TMWolf: Update time! Been a little slower on writing, but I think it's mostly 'cause I'm in the rough patch of the story and it's so hard to write 'Cat how she is right then. It's so weird writing her in the way I have her and just blah. But I'm getting it done and getting research for school done so yay! But, anyways... this chapter is kind of short, but important, too. Sort of. It's more of a look into a character we won't see very often, but was important in their lives... and the first step toward's Catherine's fall into insanity. Yay! :"D

Thank-you for all your reviews! They mean a lot! As always, feel free to leave me any questions, comments, critiques, or any notes about errors you see! I'm always happy to reply and definitely want to make sure I fix any mistake y'all find that I missed!

So for this chapter, music is from My Chemical Romance - Famous Last Word. Lyrics don't really match that much, if at all, again, but I thought the title did soooo xD (geez, what's the point of song titles then right? Idk I do try to make songs work but sometimes I can't find any dang it lol)

Enjoy!

05 – Famous Last Words

January 28, 1500

Castel Sant'Angelo

Rome, Italy

She dreamt of home—the one before she came to the past. It had been before her father died, when he was still healthy and jovial. He had recently returned from a trip overseas and brought her some souvenirs. Little "fake" games for her Gameboy that would entertain her even if they were cheap and she didn't know anything on them. Her mother had been there, too, cooking something for breakfast. Their dogs were right at her heels, eager to pick up any morsels she dropped. She wouldn't in the end, but they would always hope. They had pancakes in her dream. They were happy and laughing and not caring about anything in the world.

It was a good dream, but still a dream.

Reality was far harsher, and she'd learned long ago about it back in her old time. It hadn't been a bad reality—her family was well off and she'd been a good kid while they were good parents. But there was always something lingering; some hidden thing there among the smiles. It was only when she was older and after her father had passed she'd learned of his affair, and that her mother had only stayed with him to keep the family together—to let their daughter grow up unawares. Catherine later had wondered if it wasn't because the money was so good, but whatever the reason, she had grown up never knowing and they'd made it work. Even after cancer took her father it had been alright. She and her mother moved to be closer to family and things were fine. She'd been going to college before their journey to Scotland, and that wasn't so bad, either.

And now here she was.

A prisoner.

Her life here with Ezio and her precious little girl suddenly felt a lot like her previous one. Of course, her husband would never cheat on her. He was a far better man than her father had been, but the bliss has been a façade. Complacency and hope had blinded them to the darkness—to the dangers, and this time is had ruined them. There was no keeping it together or making it seem not so bad—no just holding their heads up and making the best of things. She was at the Borgia's mercy, and there was no escape.

It had been weeks now since the fall of Monteriggioni and her imprisonment here. She'd wasted no time in trying to find a way out. The windows had been an immediate bust, though she had attempted anyways. Iron could sometimes be broken, especially if it were old and rusted, but the bars wouldn't budge no matter how hard she pulled or pushed. She had nothing to work them with, either, and so she was forced to let them be. She tried the door more than once, but it was always locked. No matter who or when someone came in, they made sure to lock it when they left. She'd yet to find anything to use for a pick, and even then, she knew there wasn't much that she could do if she escaped—not with the guards just across the hall.

It was a taunt. She knew it was. It had to be. Why else have a man stand on the opposite wall and not right by the entrance? It was to remind her every time the door opened that she was stuck here. If she managed to pick the lock, the guard would be right there to hold her at sword's edge, threatening to cut her. Of course, they wouldn't actually hurt her—not badly, anyways, but it was still a disadvantageous situation. Worse still, should she manage to subdue the man—she'd done unarmed combat plenty enough—she had a fortress full of guards to fight through. There was also that man to contend with as well.

'Micheletto. The Borgia's rabid dog,' the redhead scowled at the stone ceiling high above her. The dark-haired man was one of the cruelest she'd come to know. She was lucky to have never endured his full wrath, but she'd heard the stories. She saw the way the servants he brought her acted and looked at him. They shifted carefully and skittered around him like spooked rats. They were terrified of the man and what he might do should they not meet his highest expectations. He would make good on it, too. Catherine had watched him suddenly grab a young female servant by the back of her hair, dragging her away from the redhead. No one even knew what she'd done wrong, but he seized her throat and squeezed so hard he'd left a visible bruise once he let her go. He'd whispered something in her ear, and the girl left with tears and choked sobs as fast as her feet could take her.

