Disclaimer: I own nothing from Assassins Creed, not the games, movies, or books. Nothing! No Ezio. No Altair. I own nothing. This is purely for amusement, nothing else! I just write to better myself as a writer, and learn and develop my style. And for the readers enjoyment, after all.
Author's Note: This is a sequel to "Life, Death and a Choice". You don't necessarily need to read that to enjoy this story, but if you don't want to feel lost at times, I suggest going to read that before this one. (*Also note that Life, Death, and a Choice is currently be edited! Chapter 12 and up have yet to be edited and updated!) This story will definitely have a different tone than the last one, but will not feel too separate from it I hope. Anyways, I hope that you all enjoy it and come to love it.
Assassins Creed Renaissance: This books helped me a lot with Ezio's point of view as well as the game, so I wanted to throw in a disclaimer here. It's not word for word what's in the book, but some parts may seem familiar.
I want to give everyone who followed and favorited this story a big thank you. I am so happy that you have loved this story and series, to take the time to read it. I would list everyone off, as per the usual, but there is so many of you that it is like a page of writing on its own. I just wanted to take a moment to make an author's note to say how grateful I am for the support of this fandom and community. Assassins Creed was my first big fanfic and it developed my love for writing, and that's really because of the response that LDaaC got, and I'm just so humble by all the love. Thank you all so much!
I want to also thank, Guest 1, Dance FLY, Vokenkendov, the Writer8789, Ashleigh Season Falkinburg, The Fox Familiar, Child of Jon Snow, Valshaena, Guest 2, who dropped a review! Thank you. :D
Guest 1: One thing I always fear when writing Original Characters, is if people will be receptive to them because there is a lot of stigma about Mary Sues and Gary Stues, which can be enjoyable in their own right, but then there is fanfic where its meant to be a fully rounded character with depth and imperfection. That's what I tried to do with Olivia, and I am so happy that you've enjoyed her journey and love the character. I loved building Ezio and Olivia's relationship, and all the ups and downs. Thank you for reading.
Vokenkendov: Yay! I'm happy you enjoyed. Hope you like what comes next. ;D
Guest 2: Thank you so much! I m really glad that you enjoyed it, and I really do try to keep the heart of the game while bringing a new perceptive on it. :D
WARNING: mild torture, and threat of sexual assault
Lie of Purgatory Main Theme: "Alive" by Avalon
Songs of the Chapter:
"Far Away" by Breaking Benjamin
"Under Your Scars" by Godsmack
Chapter Five
"The Tormented Sky"
The Tyrrhenian Sea
8th August 1482
It was the sickly roll of the ground beneath her and the faint cy of seagulls that forced Olivia back into the land of the living. Her left eye peeled open, and she winced at the brightness of the sun blazing down from high in the sky. Her right eyes could only open a sliver, with half of her face bruised and swollen shut. Each breath through her nose caused her entire face to throb, and she could feel dried blood caking her skin. Her tongue moved in her mouth, dry as cotton and all that had happened came back like burning coals being dragged through her memory. The column of her throat moved up and down shallowly, while her wrists strained against the thick and abrasive rope that held her arms tied behind her back.
Sky of blue were stretched as far as the eye could see, and the scent of salt brought upon the sea filled the air. Red sails swayed from the masts on high, and upon them was the sigil of golden bull. Her cheek was pressed against the deck, and she laid there, trying to summon up the energy to move. She watched the crew move around, skirting around the hired mercenaries, who stood vigilant and watchful.
There was no way for her to go unnoticed.
Olivia shifted until she was face down, took a great breath and then pulled herself up into a sitting position. She sat there on her knees, and dizziness swarmed her head. A tremble skirted down her spine, unsure if she could continue to hold herself upright. Her stomach was a churning lava pit, and she choked down the sickness that bubbled up her throat.
"Awake, I see." Cesare stepped into her field of vision, and a mirthless smile graced his mouth. He had his hands clasped behind his back, and his dark gaze was set upon the horizon. "I apologize for the heavy-handed manner that I exhibited in your capture. I fear that there are times that I act on my worst instincts."
She craned her head back to view him with a fed-up, gimlet-eyed. He openly scrutinized her, far more up close and personal, than they had been at the cave. He wished to view her reactions, she realized with a pinch of fear. A shrew individual that wished to know his enemy as well as he knew himself, though Olivia shared no such fascination in return. Her armor and weapons had been stripped away, leaving her with just her tunic and trousers. Her heart thumped wildly at the base of her throat at the loss of the Shroud.
It was below deck, tucked away. The power of it always lingered in the back of her mind, a distorted song that called her to a place that she had never known. There was no trace of triumph or smugness simmering beneath the mild-mannered mask on the son of Borgia's face. It hit her with all the subtleness of a war hammer to the back of her skull.
He didn't know about the Shroud. He didn't know that he had a Piece of Eden well within his grasp. She fought to keep her expression stilted, not wishing to give away the burst of relief that she felt.
Cesare walked over to a group of barrels, positioned just out of the way and picked up the ceremonial tazza that set on top. He cracked open the lid with little effort and filled the drinking vessel, before he made his way back over to her. He crouched in front of her and pressed the rim of the cup to her lips. She kept her lips sealed and glared at him.
"I imagine that you must be thirsty," he said, in a genial tone. A chuckle worked up his throat when she refused to relent. "If I wanted you dead, you'd already be in a grave. There is a reason I expended such effort to ensure that you were captured alive. I wouldn't put that all to vain by poisoning you now."
His sudden windfall of goodwill towards her just served to put her on edge. Indecision throbbed in her throat, but she reluctantly opened her mouth, swallowing down the liquid. The wine was surprisingly sweet on the tongue, and soothed the soreness of her throat, though it was a poor substitute for water. It would do nothing to curb her dehydrate and lethargic state, only enabled her to speak a bit less hampered.
