her eyes, but the lids simply refused to lift upward, keeping her in the dark, without any knowledge of her whereabouts or the past events whatsoever.
Moreover, what was her name again?
"Cesare?"
She heard a few steps, and then an impatient groan.
"What happened?" an agitated voice inquired.
"The Assassini. She had been tailed, and they attempted to kill her. Perhaps she discovered something of importance?"
A thoughtful silence stretched as Dafne waited, suddenly remembering all the events the other voice just described.
More touches occurred, as she kept still. It seemed someone was inspecting her ribs, and as soon as he'd touched a certain spot, she could feel a gush painful agony try to rush out of her lips, but to no avail, as she couldn't move a muscle.
"Not too bad, though the bullet missed a vital spot for a mere notch. If I hadn't been taking a late evening walk and il Dottore wasn't as near..."
The inquiring one made a low hum, as his fingers tickled her neck and chest.
"Va bene. It is crucial for you to take good care of her, and inform me as soon as she awakens."
"La tua voglia é mia ordine, Cesare."
The latter moved his hand away from her, as retreating footsteps echoed through her skull for the rest of the night...
It seemed as though Dafne had dozed off, though it rather might've been that she got tired of listening and waiting and set her mind to itself. Unfortunately, she still couldn't do anything but breathe and hear, and such a state slowly began to rob her of patience.
From time to time, she would sense a presence next to herself, but never for a longer period. She was aware of the loneliness, aware that more time needed to pass until she was to finally break through the endless black, to encrypt her muscles and stretch them again, and to feel her voice fluently flow out of her throat.
But who was to blame for this awful ordeal?, Dafne asked herself.
Slowly, but surely, a name appeared - Niccolò Machiavelli, the Maestro of Rome. Sad that he will be leaving the world as soon as she is able to hold a blade again, Dafne pledged caustically.
Though still, the Assassini have made a mistake, a grand mistake, when they attempted to kill her, she figured later on. They were supposed to be skilled, silent murderers, who stay secretive and are never caught. What possibly went wrong that evening? They had her settled in a perfect spot. One precise strike from above was more than enough to finish her off. Why did they not do it when they had a chance, and allowed her to flee again? Dafne couldn't seem to understand.
But one she did comprehend - fortune favored her that day, more or less, and she was going to put that to her advantage. Soon, she will be back on her own feet, she will tell Cesare the valuable knowledge she gained, and the cursed figli di cani will pay for what they've done.
And other times, when Dafne didn't think of her vendetta, she thought of Cesare. The fact that she couldn't see him angered her more than anything in the whole wide world. She wondered what was he doing, does he look the same as she saw him last time...Will he even be there long enough for her to awaken?
She mentally shuddered at the thought.
And then again, Dafne would doze off, or think of the most random things there were. Old poems and plays she'd often borrow from the Roman library returned to her. The most beautiful words ever carved into paper and parchment. She often wondered would it have been better for her if she became a poet or an artist instead of...Instead of...Well, she wasn't really sure what she was. A murderer? A fraud? A mercenary? But she took no money for her deeds.
Ah, Dafne finally admired with pride, she was Cesare's. Committed to him and his cause. That's what Dafne Vespucci lived for. Her loyalty was endless, vaster than any ocean or conquered land.
She was still breathing, she thought. That was a sign that she was still among the living, right? She had gotten sick of the stalemate, the feeling of the wound burning her ribs, and the maddening silence of the room they had concealed her in.
Dafne had not felt a presence besides herself for too long. Had they forgotten about her? Abandoned her? Her questions were answered when the room filled with visitors again.
"Tieni, Dottore," in recognition of Micheletto's voice, Dafne tried to open her eyes, but with little success.
"Si. She has been like this for how long, you say?"
"Six days."
So that much passed, Dafne considered. And she would bet any dire that it had been over a month.
"I see," the Doctor replied, as he went to inspect her body. He pressed his palm against her throat. Dafne could feel how sore it was. The man continued downward, halting his hand on her chest. In contrast to her corpse-like appearance, her heart traitorously slammed against the Doctor's fingers.
"Pulse and respiration are both as fine as this Castello!" he exclaimed jokingly, as he proceeded to Dafne's left rib. An ounce of pain exploded through her system, abundant and agonizing. If only she could scream. If only she could get rid of the healer's touch. This state was worse than death, she figured.