Micheletto had smiled at Catherine afterwards. Smiled.

Catherine wasn't sure she'd ever met someone like him, and she'd faced insanity.

The servant he'd hurt never returned, but the others were dead quiet whenever he came now, which, thankfully, wasn't often, but he did it enough. He, too, was reminding her of her position, and though every fiber of her being wanted to go over and strike him, she kept herself still when he was there. Although she knew he wouldn't do much to her—certainly not like the poor servant girl—he would definitely do some form of harm. Possibly break a hand or a finger. Maybe her ankle. Regardless, she couldn't afford to attack him, lest she risk losing any chance of escape or causing harm to her child.

"Please don't come to soon, baby… I need you to be patient," she whispered, eyes closed as she set her hands on her belly. It hadn't grown much, but she'd become ill a few mornings now. She knew it was her morning sickness, and it meant the child was getting bigger. She prayed the child had only been just beginning when the city was attacked, but her doubts plagued and ravaged her mind. They made her afraid; so very afraid. She never gave into it, though—not while she held onto hope.

After all, Ezio was out there. Somewhere.

She had no proof, but she could feel it in her heart. He was no doubt already in Roma and working to fight against the Borgia and get to her. The city was under their enemy's control, so it wouldn't be easy, but they'd done this fight before. Ezio would rally people to his side and fight against the Borgia's influence and the family's supporters. He would take back the city, little by little, and fight his way here.

Catherine only wished it could happen quickly, but such things took time. Venezia took years, but she only had months. Once the child was born she would have less use, and even before that she would lose any ability to effectively escape. Once her belly grew too ripe, she wouldn't be able to run away from her captors. Ezio could protect her for the most part, and if they got a horse it would help, but it was risky trying to escape when more fully pregnant. Yet, she would rather take that risk then let their child fall into that bastard's hands—and his bitch sister, too.

A knock on the door pulled the redhead from her thoughts, and, after a moment, the lock was unlatched, and the wooden blockade opened with a groan. It was a doctor, clad in the usual black and his face adorned with a beaked mask. Behind him was the guard that had unlocked the door, standing with one hand on his sword. Otherwise, they were alone, and the doctor approached her as she sat up, pulling the sheets aside, and shifted to sit on the side of the bed. She adjusted her gown—she loathed the damn thing with its white, cotton fabric that itched like nobody's business—and waited as he put his bag of tools beside her and then touched her chin gently.

"Hmm… seems your face is fully healed. Good. I worried for the welt on your brow, but I see nothing lasting," he began and then turned to the guard, whom remained at the entrance. "Please leave and close the door behind you. I must inspect the rest."

"I can't do that," the guard snorted. Catherine briefly considering decking him, figuring he was being a lecherous piece of shit. Then she remembered how it was Micheletto who had told them never to let her out of their sight unless the door was locked. His refusal might have been fear of punishment from the man. Yet, even that did not make her pity the guard. No doubt he'd chosen this life, and she would be lying if she said she wouldn't take pleasure in seeing him killed. He was one of the many cogs preventing her escape.

"She is my patient, and I am under direct orders from our Lady to ensure her health—that includes her dignity. No man other than her husband should see a woman with child undressed unless it be a doctor or maid. Now, begone, or I will inform Lady Borgia who interfered with my work and the safety of Lord Cesare's new son," the doctor snapped right back, glaring slightly behind his mask. The guard's face paled immediately, and, after mulling on it for a moment, spat a curse and made to close the door.

He paused to growl back, "Don't blame me if she kills you! Bitch already tried to do it to the others."

