TMWolf: Well, I was definitely glad to see people actually really liked Paula... which made her death suck quite a bit :'D Guess what gets worse? Hoo boy.

Anyways... so, not going to say too much this chapter. I'm just going to let y'all read and soak in the madness. But thank-you all for your reviews! I love reading all your comments hehehe X) Keep 'em coming (especially if you see errors lol).

This chapter is from Post Malone - I Fall Apart

Enjoy (or not)!

11 – I Fall Apart

May 10, 1500

Castel Sant'Angelo

Rome, Italy

Catherine pressed her brows together as her belly tightened. She'd been feeling it more than usual lately, and this time it was somewhat painful. It reminded her of cramps she'd have during her menstruation, but being she was pregnant, it was just the baby kicking—hard. The child was moving quite a bit, and while it should have filled her with joy, she despaired to know the baby would be here soon. Her belly was more swollen than ever, or it certainly seemed that way, and some days she didn't want to get out of bed. Not that there was much reason to. Still, she couldn't bring herself to simply lie there despite everything. Besides, even though Paula's head and sheets had been removed the same day, she could still feel it there; could still smell and see the blood. The open mouth. The hollow eyes.

It haunted her every day, and always in her dreams. Only, it wasn't just Paula. It was Mario, too. His body was there, on the ground, and his head was on a pike. Both he and Paula would stare at her, their eyes and their tongues gone, and the blood seeping out of their orifices. At first, it had just been them, but within the next few nights she had seen Ezio and Diana and Claudia and even Maria. Her nephew Federico had been the latest the night prior, and in the background—God, the things she could hear. The screams and moans and howls of agony. It had originally been in the darkness, but the ruins of her home soon began to appear, and blurred faces would show. They were all staring at her, screaming, some pointing. All damming her.

Each nightmare woke her with a start, her body dribbling with sweat and reeking of the fear that consumed her. It was agony. Pure, unrelenting agony. To her dismay, her pregnancy only made it worse. The aches of her dreams became physical, and she struggled to even get to her waste pot some mornings. Sometimes it took the help of the maids, new ones she didn't know. There was one that always helped her more than others—an older woman with a robust figure—but they didn't speak to her. They were quiet, like ghosts almost, and after they were done with their chores, they would leave. It made the loneliness worse than ever, and she often wondered why she didn't break down every day.

She also wondered why she didn't just end it.

What was the point? Ezio was gone. She couldn't deny it anymore. The love of her life was gone, and so could the rest of her family. The Borgia most likely killed them at the Villa like Mario, and she was utterly alone. Her poor Diana must be gone, too, and now all she had was the child in her belly, but they weren't going to be hers. The Borgia would take the child—so why bother?

'You know why. You couldn't do it no matter what,' she spoke silently, placing a hand on her bump. And it was true. She couldn't do it. Even after everything, she couldn't take her own life—not when the child depended on her. She just couldn't do it. Ezio wouldn't want her to.

Catherine let the thoughts slip away, closing her eyes to breathe in deep, and looked to the older woman who was cleaning things. She was no doubt Paula's replacement. She looked perhaps in her forties, maybe older, and could have been someone's mother. She never said much beyond a command for her to do something, and she worked quickly.

The redhead looked to the ceiling, shutting her eyes again. Memories had been burned into the darkness of her eyelids, and she couldn't keep them closed for long. Tears brimmed as they always did, but she pushed it back. She had let them see her weakness before. Not again. She would show them nothing. They would have to kill her first.

'Except, you know you can't beat them,' her fear whispered, and her hate was torn between herself and the Borgia.

Catherine hissed when she felt another cramp, lurching forward some. There was a distinct pressure, but then—it stopped. Like a pop. She frowned, brows scrunching, and couldn't help feeling a sensation of fluid between her legs. Had she accidentally wet herself? No, she had gone not long ago, and it had never happened with Diana.

"Oh no," she gasped, eyes widened. "No, no, no, no—!"

She began to pull up her dress and the sheets off her legs, heart beating fast. It couldn't be, but she knew this sensation. She knew this feeling even if it had been so long since the last. And, unfortunately, she was right: her water had broken. The bed was wet, but not with urine. Pain began to form in her belly again, this time less relenting. She groaned, grasping at her bump.

"What? What is it?" the older woman inquired, rushing over. It was, perhaps, the most she'd said in the sentence since coming here.

"Oh God… the baby… is… is coming," she groaned, sweat forming as her contractions began. She let the tears come this time, her final fear coming true.

"Oh my," the woman breathed, and then raced for the door, throwing it open. "Call the doctor! She is in labor! Get the maids to bring cloth and water! Now!"

Whether the guards obeyed, Catherine didn't know, and couldn't come to care as the pain overtook her senses. That, and the terror of her reality: that her baby was coming. They were coming too soon, but there was no stopping it, and she would have no choice but to completely accept her fate. All the while, though, she prayed it was just a dream, but, as time became endless and her pain grew worse, she knew it was, very much so, real.