As the doctor, slow as if on purpose, approached the bandages and tore them off as carefully as possible, Dafne could feel the material sweep off of her skin, burning both the wound and the circle around it.
But not a hiss could escape her lips.
"Hmm, it seems to be healing properly. From what I gather, however, it will leave a permanent mark," the man ran his finger around the wound. The Florentine groaned inwardly. She would even have a scar as an eternal reminder of what the Assassins managed to do to her. At this rate, revenge was inevitable.
"Ah, how unfortunate," Micheletto mumbled as the doctor bundled Dafne with newly-prepared bandage. The task omitted more time than the female would've liked, but nevertheless, she was glad when it was finally over. She heard the doctor stand up and take a few steps, probably followed up by Micheletto to the door.
"Say, Dottore, there is one more thing I must ask of you," he began, immediately attracting Dafne's attention.
"Oh? Be out with it, then," the other complied, as their voices became more distant. The Florentine had to strain her ears to the fullest as she tried to comprehend their sentences.
"Donna Lucrezia had caught a slight cold during her last travel to Spagna, and Cesare urged me to bring her a healer," Dafne managed to catch Micheletto's words, before the two men would fade away forever. She was certain she was able to frown this time; the stinging anger she suddenly felt in the back of her head quickly spread over to her chest and down her abdomen. The physical wound didn't matter anymore.
In fact, Dafne felt so furious, so enraged, so sickened, that she wished to punch herself straight into the newly gained scar, only to avert her thoughts from the coiling bate that overwhelmed her. As if it wasn't enough that she heard Lucrezia's name, but Cesare caring for her was...Unbelievable! It made the Florentine immensely agitated. It didn't matter if she was his sister or not, she wasn't as dumb not to realize what these two did while no one was looking.
And this thought Dafne was obligated to coronate with the exact imagination of the said. Flashing images she could now not stop fleeted before her eyes instead of the darkness. A foul odor filled her nose as she could feel a bitter taste of nothing inside of her dried mouth. But why, Dafne would ask herself, did it ail her as much? Surely, she shouldn't even dare judge anything that was...Never hers in the first place.
And suddenly, the fluent flowing of ire emptied from her system, as she realized how small she was in his life. How pitiful her existence was. One kiss, and she thought she was his world. Cesare was far away, inside of his own world of warcraft, whims and musings. He was unreachable to the Florentine. He was never for her to claim in the first place. She was only...
"Un strumento," Dafne murmured as she sat up. Her coma was finally overcame.
With each breath came more pain, more sorrow, more pity for herself. Dafne clenched a fist, staring down at her injury. She needn't be gentle. Gentleness was for the weak.
An inhumane roar filled up the halls of the Castel Sant'Angelo. As she slammed her fist into the rib over and over, Dafne didn't stray from screaming louder. She'd hoped the Principessa herself could hear her, if nothing, but for it to ruin her day.
Running steps reached Dafne's ears as Micheletto busted into the room, almost falling in the process.
"Ma che cazzo?! You're awake!" he yelped, as he positioned himself beside Dafne, attempting to silence her with his hand.
As she finally unbolted her verdant orbs, the Florentine inhaled like she'd never done the said before; feeling the light, blessing air water her eyes, her arms and legs yanking on their own, she completely ignored the pain from the injury. The world around her spun in a dream-like, shimmering motion, blurring and gifting her with a mild headache. The room went awry each time she would blink.
"Porca puttana..." Dafne whispered, as she yearned the life coming back to her body in awe. Micheletto stood lifelessly for a moment, before he would finally speak up.
"S-Stai bene?" he inquired, seating himself on the bed, as Dafne tempted herself to forget about her arching rib. She would only give him silence. But the silence spoke for itself. As he looked away for a brief moment, Micheletto would act curious again.
"Do you know why this happened? Have you learned anything?"
Dafne coughed, weakly shuddering against the cushions as her eyes shut.
"I had learned...That you do not need to be dead to die," she announced mystically, leaning on the pillow as Micheletto observed her, befuddled.
"What do you mean?" he asked. The Florentine let out a sigh.
"Bring him, and I will speak," she muttered almost quietly, as she returned back to the disdain of the darkness, feeling as though she was descending right through the bed, below, into the unknown...
As she emptied the jug, water swiftly flowed down her throat. But the endless thirst refused to be contented.