Catherine snorted at that, recalling a very different version. She'd merely defended herself when one of the guards decided they wanted to get to "know her better". That, of course, included trying to see what she had under her gown, and she made sure he got a broken nose for it. It hadn't been the best idea now that she thought back on it—being that, the man wanted to do her real harm after that—but another guard had come by and, thankfully, stopped him from starting a fight. After all, the redhead carried the son of their oh-so-wonderful Lord Cesare Borgia inside her. If they caused the child harm in any way, they were sure to be tortured extensively and killed only after they could no longer beg for it.

Shame she couldn't use her pregnancy that way more, but even the thought of punishment from their cruel master could only go so far.

"Thank-you," she told the doctor once the door closed.

"Just because my master is a Borgia, does not mean I do not take my duties lightly," the man mused and turned around so she could undress. A doctor wasn't all that much better than the guard, and she always hated anyone seeing her in a state of undress beyond her husband, but he needed to check the wounds on her back and her leg, and she needed to make sure her pregnancy would be alright. He was a good man, though. Unlike her captors, he was kind—in his own way. He was not unlike the doctor back home, whom had saved her life and many others more than once. He also had far more decency than the guard, and she never felt too embarrassed when she was in just her undergarments.

"I'm good. I take it their dog has left you alone?" she asked as he turned around and began to check where she still had the remains of browned skin from her bruises.

"No—he has bitten me before… but like you, he cannot kill me. Not yet, anyways. I am the best in Roma, and the Borgia only take the best. Turn around now, please," he replied and touched at her back gently, where some of the worst beatings had been. About a week ago, she'd still felt slight pain at his pressing, but now there was none.

"And leave the rest to rot, right?" she hummed, but only got a soft snort in reply. "How fares the city?"

"As it always is. You know you should not ask me such things."

"But you still answer, and it's dull in here. They don't even give me books to read. Insanity isn't good for a child you know," she mused, glancing back at the man.

He chuckled, "You hope I will propose they entertain you in some way?"

"You're my doctor. You know what's best for my health."

"I do… but what would you have me ask next? To let you out for fresh air? To give you more freedom? To cut off my own neck for being a traitor? I may not be afraid to assert some authority, but I am not a fool, my Lady. And neither are you."

Catherine's mouth pressed tight together. Damn. She'd hoped, however foolish, that she might have an ally with this man. He was the only one who dared speak normally to her, and even told her about things outside the room. He spoke sometimes of Cesare's conquests—of how he pressed further from Roma and expanded his power—but mostly it was the simple things. He was always careful, though; never saying too much, but not nothing, either. It wasn't enough for her, though. She wanted to hear of changes—of stirrings of rebellion; of Ezio.

She had reached her limits, it seemed. She'd only met the doctor a few times now, but still, it was clear: he would not be an ally. He was just another pawn trapped here. Her only respite was that his tone suggested he had no love for the Borgia, either, but a lack of love did not turn one to a rebel with the threat of rope so close.

"You may dress," the doctor spoke, turning around again. She began to slip her gown on when he continued, "I do not mean to seem cruel. I pity you, I do. I heard of the attack on Monteriggioni, and we all know who you are. This is a fate deserved by none, but it is a fate befalling many. I know you hope to escape, but you would do well to forget it. There is no escaping them, Lady Auditore. Not for the living, anyways."

"I'll find a way. I have to," she replied, but couldn't help the sinking feeling in her gut. She couldn't give into it, though. She had to hold onto hope. She had to believe she could get out, either by her own power, or with Ezio's help.

"Then I pray God is merciful to you."

Catherine remained quiet as she finished dressing and sat on the bed, hand resting on her belly once more. The doctor turned around, having heard the bed creak, and rummaged through his bag. He pulled out a vial of clear fluid and held it out to her. She drank it as she had before, the tonic helping to soothe any aches and help her heal.

"How do you feel?" he inquired, glancing to her abdomen.

"Not much different—beyond the occasional nausea in the mornings."

"Good… the tonic is helping with it. Your wounds are almost fully healed, too. I expect I will not need to come here every week after this."

"I see," she mumbled, the sinking feeling returning. She wished it was just the child growing inside her. "Can you still let me know about the city when you come? It's all the news I get."