-O-

The pain lasted forever, but once it ended, it was as if it had not happened in the first place. She vaguely recalled both her mother and Maria saying the same thing, and could believe it had happened with Diana, but the thought was fleeting as she recovered from her endeavor. Her body was weak, glistening with sweat, and shaking from the exhaustion. Her sheets and dress were bloody, and she vaguely recalled the doctor saying she had bled too much, but she would "survive". It almost felt like a curse, but it was forgotten as she looked to the woman who had been with her from the beginning of it, now cradling the child in her arms, wrapped in a towel. A boy. He was small, but twitching and screaming, and full of life. For all her despair, she rejoiced at the sight of her son, and reached out. The woman noticed, and, sparing a glance with the Doctor, came closer. Gently, she laid the baby to his mother's chest, and she cradled him close. He wailed, as a baby would, and she kissed his brow gently.

"It's okay… I-I've got you, my darling. I've got you," she whispered, keeping her cheek pressed to his head. His cries and screaming ebbed a little, but not by much.

"Congratulations, my Lady. He has a strong set of lungs," the Doctor spoke, washing off his things and preparing to pack them.

"What of her?" the older woman inquired.

The man waved, "She will be alright. Her bleeding has stopped, thankfully. She lost quite a bit, but she will live."

"For now", was the unspoken word, but Catherine would deal with it later. Right now, she had her little boy in her arms, and, with her strength returning, she was able to sit up proper, and stroke his cheek gently. He twitched and squirmed, head moving along her breast. She shifted her dress down then, allowing the babe to find her nipple, which he sucked hungrily. They had plenty of milk to give, having swollen up over the many months, and she was glad to see him so rowdy. He would need it to grow strong, being as small as he was. He had come so early—at least a month. Maybe. Whatever the case, it was too soon, but she could do nothing about it. Not anymore. She could only give him all the nourishment she could.

"Do you have a name?" the woman asked, pulling Catherine from her thoughts. She noticed the Doctor had left, leaving them be. The redhead looked back down to her son, realizing she hadn't even considered a name yet. She and Ezio never got a chance to really discuss it. They had thought perhaps Petruccio for Diana before she was born, but it didn't feel right to call him that, even if he was small like his late Uncle. She didn't think calling him after her father would be right, either; she hadn't been close enough to him for that and no one else knew him. There was one man she could think of, though, and a sad smile appeared on her face.

"Mario. He'll be Mario," she spoke softly, watching him feed with great need.

"A fine name," the woman hummed, but looked to the door when the handle turned.

What joy Catherine felt vanished when it was Cesare who appeared. Instinctively, she shifted to conceal the child, but he saw the babe anyways, and came forward. He had a malicious grin about him, no doubt eager to break her more and use her for his machinations with the Apple, but she'd be damned if she let him take her little Mario.

"Let me see the boy," he barked, but, to the redhead's surprise, it was the older woman who interjected, raising a hand.

"No; the babe is feeding. You need to leave them be," she snapped, giving the commander a look.

He scowled, "You dare, woman!?"

"Forgive me, my Lord, but as a mid-wife, I am far more versed in the matters of childbirth and babes than you. The boy needs his mother's milk to grow strong, and you have yet to provide a wet nurse. If you wish to take the child, at least ensure you have that much. Until then, the babe must feed from her breast. A Borgia must be strong, no?"

"Tsk… I suppose that is true. It seems the thought slipped my mind. Still, show me him—now," the man barked, and the woman turned to Catherine. She nodded, her eyes urging her to do so. The redhead wanted to deny them, but she feared for her child in a new way now. If she refused, they might hurt him. So, with reluctance, she shifted so the boy was more visible, still suckling her tit. The man smiled, "Ah… a bit small, but he will grow. You have done well, my Lady. You should be proud. He will make a fine Borgia."

"He is an Auditore," she hissed, but Cesare barked with laughter.

"Ever defiant. He will be a Borgia… and you will never see him again. Do enjoy this room while you can—once I obtain a wet nurse, you will find your accommodations far less… comfortable," he hummed, his smile cruel now. He looked to the older woman. "See to it the boy is well cared for, mid-wife. I put him in your care."

She bowed her head, "Of course, my Lord."

He left, closing the door behind him, and Catherine let out a wail. Her baby followed in suit, crying loudly, and would not settle even as she cooed and apologized to him. It took presenting her breast to him for her little Mario to put his mouth to better use. She, likewise, turned her anger to the mid-wife, whom she glared daggers at.

"You can't give him to them! You can't!"

"He would be taken whether I wished it or not, my Lady… but I have given you a few days—you should make the most of them while you can," she mused, causing the redhead to pause. After all this time, she had not thought the woman on her side, but now it seemed she was? Or was it pity?