"A tazza filled with sweet wine. Such a strange luxury to find on a mercenary ship," Olivia croaked, when he drew the chalice from her lips. Rivulets of wine dribbled down her chin, and she leaned back against the mast unable to keep her strength.
Cesare chuckled, rubbing his thumb across the side of silver chalice. "The Borgia family loves to live in excess, and I have inherited my father's expensive," he commented, walking over to the edge of the ship and dumping the rest of the cup into the sea. "I always bring some relaxations of home with me when I travel. A man must have such comforts, in such a harsh and cold world, don't you think?"
"I wouldn't know," Olivia responded, dryly. "I'm not exactly in a position to be comfortable. Perhaps if you would untie me, then we could speak on equal footing."
"Such witticism." Cesare tossed the tazza carelessly on to the deck. It clattered against the wood and then rolled about, back and forth and side to side, in time with the waves. "There is nothing that can be done about your current accommodations. Bond by ropes or tossed into the brig, you are a caged bird. When we reach the shores of Verona, then you shall be able to broker for your freedom."
"My freedom?" she said, startled.
Cesare let out a bark of laughter. "I imagine you thought that this would end with a death sentence for you. If I were solely my father's son, then you'd be strung up before we left Naples. But my mother taught me that all manner of resources come to us in life, even those in the form of an enemy and resources are not to be wasted," he responded, with a self-satisfied curl to his smile. "You are not just an ordinary prisoner. You are my tool to bargain with the Assassins."
Olivia could not hide the disbelief that colored her expression nor the brief, keening laughter that rattled out of her chest. "You want to bargain with the Brotherhood?" she asked. "They would sooner deal with the devil than with you."
"Then that means your life is forfeit," Cesare replied. "I am willing to bet that Ezio Auditore cares too greatly for you to let that."
Her muscles went rigid beneath her skin, a statue cast in flesh at the sound of his name. Her heart panged with longing and despair. She missed Ezio like the sky missed the stars on a dark and cloudy night. There was a void in her life where he had once been that could not be filled by anyone else. Sick with sorrow, she dropped her gaze away from the piercing gaze of Cesare.
"You assume we parted on amicable terms," she replied, when she found the courage to speak. "There is a thin line between love and hate, and who is to say that he does not reside on the side of hate for me now? My life would be a poor tool to barter with."
"Do you think that your Assassin goes unwatched?" asked Cesare, with a tilt of his head. His eyes dark eyes saw through her smokescreen, and he looked vaguely amused by her attempt. "We have eyes and ears in every city and town in all of Italy. Your memory is long lived in the Assassin's heart from all my spies accounts."
Her eyes closed, conflicting emotions rising in her, that his words invoked. Her tangled hair falling in front of her face like a curtain, and her chest pulled tight with a faltering breath. Around her, she could hear the rocking waves and the cries of seagulls in the sky, and in the light of day, there was no place for her to hide.
"Your reaction betrays you," Cesare commented, idly.
Her heart set heavy and low, twisted into an aching knot. "Let us assume that your accusation is true, and that Ezio would compromise himself for my safety, to what end to you seek his skills? What lofty task would you bestow upon him?" she asked. "What task would consider a high enough price to spare the life of your enemies, even if only for a time?"
"The task of killing my father, of course."
Her eyes flew open, wide. Her head snapped upward, and her eyes locked with him, with her heart thumping hard against her ribcage. She was flabbergasted, unable to believe what she had just heard, and her mouth worked with no sound emitted. Blood rushed past her ears in a roar, Olivia questioned, "I beg your pardon? You cannot be serious."
"I have never been more serious in my life. My father has strayed far from the principles of the Order. His greed and lust have overshadowed his Templar oaths, and he grows too bold, eager for a war to enshrine his name forever into history and shaped the world in his image," Cesare responded, with a regal nod of his head. "War has a place and purpose in history, but I believe that bloodshed should not be needless."
"Do not make the mistake of believing that this will mean peace between the Order and the Brotherhood. Peace cannot be reached such as the world is now, with the bad blood too fresh and need for vengeance burning bright on both sides," Cesare continued, undeterred by her incredulity. He walked light on his feet, bearing the graceful stride of a well-trained dancer. "My father presents a threat that none can ignore, which provides us with the unique opportunity for our goals to temporarily be aligned. We can go back to hating and fighting each other, afterwards."
Her grey eyes slanted towards him, distrustful and wary. "You have benefited greatly from your father's machinations. The Templar Order has benefited from all his plots and schemes," she questioned. "Why the sudden change of heart?"
Olivia observed him, with more care than she had previously. He was so young. In the darkness of the cave, she could not determine his age, only that he was younger than when his path crossed with clashed with Ezio's. Here in the light of day, she saw a boy that could be no older than seventeen annuals. He stood tall with pride and entitlement that was benefited to him through his father's station in society. A boy with a thirst to prove himself to his father and the Templar Order, and it made her wonder how much he fed his worst instincts in order to get that approval.
There was a ruthless edge to Cesare that had been honed and sharpened under his father's tutelage. He had slit Isabella's throat to punish Olivia for her reckless taunt, but she couldn't stop the disconcerting thoughts that surged to the forefront of her mind. All that madness, all that anger, how much of it was truly his own? How much of it had been hand fed to him by those around him? In seven years in 1497, it was documented—at least, in her world's history—that Cesare Borgia would catch syphilis. He would lose not only his vanity and hide his face behind a mask to cover up his shame, but the disease would ravage his body and his mind. It drove him to a state of mania and paranoia that would lead him down a path to his eventual death.
He was too ambitious, driven and loyal to the Templars to ever be an ally to the Brotherhood. It would be wasted energy to try and convince him to be, but his hatred to his father was well documented. He resented the man almost as much as he revered him, and for all the familial obligation, Cesare had the limit to how much he would expend himself for his father.