"Is there something you are hoping to hear?" he inquired, brow raised when she glanced over.

"No. Not particularly. I guess… I guess what's the date?"

"Ah… the twenty-eight of January. If that is all… Well, I cannot guarantee I will hear anything new, but perhaps I will. I must report to Lady Borgia of the good progress of the child. I will try to have them send better meals for you. Until we next meet, my Lady," the doctor spoke, bowing his head, and then knocked on the door. It opened after a short pause and the man in black stepped out. The guard regarded her for a while, and she raised a brow at his ogling.

"What? Want me to break your nose like the other one?" she snorted, and while the man scowled with obvious want to do something back—perhaps call her a bitch, being so creative and all—he withheld his comment, slammed the door exceptionally hard, and made sure to work the lock loudly.

It was as good as a slap for her.

Catherine held back a shaky breath as her eyes stung. The twenty-eight of January? It was her birthday, then, and here she was, trapped. She'd been here a month and made no progress. Worse still, she'd heard no news.

"Ezio, where are you? Surely you've made waves by now," she whispered, grasping at her dress so tight her knuckles began to turn white. There was no way her husband would abandon her, and even if he had been hurt he would still try to come here. But what if he had been hurt badly? Was he still recovering? Had he possibly perished?

'No. Never. You know better. You know him. He's alive,' she growled, banishing the thought.

Ezio was alive, but so why was it taking so long to have news of change? She didn't want to think the doctor was lying, and she hadn't heard whispers from the maids or guards, so she believed he was truthful with her. Did they have no allies? No, no, they did. It was a flicker of a memory, but it was there: Niccolo Machiavelli. He'd said he was returning to Roma the night before the attack. He would have escaped the armies, and he had troops here. Mercenaries. Despite leaving on bad terms, she knew the man would help her husband. They respected each other too much, and Machiavelli was an Assassin to the core. He would help Ezio.

If he was here.

Again her mind shifted to the notion her husband, even after nearly a month, was gone. It made her fearful, but she kept the panic at bay. Catherine breathed in deeply instead, pushing her face into her palms. She forced herself to think—to formulate a strategy.

Her options were severely limited, but she'd dealt with worse. At least, she was pretty sure she had. The doctor couldn't be an ally—at least not yet. Friendliness was a lead she could work with. She just had to keep talking to him and earn his trust. If she could somehow convince him she was worth helping—that she could help fight the Borgia and free him from their grip—then maybe he could do something. Perhaps he could get a message? Would he be able to contact Machiavelli at all? It was a long shot, but she would have to try. Next visit, she would try to appeal to him.

'Micheletto is a problem, though,' she growled, wishing now more than ever she could cut the man's throat. He was so intent on taunting her that he should have had some weakness show up, but so far she'd found nothing. He was too careful; too smart. For all his insanity, he wasn't a fool. This was all just a fun game for him—entertainment. She was a plaything and he had hold of all the strings. If she wanted to get anywhere, she'd have to find a way to deal with him. But how? She had no weapon beyond her wits and her fists, and they would do little against his knife. So what was there for her to use?

The door's lock sounded, pulling Catherine from her thoughts once again. She frowned, perplexed; who could be visiting her? It was only ever the maid and the doctor, and the maids wouldn't come until it was a meal or bathing time, and she'd had lunch not long ago. Dinner wouldn't be for a while, and they bathed her in the mornings. The redhead held her breath, tensing her body. If it was none of those who aided her, then it had to be one of the Borgia or their dog. The guards were under strict orders, so they'd leave her be, but the Borgia could come and go as they wished—including Micheletto. Cesare wasn't back yet, though, so that left his dog or his sister. Had she come to taunt her more then?

As it turned out, it was neither.

Catherine's eyes widened as a face she hadn't seen in what felt forever opened the door and, ignoring the protest of the guard, closed it behind him. He looked entirely different from the last they'd met. Where once his figure had bee hidden beneath a dark robe that obscured everything but his face and the front, now he was adorned in a pristine white with a mantle of red entwined with golden sashes and red jewels. His arms were clad in deep, red gloves, and a small, red hat covered his dark, graying locks. He still wore a short beard as he always did, the whiskers a salt-and-pepper mix of gray, black, and white. His eyes were the same dark shade she remembered, but the strength she once knew—once faced—had waned. He looked tired. Worn. Yet, the man standing before her was the very same that she had fought against since she'd come to this time.