"…Who are you?"

"Just a mid-wife. Now, rest, my Lady… you will need your strength—now more than ever."

The woman went to cleaning again, and Catherine was left with her baby. He suckled innocently, wholly unaware of the world around him; of the dangers he faced. He was lucky to be so pure. So free. Her heart ached, knowing this time with him would be fleeting, and although she swore silently to him that she would fight—that she would die before she let the take him from him—she knew it was inevitable.

-O-

May 14, 1500

Castel Sant'Angelo

Rome, Italy

Catherine thought she knew pain. She thought losing her husband and family and home, or even the sensation of her body being ripped apart by the Clock would be the worst thing she could ever feel. Yet, when the mid-wife took Mario from her arms, and the guard wrenched her limbs behind her back, those moments of her life hardly compared. Her baby was crying—screaming—and she could not reach him. Although she had some of her strength back, the guards held her firm. She could not escape them as they dragged her from the room. She could not free herself from their grasp as she watched the mid-wife hand the child to a young woman—the wet nurse. She watched as her baby took her breast instead and sucked with the same need. She watched, even as tears blurred her vision, as Cesare smiled down at the child, brushing his cheek gently, and then looked at her. He smirked, as he always did, and it did break her.

He had won.

He had taken everything from her now, even her son.

There was nothing more to take, and she struggled and struggled against the men holding her. She forced them to strike her across the face to make her pause, stunned by the blow. They dragged her down the hall and to a set of stairs, and though she continued to scream, she couldn't bring herself to fight anymore. Her son was gone; the last light in her life. What was the point of fighting? What was the point of living?

'Vengeance,' a voice whispered, somewhere in the back of her mind, and her heart latched onto it. It dug it's claws in deep and let the poison seep into her. It fueled the rage that she had kept at bay, and it became a raging inferno. It was still contained, though, and so she stopped fighting the guards. She let them drag her to her cell in the prison, its dark, disgusting walls a reminder of the horrors she'd faced. The metal bars were just another cage, but one that no longer tried to veil the truth. It served only to make the poison stronger, and she seethed in her cell, sitting in the corner, curled up into herself. Her body shook with the anger, the hate, the sorrow.

"Oh, come now. Do not look so sad. Your son will be raised in the highest of nobility! He will become a fine Borgia," Cesare's voice echoed through the room. Her hazel eyes shot fire at him as he approached, the same guards who dragged her here at his side. He motioned to the one of his right, whom opened the door for him. Her legs, already coiled, were ready when he came close. She sprung, aiming for his throat, but the guards slapped her back with his spear. The other grabbed her again, and though she struggled and shrieked, they kept her arms at her side and shoved her to her knees before their master. He looked down at her, his grin vile.

"Now, now… none of that. Else I will have to reconsider your usefulness."

"You took my child you fucking bastard! What more do you want?!"

"For this, of course—do not tell me you forgot?" he chuckled, pulling the Apple from a pouch at his side. Her glare grew hotter and once more she tried to struggle, but the guards forced her hand out at a gesture from the Borgia commander. "I told you; as soon as the child was born, I would put you to your other use. Now, be a good woman, and show me how it works. Let us see if you really can make it work and come out unscathed…"

Catherine had not touched the Apple since she'd used it in conjunction with the Clock, and while she could honestly say this experience was not as bad, the pains was still incredible. It nearly overcame her senses as the power activated, shooting through her veins and spreading through her entire body. It was like touching fire, but not burning, and images of light and sounds that seemed more like echoes filled her mind. It was deafening and blinding, yet she saw them. Symbols danced across her eyelids and the walls, and she gasped for air as she endured it.

First, she saw the past.

She saw her mother and even her father. She saw their lives long before she'd found the Clock. It was blissful in its own way, and she felt a wave of regrets and nostalgia. The images faded and changed, showing her the moments when she came to this land, so lost and unsure, pulled there by the calling of a former god. She saw her time in Firenze, with the family she loved so dearly, and the danger she faced and the joy she'd felt. Then she was back in Monteriggioni, and she witnessed the life she built there with her love and her people and with Mario—saw the courage she found grow into something so wondrous. The Apple showed her with Ezio, always together as they traveled the land; displayed their war with the Templars they defeated—the countless battles they faced; flashed fragments of the love they found and nurtured and let blossom, of the endless bonds they made, of all the kindness and hate and—everything. Then there was fire and pain and screaming and chaos and blood—so much of it. The Villa falling; their life destroyed.

The Apple tore her from the memories to show her the present, the guards and Cesare as figures of light. She could sense their emotions—their thoughts. She felt their scorn, their assurance, their mocking laughter and sneers. Their disgust and pleasure at her defeat. She hoped they could feel her hate and her rage and loathing. She hoped it struck them to their core, but the Apple refused her as it showed her more.