Olivia sympathized with Cesare, to a point. What she felt for her father was divided by a thread fine line of love and hate, with little in between. There were days that she wished her father to return and would have welcomed him with open arms. There days where her thoughts were less charitable, and she imagined putting him into a six-foot grave herself.
So, she could partially believe that Cesare wanted his father dead. It was well within his means to hold her life poised like a knife to Ezio's throat, to have the Assassin do away with his father. Not only would Cesare rise in power within the Italian political structure, he would rise in rank amongst the Templars, too. He would be in a better position protect the one person that history said he loved most—his sister, Lucrezia. But this offer came with strings attached.
One big string that she could see that would have long consequences, and that is if it were known that Ezio was Rodrigo Borgia, then the Templars would use this knowledge. It would be spread, far and wide, and while Rodrigo was not Pope just yet, he was high enough in society to have his death leave the populace shaken for all the hatred towards him. Ezio was already hunted and lived a life that revolved around the shadows, that why it was vital for his dealing to stay out of plain sight and to keep the dealings to the dark. If the truth were brought to light, it would be used as a weapon.
"Rodrigo Borgia is never appeased. He gorges himself on wine, wealth and whores, beyond excess, treating all of Italy as his playground. The very instant he feels that his power is too threatened, what little control he has will snap. Your Assassin picks off more and more of his support with each passing day, and my father cannot to lose his allies. There have been many who have sought to tear him down from power for years and would flood the streets in celebration the day that he falls," Cesare stated, grim-faced. "If he feels that Italy slips further and further from his grasp, he will see Rome burn before he will let his throne be taken from him."
"The Assassins…the Assassins believe that I am dead," she told him, her voice light. She had to be careful how she navigated this, feeling like she was standing on a wire suspended a great chasm. One false step, and she fall into the abyss. "Even if you were to send letter or messengers, they will not take you for your words. And for all your flowery speech, your reasons for wanting your father gone are far from altruistic."
Cesare raised a cool brow. "Oh? And what would you know of my reasons?"
"Your assessment of your father is true enough. He would burn everything around him then to hand it away without so much as a whimper, but you glossed over the impact that his madness would have, especially on those closest to him." Olivia had a sneaking suspicion, one that grew the longer that she stared down the young man. She would not voice the questions that roiled in her head, biting them back from the end of her tongue. "All those people that he would have burn to smithereens, like your sister."
Cesare paused, and the mask slipped just a fraction. It slipped just long enough to let her know that she had hit a vulnerable spot in his armor.
"Your reaction betrays you," she mocked, with a blood splattered smile.
His face twisted into a scowl. He sharply pivoted on his heel and barked out orders for her to be taken down to the cells below. A mercenary grasped her by the elbow, hauling her off the deck so harsh that her shoulder nearly popped out of the socket. She bit the inside of her cheek and made no complaint at the manhandled.
There was a split second, a moment's hesitation where she contemplated breaking free and pitching herself over the side of the boat. The gentle sea, however, was not far more accommodating than the cell she would be placed in. The blood from her wounds would draw in predators, and if sharp teeth did not tear her to pieces, exhaustion from trying to keep her head above water would.
So, she let herself be led down the creaking steps, into the bowels of the ship. It was dark and cramped, smelling of gunpowder and sweat. There were a few crewmen working about. The leers and whispers that followed made her want to crawl out of her skin or scream to the high heavens. The mercenary pulled her to a halt while two sailors carried a chest across into a little area that looked like a storeroom. She caught only a glimpse, but she saw her armor and weapons, with the Shroud folded haphazardly on top before the door was shut.
Olivia nearly stumbled over her own feet when the mercenary forced her to move forward once more, and bit back the several unflattering curses that rose to mind. The brig was in the far end of the ship, and the metal cage was barely bigger than a giblet. She was pushed into the small cell, and the door shut with a metallic clang.
The click of the door being locked behind her made her heart drop right out from her body. She looked around the tiny cell, with only a thin stack of hay for a makeshift bed and a bucket in the corner with flies circling around it. "At least, I have a piss bucket," she muttered, underneath her breath. "I won't have to lose the last shred of dignity I have by soiling myself."
Venice, Italy
9th August 1482
The explosion of the merchant's shop had tongues wagging for days. Rosa had chided and lectured him for the foolish display, while Antonio and Ugo had heartedly laugh at his daring until Rosa smacked all three of them upside of the head. No one laughed after that because the woman wielded a mean hand when provoked. Ezio wasted no time to visit Leonardo's workshop, checking up on his old friend in a way that he knew that Olivia would have appreciated.
"Buongiorno, Leonardo. How are you today?" he inquired.
The inventor stood, hunched over his desk with a furrow along his brow, and a quill clutched in his hand while an assortment of parchment set all around. All manner of schematics, drawings and notes were written, and the Assassin still marveled at the way his mind words. The artist had so many ideas and built upon the works of others, wishing to revolutionize the world.
"I am well enough," Leonardo said. "What of yourself?"
"The Thieves Guild is flourishing, slowly but surely," Ezio responded, . "It is heartening to see the Templars grasp on the city to be pried away, and the life and joy of the people return without the cloud of oppression hanging so heavily over them."
A fat drop of ink splattered on the page for Leonardo paused a moment too long. His blue eyes were fastened onto Ezio, and a sigh tumbled off his lips while he wiped the excess ink off the tip of the quill before he set it down. "I did not ask how the Thieves Guild were today," the painter stated, with a chiding tone. "I asked how you were doing today, my friend."
"That is a question with no simple answer."
"I do not expect one," Leonardo said, lightly.