"One more, I beg of you," Dafne pleaded to the servant, who grabbed the vacant dish and rushed outside of the room. Falling back into her pillow again, the Florentine huffed. Her lips were already dry, and her tongue leaped from side to side, gathering up spit so she could resist until more fluid was to arrive.
The servant finally came back, and Dafne almost smuggled the jug out of his hands, crashing its contents into herself, hoping to put down the burning fire inside. And surprisingly, as suddenly as it came, the thirst expired. Gasping for air after the latest swallow, Dafne handed the jug over to the servant, muttering a frail 'thank you' as the latter nodded with courtesy.
Her head fell back; she wasn't thinking of anything in particular. Not like she really could. It was as though her mind had voided and brain gave up once she was finally out of her week-long trance. It bothered her, because she couldn't think clearly, and Cesare was to come visit her any moment now.
As the said thought came across her, Dafne immediately sat up, rising her nose with some little dignity and respect she had left for herself. A few light knocks could be heard at the door some minutes after, prompting the servant to stand up and open them. Dafne peeked over his shoulder.
"Oh, buongiorno-"
"Get out of my way," Cesare was quick to demand, his tone irascible, pushing the latter away as he entered the room. His navy orbs peered at Dafne, who felt herself fade under his gaze as he approached.
"Ah, ragazza. Welcome back among the living!" Cesare teased, as he sat next to her. The Florentine stole a moment to study him; he had grown a light beard and a mustache since the last time she saw him, and she found herself admiring the said novelties with great sympathy.
"Grazie mille, padrone," she nodded gently, as she threw a quick glance at Micheletto who had joined them as well. Cesare placed his hand on her shoulder, as he cleared his throat to continue speaking.
"Are you aware what happened to you, ragazza?" he began, "Why did the Assassini attack you? How did this happen?"
Dafne pondered for a moment, as a flick of remembrance torched upon her weltered mind.
"I was...I was taking a walk in the outskirts that evening, and-"
"Even though you knew you had become notorious throughout the città?"
The Florentine gained some color in her cheeks as Cesare interrupted her matter-of-factly.
"...And, I've, uh...Come to notice some strange sentience in the air," she proceeded as though she was never interrupted, "But I had decided to ignore it, thinking that it was only a fragment of my imagination. As I continued down the road, the Assassino appeared before me..."
Dafne told the story from the beginning to the very end, describing the chase with as much detail as her memory would allow, concluding with the slight portrayal of the coma she'd lived through. And finally, the most important thing - the Master Assassin's name.
"Niccolò Machiavelli," the Florentine would declare proudly, as she glanced over into Cesare's eyes. Was that laudation she saw?
"Meraviglioso!" the General would exclaim, as more than satisfaction glimmered in the depths of his blue orbs. He turned to nod over at Micheletto, who returned the action, exiting the room a second later.
"You had done well, ragazza, more than well!" Cesare complimented, as Dafne felt herself unable to hold back a broad smile.
"E' il mio obliggo, Signore," she refined. The General's lips became mildly crooked, as the room fell silent for a nick of time.
"And, a reward is due, of course," he remarked persuasively. Dafne's stare became stolid, as she gloated at Cesare in confusion.
"A reward?" she stuttered, but another fit of coughs took its wrath upon her, and her body slightly bent as her throat twitched. Dafne had covered her mouth, and as soon as the sensation was over, Cesare closed in on her, leniently cupping her chin as their glances met. The smile was soon a grin.
"Si," he answered in obviousness, obtaining a coax appeal to his features as he brought Dafne's face to his own. In the next moment, the Florentine knew she would be subdued, ensnared, dominated, once again.
"July 19th, 1494, Roma
Today, I am finally able to walk again, and my mind is at ease. It seems the time had stopped while I spent it lying about, warmly tucked underneath the soft cushions of my bed, but I appreciate the rest, as I was in need of it for a period now. I am beginning to receive tasks again, just like two years ago, which succeeds in keeping my mind occupied, and my thoughts away from those who target me. And as I go and take another life, liberate another soul from the clutches of the world, memories line up, like pieces of a broken mirror. Once put together, they form a reflection, they show us as who we are, for we are nothing without our memories and the ability to cling onto them. And beyond the edge of such a mirror lies the truth. Beyond the mirror's edge...It sounds like a fairy tale, but furthermore, I will go as far as I am permitted, and I will not look back, even if the mirror itself becomes ashes. I will find myself. And he...He will be there. Beside me. Or so I would like to think.
D.V"