Here, the confusion began, for she saw gleaming eyes in the dark and the baying of hounds—or was it wolves? She could not say, but their teeth snapped, and their lips curled, all striving for her throat. Before she could scream, the images changed, and figured in white stood before her, shouting but not with anger. Respect then? She couldn't tell. Their bodies morphed into one, forming a creature that screamed in agony, begging her to stop. She couldn't make them out—or the other voice that shouted her name. The images melded and shifted, and suddenly there was her daughter. She stood in a corridor, her face stricken with a kind of terror a young child couldn't understand. Tears poured down her face as she reached for some figure, who was lost to her as the vision morphed again. Laughter and harsh words she didn't comprehend. Hands around a neck, squeezing—tighter every second. Garbled breaths, the sounds of a dying man. Anger next. Words shouting, a figure obscured. The lights flickered and changed, and she saw all sorts of strange, dangerous things. Raging machines that should not be, which mowed down men as though they were nothing. It wasn't right, but she could do nothing but watch as the Apple showed her the designs, the words, the numbers. It tore her mind through them and on to a battlefield. There she witnessed chaos—so many men, their sides unknown, fighting, dying; a world on fire. At the helm was Cesare, raising his sword victoriously. The scene shifted once again, to another battle. It was along a wall, and again the Borgia commander was there. He was screaming something—howling it the world. A promise of chains that could not bind; of how man could not kill him; how he would lead mankind to a new age. He was talking to someone—but who?

Catherine gasped for air as the sensations suddenly stopped, the fire gone and leaving her cold. She slumped in the guard's grasp, and their hold faltered, allowing her to fall to her hands and knees. Even Cesare stepped back, panting lightly, his eyes wide. He looked to the Apple, stunned for a moment, but then laughed and laughed and laughed. He spun on his heel and left her there in the cell, his men following him. As always, they locked her in, but this time he was still there, watching her when she finally found the strength to look up.

"Oh, you have done well, my Lady… Italia will be mine… All of it will be mind. I have seen it. The Apple has shown it, and I will make it so. There is so much… so much!" he laughed, eyes still wide—like a fanatic. He expression paused, then brightened once more. "Ah! Yes… yes, I know just the thing… I will take it to the architect. He will know what to do with it. The things it showed… yes, he can understand them. Make them. And if you can wield it… surely so can he. His mind will be able to handle it. Oh, yes… you have done very well."

"Go to hell, you bastard," she rasped weakly, forcing herself up. She staggered, though, and ended up falling back against the wall, exhausted. Cesare chuckled at her display, returning the Apple to his pouch.

"Keep her here. Feed her once a day and leave her be. I still may have use for her."

"Of course, my Lord," the guard nodded. His commander spared the woman one final, leering glance, and then left her in the cell, more alone than ever.

Catherine brought her knees close once another, her mind whirling with the sights she had seen; the memories and premonitions. It had been a cementation of the truth; of Cesare's inviable victory. She had failed in every way, and now all she had was her rage. There was no light here in the darkness to shield her against it, so she embraced the cold burn; let it consume her.

Cesare would die, she decided, and the thought alone was enough to keep her going.

-O-

? ?, ?

Castel Sant'Angelo

Rome, Italy

"Restrain her."

Catherine jumped, the voice waking her from the little sleep she could get. The guards were on almost on her as she came to fully, letting her manage to strike one in the face. She received a slap in kind, and then her arms were, as they had many times now, pulled behind her back. They shoved her to her knees, and one guard grabbed her unkempt ponytail to wrench her head back, forcing her to look up into the cold eyes of Lucrezia Borgia. She was in her gaudy attire as always, and perhaps to someone else in the redhead's position, she might have been frightened to see the blonde. In this moment, though, all she felt was spite and made sure to spit at her.

"You cur!" the woman snapped, slapping Catherine in response. The blow stung, but she hardly felt it. This pain was nothing. Lucrezia grabbed her chin, nail digging into her skin. "You must have thought I did not remember what you did to me, but the Borgia never forget. You are going to pay for your insolence."

The woman released her, but only to step out in the cell, grab a leather strap, and waltz right back in. She looked to the guards, the lash gripped tight in her hand.

"Turn her around and rip the back of her dress. Hold her—tightly. I do not want her getting loose," she spoke coolly, and the guards obeyed. Catherine was thrust around, and while she struggled some, they tore the back of her dress, splitting it down the middle and exposing her back. She knew what was coming, but the sharp sting of the whip still shook her. She managed not to scream or yelp, biting her lip so hard that it bled instead. The strike was agony, though, and the second was even worse. The third even more sore. The fourth was like fire, and the rest only added to it all. They ripped into her skin, and as she lost count she could feel the blood trickling. She could not keep from crying out then, and tears fell despite her attempts to hold them back. The pain was great, though not as great as that of losing her child, but it was pain all the same.