Ezio ran his hand down the length of his throat, and his gaze lifted up to the ceiling where all manner of contraptions were hung by string. The center piece was a machine made out of wood and leather and held the resemblance of a bat with wings out-stretched. "I cannot deny that my days are troubles. The Brotherhood makes triumphs against the Templars, both great and small, but these do not bring me ease or solace. I can bear the weight of the memories, of all that I have lost on certain days. On other days, it nearly breaks my spine in two," the assassin admitted, with great reluctance. "My father and my brothers' dead. My mother still does not speak, and my sister has decided to run amok in Rome doing God knows what…and Olivia…that fucking Piece of Eden, that blasted relic that took her life. There is too much loss in my life to not feel weary under the strain of it."
"My friend, I wish there was more that I could do to ease your mind, but memories are not a foe that I can help you triumph over," Leonardo told him. "We all deal with the shadows of our past in different ways, and there is no limit to how long grief can have foothold in our life. There is no shame in that."
"But I can't let it in my life. I can't let it control me, even on my bad days," Ezio replied, with vexation. His eyes were shattered and haunted with dark circles bruised underneath them. "I have too many that depend upon me to stop the Templars, and their madness. I feel myself slip…into despair too often, for my liking. I see the world through this deep, dark hole—as deep as a grave, and I don't know how to drag myself back out."
The artist rested a hand up on the assassin's shoulder. "I know the darkness in which you speak. I have seen it in a great many of others and have experienced it myself, through great difficulties in my life," Leonardo sympathized, quietly. "If there is one thing that bring you solace, know that you are never alone."
"Thank you, Leonardo," he said, gratefully. "But I did not come here to speak of my woes and bring such bad tidings to your morning. I came to check in on you, to see that Venice has been hospitable to you."
"Bah! I cannot any work done under the conditions here. My patrons are penny pinching fools that would know a florin from a , and to make matters worse the Doge has nearly run the city's coffers dry. He spent a great deal of wealth on fireworks from China, when I could have easily made them here and saved Venice some revenue," Leonardo complained, with a shake of his head. He shuffled the papers into a semi-organized stack and pushed them to one side of the table before he set the mugs down. "Sadly, common sense has no effect on hearts filled with greed. He only wishes to bolster his image and parade himself about the nobility, who will not feel the harm of his choices. It will the poor and untutored that will take the brunt of his foolhardiness.
"But one thing I have made headway in was the codex pages," the inventor spoke, his mood shifted in the blink of an eye. His face brightened with pride at the compliment and he ushered Ezio over to the table to show him. "It is a schematic for hidden double-blade, but it seems to be an early draft and uncompleted. I have copied it down and have been looking for ways to make it applicable, but it will take me some time. The writing has been translated and you can send the page back to Monteriggioni with the others."
"You do good work as always, Leonardo," Ezio complimented, with a smile.
"I am not the only one that does good work," Leonardo said, pleased. "Your exploits have caused quite a stir. From what rumors I have heard, Emilio Barbarigo and Giovanni Mocenigo are worried."
"Good. They should be," Ezio replied, with a sharp nod. It always brought him great pleasure to turn the tables on men who thought they were untouchable, and bring their safe walls down around them, like the Templars had done to so many others.
"I would expect the patrols will be doubled in efforts to apprehend you," the artist warned him.
"I'll watch my back," Ezio promised. "Have no fear."
The Assassin made his way to the doorway when something held him. It was a weight in his chest, this kernel of guilt that he could not swallow down and get rid of no matter how hard he tried. He muttered an oath underneath his breath and turned on his heel to look at his friend. "Leonardo, I…I want to apologize," he stated, beseechingly.
"For what?" Leonardo asked, baffled.
Ezio scrubbed a hand down the side of his jaw, and a frown pinched on his brow. "For earlier, when I was speaking about my sorrows. I know that I am not the only who has lost so much, and Olivia…she was your friend longer than she even knew me," he responded, in a halting tone.
Leonardo let a small laugh, a sad and morose sound. His blue eyes flickered to the floor, brief and swift, before he raised them to rest upon the Assassin. "She was one of the best friends I ever had, and yes, I miss her dearly," he spoke, a smile full of sorrow and fondness on his face. "But you don't have to apologize for mourning her. What you two meant to each other, there are few that ever experience such unshakable devotion. It is understandable that you mourn the way that you do."
The two held conversation for a little bit longer, until matters called Leonardo away. Ezio found himself walking down the street, a sprinkle of rain pouring down from the broken, grey clouds that spattered the sky. The crowds dispersed, driven in doors by the storm, and he bore the brunt of the rough winds alone. The air was brisk and salty, a squall that must be building upon the sea and he glanced upward, at the towering clouds building higher and higher. It would be a furious storm.
He sympathized with the sky, feeling the dark clouds were a reflection to the ones that swirled in his heart. He felt like an old stone, being worn by weather and time. He was slowly being ground down to dust, and he didn't know who he would end up as when all his life was spent. It frightened him to look at the future and see such uncertainty. Ezio struggled to find a place to rest, a brief respite in these days of churning chaos but with more than one war plaguing Italy, he feared that was nothing more than a dream.
He made his way into the heart of the Thieves Guild building, towards Antonio's office. He wanted to discuss the matter of taking down Emilio, having felt that he had done enough to force the man out of hiding in order to try to contain the chaos the Assassin had created in Venice. The door was ajar, haloed by the firelight and a heated conversation with familiar voices made Ezio pause in step.
It was unmistakably La Volpe and Machiavelli, arguing with Antonio. His stomach pinched unpleasantly, curious as to their presence here. The last time he had seen the pair had been shortly before Olivia had died, and there was still a trace bitterness towards the pair for the mess that they had gotten the Red Hood into with Giaordano Borgia years back. It was one of the few times that he had seen Olivia rattled, but he choked down that instinctual anger to listen to the hushed argument, lingering in the door's shadow.