Rodrigo Borgia. The Grand Master of the Templar. His Excellency the Pope.

"Come to gloat on your victory?" she spat, lip curling in disgust. To his credit, he didn't smirk or flinch or do much of anything. Rather, he continued to regard her as he had since entering. He was quiet, and it confused her. She would have expected him to be gleefully praising himself in front of her, lording the victory over her. He had always been such a prideful man, after all, and even she had bested him and stolen his own Clock—the partner to hers that had fallen into Templar clutches. That failure had not stopped him, and, in fact, he had gone after the papacy instead of the Apple afterwards, intent on gaining as much power as he could to face them and take what resided in the Vault. He had still wanted the power of the Gods—of the Isu, though he didn't know who they were. So why the silence now? Why so subdued?

He didn't speak, nor did he move for the longest time. She began to wonder if he had suddenly died standing where he was, but then a long, slow sigh escaped him. He glanced to her vanity, his focus on the chair, and made his way over to it. He moved the furniture closer to her bed, opposite to the side she was on, and sat down. He set his elbows on his thighs, fingers clasped together in his lap. His eyes looked ahead, aimed at the door, but his mind was certainly elsewhere.

Catherine's fingers clenched as she growled, "You tried to destroy my husband all his life. You killed his father and brother. You tried to kill him! You tried to destroy everything with your Clock and you tried to take what was in the Vault and now you've destroyed our home and slaughtered our people! What more do you want!?"

"I did not condone the attack," the Pope replied after a few seconds, and the redhead felt both confusion and anger.

"Like hell you didn't! Your fucking son told us you told him everything!" she snarled, standing up quickly. She instinctively flexed her wrist, but there was no Hidden Blade to come forth. She was sorely tempted to try strangling him, though, even if it meant they would kill her—child or not.

"I did, but I did not tell him to come after you. I am not a fool. I know it is folly to fight against you and Ezio Auditore."

"You're still guilty, you bastard! Ezio's going to make you pay for this. He's going to come for me, and then we won't stop until you, your son, and everyone of your damn family and Templars are dead!"

The Pope met her gaze finally as he sighed, "I know."

She balked, brow scrunching together. The fire in her faltered, and she watched him closely, searching for the lie. There was none. He was sincere in his words. He knew he had assured his death now, despite having escaped it before. He knew his family would suffer. So why did he not fight against it? Why did he sound so defeated?

"What do you want, Rodrigo? Why are you here if not to mock me? I can't imagine it's to congratulate me on your coming grandchild," she went on, her sarcasm harsh but only half-hearted.

The man glanced nowhere in particular, then back to her, "…Why did Ezio spare me? He had all the reason in the world… but he let me live. He told me it would not bring them—his family—back, but it cannot be so simple. So… foolish a reason. Surely."

"That's what you want to know?" she guffawed, sighing a moment after. "Obviously because he's a better man than you."

He wasn't fazed in the slightest, and she couldn't keep from sighing softly. She folded her arms across her chest and let her gaze drop.

"He did it because it's… it's been going on too long. This fight. We wanted to have peace, but the killing had to stop somewhere, so he showed you mercy. All we wanted was to raise our children safely… and now look where we are."

"For what it is worth… I did not wish for this to happen."

The redhead narrowed her eyes, "If you honestly mean that, you'll let me go."

"I cannot," he responded, almost too quickly. She frowned, opening her mouth to berate him, but then closed it. She looked at him again, closer this time. She took note of the way he held himself; his subdued nature. This was not a man of strength—not like his son.

"You… have no power. Not anymore," she stated plainly, and his quick glance said it all. "Rodrigo has taken over. You've let him take control."

"He will not listen. I only wish to keep my Order together. That is all."