It fueled the poison within her. Made it stronger, darker. Her rage grew hotter and deeper, and each lash was another promise—another oath—to sink a blade into Lucrezia's heart. When she was free—and she would find a way—she would ensure the woman paid double. No, she would pay more than that, and Catherine would enjoy it. She would relish in all the Borgia's suffering, and for that, she would endure the agony.

It was hard not to wish for the end, though, which came only after what had to have been forever. The last lash left her trembling, blood dribbling down her back and either staining her dress or dripping to the floor. Lucrezia made a huff-like sound as she left the cell, tossing the lash aside. The guards released her, and she dropped to the ground, too weak to move right now. Her cries of pain had stopped, her voice too hoarse to make sound now, and the pain lingered, flaring with any movement. So, she kept still, letting the cool air of the cell ease the burn even if only a little.

"Have her cleaned up. I do not want Cesare finding out—not any time soon. Call the Doctor if you must. I am finished here," the woman hummed, and her heels echoed off the stone floors long after she had left. Catherine cursed her with every one of her steps, her promising growing in number, and each more vicious than the last. She vowed the woman would rue this day, and the thought kept her awake until the Doctor arrived and gave her both healing ointments and bandages, and a new dress. It was only then he let darkness take her consciousness, though the whispers followed her even into her dreamless sleep.

-O-

? ?, ?

Castel Sant'Angelo

Rome, Italy

The guards kept whispering as they looked at her. Catherine pretended to be asleep, but she could see them; hear them. They were curious about her, though not in a way they should. They already knew she could work the Apple, although Cesare had not brought it back for some time. He was busy with what he'd already been given, and after Lucrezia's visit, only the guards had served as company. For the most part, they left her be. They spoke only to themselves of stupid, petty things, but it seemed their boredom had taken its toll, and now their interest was with her. Specifically, recalling how she had such a nice back before it had been left scarred by the lashing, but, perhaps, the front was not so bad? Her legs were surely fine, and, sure, she'd recently had a child, but she was obviously used to being fucked. Surely Cesare wouldn't mind them having a bit of fun? They were alone here, after all. All they did was watch her, and they were bored. So why not?

Catherine bristled as they made their choice, the cell door creaking open. They were hoping to ambush her no doubt, but she was ready. They reached for her, and she lunged, fingers digging into his arm. His comrade yelped in surprise as she shot up and slammed her fist into his face. She sent him to the ground, and she followed, punching him again and again and again. She didn't care for the blood splattering into her dress, nor that the other guard had pulled her off and threw her against the wall. She avoided the first strike and returned her own blow. He caught her wrist, however, and rammed his fist into her stomach. She gasped, legs nearly going out, but she managed to stay upright. He grabbed her hair next, wrenching her back into the wall.

"You bitch! I'll fucking gut you for that!" he hissed while his companion groaned in agony.

"Enough."

The guard went stock still, releasing the redhead and spinning on his heel. His face paled at the sight of his leader, standing in the cell entrance. Beside him was a strange man, dressed in unusual garb. It was a cloak of all black, save for some lighter rims. His hat was dark as well, and a mask covered his face. Only his eyes were visible, but she could imagine he was smirking behind it. Cesare, however, had a scowl on his face as he regarded them all.

"Did I not order you leave her be? A cornered animal, even when wounded, will bite," he scoffed. He gestured to the fallen guard, "Take him to the Doctor, and I suggest you find replacements. I do not need disobedient dogs under my command. Be grateful I am feeling merciful today, or I would have you put down."

"I—uh—y-yes! Of course! Thank-you, my Lord! Our deepest apologies!" the guard yelped, tail tucked between his legs. He scrambled to grab his comrade and get him up. The man slumped in the guard's grip, but he managed to get him out of the cell, leaving Catherine alone with Cesare and his quest. She regarded them coolly, remaining at the back of the cell.

"Quite the spitfire, isn't she?" the masked man chuckled. "I suddenly don't mind this detour to the prison."

"I thought it good to check in on her while I was here. The conquest of Italia has kept me busy, but I had heard my dear sister had caused some trouble, but it appears I was wrong. I need not worry about leaving her here after all."

"Shame to have her wasting away in this cell, though. Or do you intend to use her still?"

"Hmm… no. Not anymore. I have what I need from her. I suppose I simply had not devised a proper way to be rid of her," the Borgia shrugged, churning Catherine's rage further. The gall of him, talking about her in such a way.

"Ah, then perhaps I may be of more service to you?" the man in the mask chuckled. The Borgia raised a brow, at which the masked man laughed. "Oh, yes, my Followers do wonders sending the people to the Church and ever into your debt… but my men have needs, you see."

Cesare snorted, but a smirk remained on his face, "What? The courtesans and slum girls are not to their taste?"