"I do not believe it wise to keep this from him," Antonio barked, his voice cracked like a whip. "He deserves to know!"
"Know what? While the King of Naples is part of the Brotherhood, he dines with the Borgia and speaks of treaties," the Fox countered. His voice held a hard, cynical edge while he stared down Antonio with a violet glare. "He could be compromised for all we know, and this letter is nothing more than a ploy to lure Ezio from Venice when it needs him the most."
Ezio felt disquiet settle like a stone in his stomach. He took a small step forward, edging closer to the door but not too far to reveal himself just yet. The Brotherhood was keeping secrets from him, after everything that he done to stop the Templars. After everything he had lost because of this damned war, and he felt anger boiled white-hot up along his insides. He had always known that La Volpe and Machiavelli were too involved in this war to not be a part of the Brotherhood, if not Assassins in their own right, but to learn that Antonio was also a part of this made him feel like a pawn—a pawn being shoved across the board at its master's will.
"Should that not be for him to decide?" Antonio declared, passionately. "This letter—if these rumors are true, then you know what this would mean, especially to him! You would let him continue to grieve—"
"I've seen that boy be torn down by tragedy more than once," La Volpe interjected, hotly. "I saw him after his father and brothers' were hanged. He was barely hanging on by a thread, and that thread snapped with the Red Hood's demise. He barely built himself out of that chaos, and you wish to send him spiraling back down? And for what? An Assassin that we are not sure is an ally any longer?"
"We will get nowhere by arguing," Machiavelli stated, after a deep sigh.
"We will get nowhere because we will never agree on this," Antonio countered. He shook his head, frustrated and folded his arms over his chest. "This is foolishness to keep this a secret!"
Having heard enough, Ezio pulled open the door and marched into the room. The three sets of shocked and wide eyes would have been comical, if it weren't for the suspicions burning hot in his chest. "And what secret would that be exactly?" he asked, angrily.
There was an exchange of glanced, where none of the three seemed to know how to answer or perhaps, if they should answer. Finally, Machiavelli cleared his throat and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "You know that eavesdropping is poor manners, Ezio," the scholar commented, frivolously.
"And talking behind one's back is not? That also was not an answer," Ezio replied, his face darkened like a thundercloud. "You all speak of loyalty, demanding that I prove myself over the years and I have never failed to do so. Today I am asking the same of you. You want me to continue to trust you and fight alongside of you? Then prove that you are trustworthy. What is so important about this damn letter that you think it is worth jeopardizing the confidence we have built in each other so far?"
Antonio stared daggers at La Volpe and Machiavelli. "Tell him the contents of the letter," he demanded, when the tense silence became too unbearable to suffer any longer. "Let him decide the worth of its contents."
La Volpe muttered an unflattering curse, none too quietly about Antonio's lineage to which the dark-haired thief made a rude gesture with his hand in reply. Machiavelli shook his head at their childishness and ran his hand through his hair before he picked up the letter from the desk.
"We have received correspondence from King Ferdinand of Naples. He describes a most unusual encounter he had with a woman that he had believed to be a novice assassin at first," Machiavelli stated, his tone calm and even. There was a conflict, an inner debate that briefly played across his features, and then he held out the parchment to Ezio.
"I take it this was not so," Ezio said, slowly accepting the missive.
"Read and then you'll understand our hesitance," Machiavelli replied.
The Assassin unfolded the parchment carefully, and his eyes scanned the flowery letters written by a well-practiced hand, bypassing the traditional greetings and social requirements of idle conversation until he reached the heart of the letter. A swift stillness swept over his frame, and he looked frozen in place. He didn't blink, he had even seemed to cease breathing all together. His eyes, moved side to side, rescanning a single line of the letter, until the words swarmed his mind and drowned out all else.
Despair began to alter Ezio's features. His brows creased in a knot, and his eyes flared open wide. The tide of his breaths was shallow and sharp, and the parchment crinkled, when his hand slowly curled into a fist. He inhaled through gritted teeth and was unable to speak for several moments. He felt as though his grief had created a chasm where his heart should be, just a hollow ache that was filled to the brim with regret and anger. His eyes raised and leveled on the three men with undulated fury.
"What is this?" he demanded, his voice an ugly and dark thing.
"Ezio, I know that this is a lot to process—" Antonio began, placatingly.
"A lot to process?" A high-pitched and broken laugh tore out of the assassin. He covered his eyes with his hands, as if it could erase the words inside of his mind and tear away the fragment of hope that now lived within him. Hope was too painful, too cruel. Hope was the knife, stabbing and digging deep, into an old wound that would never heal. "Is this a joke? Is this a fucking joke?"
"This is not a jest, Ezio," La Volpe replied, a sympathetic tilt to his mouth.
"No! It doesn't make any sense!" Ezio countered, with fevered denial. His hand shielding his face, a desperate attempt to hold onto the scraps of dignity, while tears leaked out of the corner of his eyes and down his cheeks. "I saw her! I saw her disappear in a shower of light—one moment she was there, and she was gone the next! She was gone!"
"This is why we should have waited," Machiavelli said, with a soft sigh.
"Fuck you!" spat Ezio.
Antonio clasped his hands together as if in prayer. "My friend, please, listen to us. I know that you are angry with us for such deception, but our intentions were to spare you unnecessary pain. It was foolish to keep such secrets from you, and I beg that you find it in your heart to forgive us," the Venetian thief stated, his dark eyes pleading with the Assassin. "La Volpe and Machiavelli didn't want to give you false hope."