Catherine grew quiet for a moment, "Then what? You just came to ask about my husband's mercy?"

"No… there is… another matter. The Vault…"

"You still want to know what was in it?" she snorted, even chuckling some. "Nothing, really. Nothing you hoped for anyways… Just a message."

He frowned, sitting up some, "That… that cannot be all. Surely? A message for who? Ezio?"

"No, not him. Not you. Not me. No one here. Not in this time. It was for the future."

"I… I do not understand. There was nothing? That can't be. God was supposed to be in there… Was… was Venezia just a dream?"

"Don't you remember?" she asked, and when he looked up at her, she knew. Catherine sat down, speaking softly now, "You don't. You don't remember when I used the Clock to destroy yours."

"My memory is fragmented. I can remember little. Only… I felt it. God's power. I felt it. I thought…. I thought it was in the Vault, too, but…"

"It was no God. Just… an ancient power better off forgotten. It's from a time before us, and it's too dangerous to use."

"But you wielded it, did you not?" he pressed, eyes wider; brighter.

Her gaze cooled, "And it killed me."

"Yet you speak to me now. You tell me this is not the work of God?"

"The same power brought me back, and it was not the work of your God or any god. It was just an old, ancient man from a race long since forgotten by time, trying to make a wrong right. The Vault was just another of their tools. There is no God there. Perhaps not anywhere. All I know is the power is not meant for us, and it should be left alone."

"My son would disagree. He seeks to have you activate it for him," Rodrigo hummed, which brought a sneer to her face.

"Again, thanks to you. You told him of your 'dreams' of the power, and now I'm imprisoned here. Do you know what your son could do with any information that might be in the Apple?!" she rasped, standing up again with her hands thrown up.

"I imagine he will try to conquer all of Italia. I have tried to quell him, but it seems he has learned nothing from my failures," Rodrigo sighed and finally stood back up. "I am sorry it has come to this, Catherine Auditore. Truly, I am."

"So you say… but know this: Ezio will come for me," she replied, watching him as he made for the door. "And when he does… you best hope he still has a shred of mercy left for you."

"Death comes to us all, my Lady, be it old age or an Assassin's blade. Whichever takes me, I will go to God for my judgement, knowing all I have done was what I believed to be right," he told her, his voice empty once more. He set his hand on the ring that served as the handle and began to pull.

"For what its worth, Rodrigo," she started, causing him to pause, "I hope your God is merciful."

He waited a few seconds before he replied, "So do I."

The door shut softly behind him, the lock set into place. Catherine was alone again, and she sat on her bed, torn. She hated the Spaniard for all he stood for and who he was, and yet the sight of him left her full of pity and a sense of empathy. He was like her now: powerless. Another pawn in this game, with seemingly nothing but death awaiting them.

Her eyes stung and this time she didn't bother to hold back. With a short sob, she let the tears fall and brought her knees to her chest, wishing it were all a dream.

"Happy Birthday to me."

05 – End

TMWolf: *pops confetti* Happy Birthday, 'Cat! Sorry it sucks! :D

But for real. So this chapter was really fun for writing Rodrigo. He was definitely way, way, way subdued in the game, and I wanted to explore it a bit in a convo with 'Cat. There will be one with Ezio, too, but this one is more important. Anyways, wanted to have this talk, being Rodrigo won't be visiting again, and it was important. For one, I kiiiiiiiiinda hint at that whole "fixing" process from Chronos. Do y'all remember? Well, if you don't, go back to the last non-epilogue chapter and you'll understand ;) But, basically, Rodrigo is having some trouble remembering his Clock HMMMMMMM. Interesting. Not super important, but a fun tie-in with the prequel to this story hehe

Anyways.

So. Things aren't going great for 'Cat. It's gunna get worse, too. Also, Micheletto is a freaking sick, psychopath, and that's fun to write weirdly enough. Probably says a lot about me lol But, anyways, we'll be seeing him again, too, but for now 'Cat is not doing great and next chapter will show more Ezio so get ready! xD Y'all can be happy to see our (and 'Cat's) favorite hot piece of Ass-assin :'D