"Oh, they do fine for that vile lot, but… the girls are not very lively—no fire to them. No fight. The men are getting bored, I think. They really are like wolves sometimes."

"Aaah, I see what you mean… Hmm… yes," the Borgia mused, his gaze cold and calculating as he looked to the redhead. "I think that would do well. You have done me a favor, my friend."

The masked man bowed his head, "Of course, my Lord Cesare. It is the least I could do. The Followers of Romulus live to serve you, after all. When do you think I might take her off your hands?"

"Come tonight. I will have her waiting in a carriage for the ride to Il Colosseo. Remember to do so quietly; I do not want any prying eyes."

"Of course. No one knows of our Lair there, and with this prize," the man hummed, lecherous eyes flicking to her again, "the men will make doubly sure."

"Until then," Cesare chuckled, eyes flicking to the redhead once more.

It was then she knew, he had meant for this—since the beginning. Perhaps not in the exact way, but he had come here solely to mock her. Her use with the Apple was done, and now she was nothing but a broken tool to be tossed away. No, she was less than that. Just a bone to be thrown to the dogs after the meal was over. She was naught but a piece of meat, and though the thought frightened her to the core, her rage was louder and more powerful. She would not be used by these men. She would overcome them. She would find a way, and she would kill them.

Until then—until tonight—she would let them think they had her.

But when it was time, she would escape. Cesare would rue this day, and she would have her revenge.

-O-

"My Lady, wake up. You do not have much time."

Catherine had never been asleep in the first place but pretended to be as she lifted her head slowly. To her surprise, it was not a guard or Cesare, but the older woman—the mid-wife. She had slunk into the prison quietly, and she held something—a bottle—in her hands. Her face, perhaps for the first time since they'd met, showed a sense of urgency. The redhead decided to relent and came to the cell bars, though her steps were sluggish. She was tired, her rage ebbing from before, but ready to flare at a moment's notice. Her eyes, bags heavy underneath them, looked to the vial and then the woman. She pushed it through the bars to her hands, and Catherine took it, looking at it blearily.

"Drink. Quickly. You will need it if you want to survive through the night."

Catherine briefly wondered how the woman could know but decided to not look the gift horse in the mouth. Then again, it could be a trap, but looking back on things, the woman had already helped her before. She was most likely helping now, so she uncorked the vial and downed the fluid. She handed it back once done and wiped her lip.

"What was that?"

"A special draught—to prevent pregnancy."

Catherine looked sharply to the woman, heart skipping a beat. She knew what was coming. And though she, too, had known it, the reality only now set in. The man's intentions for her were the kind she had always dreaded in her life, though never considered it. She'd never had to. Ezio was the only man to touch her, and they had kept each other safe. But she was on her own now, and she had to take every precaution. She only wished she had a knife—if only to slit her own throat before they touched her. They had taken enough from her. She wouldn't let the bastards defile her, too.

"For how long?"

"Long enough—perhaps forever. I'm not certain," she stated plainly, and Catherine hated her in that moment. It was only for that moment, though, and she tempered her anger.

"Can't you get me out?" she spoke, voice barely a whisper.

"No. Even if I left the door open, you could not escape. There are too many guards, and I cannot help you. I am sorry, my Lady. Truly. But… I will keep the boy safe."

She looked to the woman, eyes hardening, "I'm coming back for him. I will come back. And when I do… if he is harmed in any way…"

"He will be safe. Now you must survive, My Lady," the woman replied, and before Catherine could stop her, she left as quickly as she had come. The redhead was alone once more, and it took everything she had not to break down. She couldn't tonight—not yet. Not with the fate that awaited her. So, she went back to the wall of her cell, hunkering down, and doing her best not to vomit. She swore she felt the draught working; destroying her insides; rendering her infertile. It was possibly not forever, but it was a knife to the gut all the same. However, the wound eventually ebbed, and she was left to stew in all the agony and pain and hate and rage that was left to keep her company as the hours passed.

It was perhaps midnight—it could have been noon for all she knew—when the guards came for her. Cesare didn't bother to give her the honor of seeing him before she left, and she chose not to resist as they pulled her up and escorted her through the prison. They went further downstairs to a barracks of sorts within the Castel, the stone walls closing in with every step, suffocating her slowly. She would occasionally wonder if she should fight; perhaps risk death, but the thought of her child stopped her. Mario was here, in this place, and she had to get him back. She would have to endure the agony to come, and if it meant having her vengeance, she would do it.

She remained docile as they brought her into a carriage in the courtyard. Inside was the masked man, whom greeted her as if she weren't his prize—his little bone to give his dogs. Mocking her. She didn't answer him, and he said no more as she was placed between two more guards, and the carriage sped off into the darkness of the night.