"We wanted to be certain that the information provided in the letter was above reproach before we brought it to your attention," La Volpe asserted, . "The political waters in Italy are filled with sharks, and everyone has a price, even the King of Naples. I wished to make sure the King was not compromised, and that this was not a trap meant to target you. It would not be the first time the Borgia used…" He trailed off and a haunted gleam entered his violet gaze. "A lost love to torture one of our own before."
Ezio cleared his throat, scrubbing away the tears of his face. His red rimmed eyes peered balefully at each one of them, his expression was one of deep pain. He had dreamed of waking up to her face, of seeing her smile, and hearing her laughter once more. He had spent over two years with her at his side, his constant companion and ever stalwart friend. It had been so easy to fall in love with her, but far more difficult to admit it to himself. And when he finally did, she was taken out of his life. All that remained was a ghost that haunted him with regrets, and all he had were those dreams. Such cruel dreams that had no place in reality.
"No…no," he whispered, to himself. "It makes no sense…"
Ezio had been so helpless that night. There was nothing that he could do, except watch. There was nothing for him to fight, nothing for him to bring back. He was just left there in the quiet aftermath, to pick up all his hopes and dreams. He paced, back and forth, across the length of the floor and deep within his rattled mind.
"She has the Shroud," Machiavelli spoke, moving around the table to intercept Ezio when he drew close to the fireplace. When the Assassin held in place, the man continued. "The woman proved to the King that it was truly a Piece of Eden by showcasing its healing properties with more success than any of those before her had. The description given in the letter matches the artifact that was hidden in the Auditore Crypt in Monterriggioni until the Red Hood—"
"Shut up!" Ezio hissed, in an agonized whisper. "Stop. Just stop."
If Olivia was alive, why hadn't she come home? Where had she been all this time? Why did she disappear in the first place? The questions arose in his head, echoing in repetition and he looked down at the letter again. The letter was a key that opened a door in his mind, opening up all these questions and impossibilities that could not be shut away. Could Olivia truly be alive? he thought, his heart clenched tight. Could she have been out there this whole time, alone and lost? Did she…did she think that we had forgotten here? Did she wait for help and none ever arrive?
Bile crept up his esophagus, lava hot and he barely was able to choke it down.
"It seems the artifact did not kill her, so much as displaced her," La Volpe said, quietly.
"Pure speculation," Machiavelli reprimanded, with a glare. "We should not let out imagination run wild until we have met the woman face to face."
"Then I will go to Naples!" declared Ezio. The sorrow and anger that warred inside of him honed into bitter resolve. "I will meet this King and learn the truth behind this letter for myself."
"That would not be wise," Machiavelli rebuked. "The ships that depart to and from Naples are heavily scrutinized by the Papacy. The temporary truce is fragile, and war can break out at a moment's notice. As a highly wanted man, your presence would not go unnoticed and may be an aggravate to the circumstances. To speak nothing of the storms that terrorize the seas this time of year, such an attempt would be irresponsible."
"Besides, Venice still has need of you. If the Templars claim this city, then they gain enough strength in all of Italy to destroy the Brotherhood entirely. Do you understand how many lives would be lost?" La Volpe questioned, his voice laced with disapproval.
"You cannot expect me to ignore this!" he said, vehemently.
"But we can expect you to have some common sense," La Volpe countered, fiercely.
"The King is securing passage for the woman, at the earliest convenience," Machiavelli interjected, quelling the argument with the boom of his voice. . "Cesare Borgia and his mercenaries are in Naples to end a war, and Ferdinand must cautious with such a /snake in the grass/ in such close quarters. He would not wish to make arrangements until he was certain Cesare was properly occupied elsewhere."
"It smells of a trap," La Volpe said, still skeptical. "I do not like it."
"But if the Red Hood is truly in Naples, we owe it to have her returned home." Antonio "She has done much to help the Brotherhood over years and has been a staunch ally. That loyalty should be repaid in full, regardless of the dismal circumstance."
La Volpe inclined his head. "Fair enough."
"Stop! Just wait a minute! You sit here and His voice shattered and cracked, like he was being strangled. "—and now you're telling me she is alive? And that I cannot go to her?"
"You must have patience, Ezio. You charge headfirst to Naples, you risk drawing attention to your excursion and by extension the Red Hood." La Volpe framed his words to strike the Assassin as hard as a brick wall. "You already lost her once. Are you prepared to lose her again?"
Ezio let out a guttural growl and he lunged towards the Master Thief. It was only Antonio intercepting him that kept him from throttling the violet eyed man until he turned blue, and the Assassin trembled from head to toe. His eyes glittered with fury and his teeth bared like a wounded animal. He tore himself free from Antonio, and turned sharply on heel, heading towards the door.
"Do not be reckless, Ezio," Machiavelli warned.
"Do not order me around," Ezio retorted, harshly. "I am not your puppet."
The door struck with the force of thunder behind him.
The Tyrrhenian Sea
11th August 1482
It had been three days. Three, exceedingly long days since she had been captured.
Olivia pressed her forehead against the rusty metal bars, with her eyes shut and mouth twisted up into a grimace. There were chills that racked through her body, and her skin felt feverish and too tight. If she were to speculate, then she would assume that her wounds had gotten infected. It was clear by the blood still coating her face that her injuries had not been cared for attended. It was no simple oversight, but a deliberate calculation. A sick opponent was easy to wear down, and Cesare wanted her compliance, after all.
"Fuck," she whispered out.
One the eighth, Cesare made his way down to her cell with an inkwell and parchment in hand. He wanted her to write a letter to the Brotherhood. He wanted her to send word of his proposal and the way that he held her life at his mercy. She refused him outright, and then she was served a poor man's supper as punishment. On the ninth, Cesare returned. He made the command again, and she refused again. She was taken out of the cell and beaten until she was black and blue. She was denied any food and water again.
Olivia abdomen spasmed painfully, and she clutched at her stomach. Her heartbeat was so slow, thumping against her ribcage and it was difficult to string her thoughts together. She clenched her jaw and drew in a deep breath, shook her head roughly.
Cesare was not used to not getting his own way, only denied anything by his father. It must be quite upsetting for his young ego to have a thief, no matter how infamous, to openly defy him. There was a chance that withholding food and water, and a beating would not satisfy to quell his anger a third time, but Olivia could not in good conscience pen a letter that would be using her connection to Ezio as a weapon to strong arm him into doing Cesare Borgia's bidding.
Her love for Ezio would not be tainted like that.
And while Rodrigo Borgia was a threat that needed to be dealt with, that did not make Cesare a friend. The enemy of your enemy was not always a friend, despite what the old adage stated. There was a rumble in the distance that pulled her from her thoughts. It did not sound like the groans and creaks of the ship, and the choppiness of the waves was excessive.
It must be a storm, she thought, uneasily.
The sound of footsteps echoed through the underbelly of the ship, hailing the approach of Cesare. Her suspicions turned out to be true, but the young man was not alone this time. A mercenary stood at his side and that sent unease skirting down her spine.
"I suppose that it is too much to expect you to be more reasonable today than you have previously been," Cesare spoke, his countenance chillingly emotionless.
"You already know my answer," Olivia told him, evenly.
Cesare hummed underneath his breath, then jerked his head to indicate for the mercenary to unlock the cell door. Olivia shuffled away from the door, but it was useless effort. She was backed into the corner, and the door creaked opened unpromisingly. The mercenary stepped in and wrapped a meaty paw around her arm, hauling her out of the cell. She stumbled over her feet but managed to gather her bearings at the last second.
A fist flew out of nowhere and slammed into her gut. She folded over in half, choking and gagging, sorely unprepared for the impact. Dark spots flickered in front of her eyes while she dry-heaved for several moments, uncontrollably. Her legs quaked unsteadily beneath her, spurned on by the teetering of the ship and a hand curled around the back of her shirt was the only thing that kept her from collapsing to the ground.
"That was rude," she coughed.
An open palm slapped her across her face for her cheek. It was the preamble to a thrashing, and she had to stand there and just take it. A nasty knock to her jaw caused her teeth to rattle in her skull and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. A kick to the back of her legs sent her to her knees, and several more blows pummeled onto her back. The beating seemed to last forever when all she could do was huddle into herself, trying to protect herself from the worst of it until it adeptly stopped.
She sat there, with her forehead pressed against the floor so tightly that she could feel the grains in the wood. Her eyes scrunched shut, her breath wobbled through her chest.
"Are you ready to comply?" asked Cesare.
Olivia peeled her eyes open slowly and pushed herself with great care off the ground. She spat out a gob of blood, feeling a vindictive glee when it splattered over his shoes. She rolled her jaw experimentally, and then she rose to her feet, so she could stare Cesare straight in the eye. "My answer hasn't changed," she rasped out. "You can beat me black and blue, and my answer still won't change."
"You certainly spirited," Cesare stated, coldly. "But even the most spirited can break."
The mercenary grabbed her by the wrists, and she was held in place, with her back turned towards Cesare. A chilling suspicion flowed like quicksilver through her veins, and that is when she heard the slight woosh that preluded the strike. The nine-tail whip sliced into her back, blistering across her skin like a million little knives, and tore through her thin linen tunic. Her teeth sank into her lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. Her body pitched forward, but the mercenary forced her to stay upright.
And then crack of the whip, followed by another and another, in quick cessation.
Olivia struggled to breathe, swamped by too much. Her thoughts were jagged, and the sharp edges cut deep, while the physical pain jarred her insides and sent her careening too fast even though she was standing still. The tears slid down her cheeks, flowing freely and no force could hold them at bay. She had been trained by her father to withstand a certain amount of torture. Her and her brother had been children, so there was only so much he could train his children soldiers to do without breaking them completely. Severe temperatures, starvation, and more had been delivered underneath the guise of love. He wanted them strong, he had said. He insisted that they had to be strong for what was to come, but what he feared that would come to pass, Olivia would never know.
Olivia Steel, daughter to no one, sister of nobody. What are you of now?
The thought sliced through her mind, brought to her by a voice from centuries before, and she could feel a hum of power beneath her veins. Her eyes swept over to the storage room down the way, where the Shroud rested undisturbed. The thrum of power, the ancient and primordial song was a lullaby to her eyes and gave her a kernel of hope in this moment to withstand the pain.
After what felt like an eternity, the whip was discarded onto the floor. The sharp points tied to the ends of leather were red and dripping with blood, and Cesare wiped his hands clean with a handkerchief. The world seemed to quiet until only her wet sobs was the only sound.
"Clean her up," Cesare demanded, in a clipped tone. His eyes purposefully not only the damage he had done. "Have her write the letter when she is done."
"And if she doesn't?" asked the mercenary, in a cautious tone.
"Strip her and throw her to the crew," Cesare decided, his voice far too light. "The men have been eager for some female entertainment. Perhaps, she'll be more malleable after they have had their fun."
That instinctual fear that all women have of such an unspeakable crime cut her all the way to the bone. The thunder beyond the ship's hull was ferocious, echoed by the violent pounding of her heart while all the blood drained from her head. Her knees folded and hit the floor with a thud, and a noise ripped up her throat that she couldn't fight. It was a wounded, and tortuous noise and it cause Cesare to whip back around as if he had been struck with cattle rod.
His dark eyes glittering was fixated on her, while his face convulsed in a series of emotion. He looked at her but did not truly see her. She knew enough about a painful history to know that horror and guilt was all for a ghost that she had unintentional invoked from some dark corner of his mind. For a long pause, he seemed at odds with all that was inside of him, unable to find himself amongst the rabble.