The man watched her the whole way, as if sizing her up. She wanted to grip his throat and squeeze it until he popped, but the guards were a good deterrent. The man was lucky—for now. She made sure to memorize his face; every single one of his features. She would remember him, and when she escaped this place she would find him again and she would make him suffer. She would make them all suffer for this.

It was nearly pitch dark when the carriage came to a stop, some place outside the Il Colosseo, near a rundown structure that looked to have been a building. The masked men hummed with approval as he stepped out and waited for them to follow. She was shoved out, nearly tripping as she stumbled, but managed to remain upright. The masked man motioned for the guards to follow, and they led her to one of the buildings, slipping through a doorway that had long since lost its wooden frame. There they came upon an abandoned room, the only thing out of place a handle on the floor. The masked man opened that, revealing a dark, underground tunnel that was lit only in a small section by a lantern set into an enclave on the right. The man took it up and beckoned them downward. The guards shoved her forward, and she descended with them into the darkness, the once warm air turning an icy cold as they went further and further underground. The stairway finally ended at a door, this one made of wood and bearing an emblem of a wolf upon it. The masked man turned to them then, regarding her once more with that infuriating hum of his.

"Strip her."

As soon as their hands touched her, she fought back, fear forcing her to break her former confidence, but she was outmatched. Though she landed more than a few blows, one of the guards finally restrained her as the other grasped the cotton fabric of her dress and pulled as hard as he could. It ripped a little, and then with more pulling the rest came free. The shame came as a hot wave in her face and her stomach twisted, her body exposed in a way no man but her husband should have seen. The masked man made a sound of approval and finally opened the door. Darkness was behind it, except for the faintest of light far in the distance.

"Toss her inside. We are done here," the man bade, and the guards thrust her through the doorway. She hit the ground, rolling, and hissing in the sharp pain of hard stone against her bare flesh. She pushed up just as the man began to close the door. His eyes looked at her from behind the mask, a cruel, hidden smile there. "Let the hunt begin."

The door shut, the sound echoing through the dark. Catherine's heart hammered in her head, the beat loud in her ear drums. She didn't dare breathe, nor move save to turn her head toward the small flicker of light. Was it safety or danger? She could never know, and she didn't want to move. What if someone heard? What if they were already here? Ready to pounce? For all her oaths and promises and rage, it all suddenly seemed so fleeting now. She needed to get up. She needed to get out. She had to get away. She had to move!

And then—a howl in the dark.

Catherine ran.

-O-

May 23, 1500

Castel Sant'Angelo

Rome, Italy

Ezio moved slowly, silently, his boots barely making an audible sound as he slunk through the stone halls of the Castel Sant'Angelo. It had already been nothing short of a miracle that he'd managed to find a way in, La Volpe's spies spotting a flaw in the guard's schedules and how they would leave certain doors unlocked. Even more miraculous was Bartolomeo managed to rally the forces needed to draw the Borgia from the fortress. Or, at the very least, enough to make his job easier. Rumors had said the "guest" was in the upper towers, and so he had ventured that way, sneaking through the courtyards, scaling wall after wall, and now managing to clamber into the main tower. He had not encountered too many guards, and the night shift generally had less people if he'd been told right. It certainly seemed that way, with most of those rummaging about being maids or other servants. They were easy enough to avoid, and some he even tricked with a bow of the head and a genuine smile.

All he knew was that it made reaching the rooms Catherine might be in all that much easier. Better still, he had managed to snag keys to the rooms and could check them one by one. He hated taking so long, but he knew Cesare was gone—Rodrigo, too, by rumors of the guard—which meant his job was easier. For now, anyways. The hard part would be getting his wife out, but his allies were waiting for him. Already there was a thief within the walls, disguised as a page and ready with a carriage. There were others outside the walls to distract and mercenaries just beyond the bridge to waylay pursuers. It had all been planned out thoroughly, and now all that remained was finding his beloved wife.

Unfortunately, that would prove more difficult than he realized. There were far more rooms than expected, and although checking them was a swift endeavor—just open the door, look inside, and close it after finding it empty—the number of them made the time it took long. He did not have forever to find her, and so he had to quicken his pace at one point, and even took the liberty of removing a guard with a quick stab of his Blade. He didn't necessarily lament ridding the world of a Borgia goon, but his heart was already heavy. He had taken so long to finally get here, and each empty room was another weight on his chest. Already he feared the worst but held onto hope. His wife was surely still alive, the baby not yet born. It was too soon for that, so he pressed on.

Yet, that hope fell short. By what felt the twentieth try, his frustration was growing. What room could Catherine be in? How had he not come by here yet? Was she not in the tower then? Was she in a prison perhaps? No, they wouldn't be that cruel, would they? But then why was he upon the last room now and still yet unable to find his wife? Was she really so far into the tower?