And then, his expression smoothed out into a cold and apathetic façade. He had chosen his mask and clung tightly to it. "I did warn you about my worst instincts," Cesare spoke, blaming her for the judgment. "You should have listened."
And he turned away, without another glance.
Olivia was dragged back and forced to sit on stool, while the mercenary rummaged nearby cabinets for medical supplies. Urgency flared with every heartbeat, and she knew that she had to escape now. The sea might be unforgiving, but she would rather drown then to stay here for more hellish torment. She was a strong swimmer and even if the sea claimed her, then she would die on her terms. She eyed the mercenary out of the corner of her eye.
A large wave rocketed against the side of the ship, and panicked shouts came from the deck above. Everyone else was above deck, trying to push the ship through the storm. There was no one, but her and this mercenary. Her tongue wetted her dry lips, and when the next wave hit, Olivia purposefully toppled off the stool and to the ground. Her elbow smacked against the wood so hard that it sent tingles all the way down to her fingertips. She wiggled her fingers and went still at the touch of something metal. It was a nail, from the tip of the nine-tails. It must have been flown off during the beating.
She had been cut down at the knees and brought low, but her spirit was fair from broken. She endured and got back up, because to stay down in the dark was unthinkable. This was not what she was meant for. This was not what how her life would be spent. She clutched the blood nail in a fist and held tight to the courage burning in her heart.
"Get up," the mercenary ordered, sharply.
She feigned weakness, trying to push herself up only to collapse back down. "I—I can't," Olivia replied.
"Cazzata!" the mercenary cursed, stalking towards her.
Olivia held her breath tight in her throat. As soon as the man's hand curled around the back of her neck, she struck out lightning fast. She jammed the nail into his jugular then ripped it downward. Blood spurted out, rushing out like a fountain and the man's eyes bulged in shock. She kicked at his ankle with all her strength, and the man fell to the ground. Quickly, she grabbed onto the bars of the cell to help her to her feet.
The mercenary let out a wet cough and hooked a hand around her ankle. Olivia grabbed the cell door and swung it hard, bashing the mercenary across the face. She swung it again and again until his iron-like grasp slumped around her ankle. His eyes lolled into the back of his skull, and Olivia stared down at him, a cold sweat breaking out across her forehead. She brought her trembling fingertips to her face but swallowed down the bile building up her throat.
The ship tossed about wildly, in the thick of the gale. The roar of thunder jolted Olivia forward. Barrels rolled, and chairs tumbled over, and all manner of personal effects were tossed about in the seesaw motion of the sea. She tripped and floundered, until she reached the storage area. She slung open the door and let out a sigh of relief at the sight of the Shroud. Her armor and hidden blade nearby, and she reached for them only to hesitate.
She spared a quick glance behind her. The storm raged onward, but any second a person could race down below, and find the mercenary's body. There wasn't time to put on her armor and pray she went undiscovered. It was too much of a risk and the odds were already stacked against her. A quick scan of the room and she found a leather knapsack and packed up her armor as quickly as she could. The hidden blade she slipped on her wrist and tightened the straps until it was secure.
Her gaze fell on the Shroud. The fabric shimmered eagerly, and the intricate woven symbols glowed. She swallowed the lump in her throat and picked up the Shroud. The power flowed through her, tantalizing every last nerve ending and drove the pain of her wounds to the back of her mind. She felt her skin stitch back together, and her bruises ease away, but she stifled the sensation, halting it in place. It was a battle of wills, hers against the Shroud, and the glowing symbols faded after several heartbeats.
Her wounds were not so bad, but not completely healed. Some might be eager to let the Shroud heal them, and be freed of the misery, but Olivia did not like the Pieces of Eden. There was a cost to such power, and she would not have that inflicted upon her against her will. Anymore than it already had, she thought, wrapping the Shroud tight around her waist.
She made her way to the bottom of the staircase, dodging the airborne objects and equipment sliding about, and then she looked up the open hatch. Lightning streaked across the dark clouds, the storm ready to embrace her and determination burning in her grey eyes.
And now I climb.
END OF CHAPTER!
Author's Note: If I had to choose a song to describe Ezio and Olivia's relationship, it would come down to "Without You" by Ursine Vulpine and Annace, or "Temple of Thoughts" by Poets of the Fall. "Under Your Scars" by Godsmack is also a good contender. Basically I have a whole playlist.
· Whew. It's be hectic y'all. My green computer died, so not only did I have to rewrite this chapter again but I had to wait months to save for a new computer. And I have had to share my computer with my sister, because hers broke to where it won't get internet and she has online schooling, so a lot has happened. Writing had been on the back burner, and I am so sorry for the wait. Just know that I will do everything to avoid abandoning a story, and I update when I update since I can't work in a fitted schedule.
• Cesare's Age—It is already clear that AC 2 does not hold to the real world timeline. Machiavelli is younger than he is portrayed in AC 2, so there are discrepancies that the writer and game developers chose to change. Cesare Borgia in 1482 was only seven, but in this fic, I named him seventeen. (Lucrezia age has been upped as well.) There are several reasons for this, one being that it just feels crappy to have Olivia punching down on a kid that is literally two decades younger than her. It also cast a foil for Olivia to look at Cesare and imagine what she could have turned out like. And I really wanted Borgia's children to play a larger part, since two were so heavily connected to the storyline in Brotherhood, but not a lot of depth to their characters, which I hope to rectify.
• Cesare Borgia Quotes—"Never presume that I will not act on my worst instincts.", "Heart can deceive. Words can deceive. But eyes we should trust." are two quotes that I found that I wanted to incorporate into the chapter since they really hit the certain notes in the conversation between Olivia and Cesare. I do not know if these are actual historical quotes, or quotes from shows, but it is a nice easter egg all the same.
RRs are appreciated.