Ezio held his breath as he slipped the key into the lock of the door—of the final room he had found in this God-forsaken place. He turned it slowly, both dreading and yearning to see what lay beyond. He pushed open the door even slower, the wood creaking and groaning from the effort, and let it swing open.

Empty.

Naught but a bed, a vanity, and drawers. His wife was not there.

Catherine wasn't there.

His heart fell to the farthest depths of the world and panic nearly seized him. He kept it at bay as he considered his options. The prison then? Perhaps the Borgia were that cruel. He couldn't bring himself to believe it, but how could he deny it, either? The Assassin shook his head, the notion bewildering, but he would turn this tower inside out if it meant finding his love. He would kill every single guard if he had to, and his Blade was ready to work as he turned around and headed back the way he had come. The way to the dungeons would not be far, and if he was quick he could get there sooner. Thankfully, no one appeared along the way, and he darted for the stairway, praying his wife was in the dungeon, but fearing it all the same.

"She is not down there."

Ezio nearly tripped on the steps but caught himself and spun around to find the one man he had once hated with a passion but had given it up for a new life. Yet, looking upon the man's tired, old face, he felt the hate return. It increased yet again as he recalled why he was here in the first place—how Cesare's attack was the fault of the man before him.

He growled, Blade extending, "Rodrigo."

"The Lady Auditore is not here," he reiterated, and the Assassin paused.

"What do you mean? Where is she? What have you done with her!" he snarled, starting up the steps. To his credit, the Pope did not move. He didn't even flinch as Ezio grabbed his robes and brought close enough their noses nearly touched. "Where is my wife!?"

"She is gone. Cesare took her away," the man spoke, and Ezio's heart fell further. His grip slackened for a moment, before returning twice as hard.

"When?! Where?!"

"Only a few days ago, but I do not know where. He only wished to be rid of her."

"Explain!" the Assassin snapped, but he knew the answer even before the Pope gave it.

"Cesare no longer had use of her, so he tossed her away. She was gone before I had even returned here."

"No!" Ezio bellowed, throwing the man back. He let out a feral sound, bringing up his Hidden Blade as if to kill Rodrigo, but faltered, his mind whirling. "She was with child! Did he let the child die, too?! Did he kill my child!?"

"No—the child was born, but… I have not seen the babe nor heard what became of it. I cannot say what he did with it, if it was not still born," Rodrigo rumbled, and the Assassin swore there was pity in his voice.

"No! No, no!" he rasped, his voice breaking with his heart. It couldn't be true. His wife was already gone, but now his child? Were they both truly dead? Had he lost them? Had he been too late? God, what had he done? He glared at the Pope, "You're lying. You have to be."

The Pope regarded him solemnly, "For what it is worth… I am sorry, Ezio Auditore. This is not what I wished for."

"Then what did you want, you bastard!" Ezio spat, charging over and grabbing his robes once more. "This is all because of you! First my father and my brothers. Then my Uncle and nephew! Now my wife! My child! They are dead because of you!"

"I only wanted to keep hold of my power, but I did not want this," he replied, and the weariness in his voice made the Assassin pause once again. As much as he wished to think it, this man in his grasp was not the same one he had fought for so long. He was simply a tired old man who had lost his will—perhaps not to live, but his strength was gone. He was beaten. Broken.

Ezio almost laughed at how he felt just the same. He withheld it, though, and released Rodrigo, staggering back. He felt so weak now. Tired. So very tired.

He had failed them—he had failed Catherine. He had let her die, and now she was gone. She would not come back this time. There was no Clock to bring her back. She was really gone. Forever.

"I'll kill him. I'll gut that man," he hissed, fingers clenched.

"They… may still live," the old man hummed. Ezio looked at him sharply, confusion clear. The man met his gaze, "Though I know my son sent your wife away, I do not know where or how. She may yet live, as might your child. I can tell you no more, though. The only answers will come from Cesare himself."

Ezio's heart skipped a bet.

Hope.

It was there.

Barely, but it was there. Catherine could be alive. Even if it was a slim chance, it was still a chance. His child, too.

His agony ebbed, though only a little. They were still gone, and he had no idea where to look. They were not here in the Castel, though. It was disheartening, but he would be damned if he did not turn Roma inside out until he found them, which he would. That was a promise he made then and there, and he would not break it. He would search until his dying days, never relenting in his quest.

"You should leave now, if you do not wish for a fight. You have been here too long, Assassin," Rodrigo spoke, pulling him from his stupor.

He regarded the man, "…Why have you done this? You could have left me to suffer—or called the guard."

"A life for a life, if you will. You bested me yet spared my life… and I no longer have the desire to fight. I am old, and I am tired.. I only wish to keep what remains of my Order together, just as you do your family. It is my son who seeks to do more—even perhaps more so than I did not so long ago. He is the cause of all this mess, and it is him alone. I hope—should we meet again, Assassin… you might remember this moment."

"I make no promises, Rodrigo… But I will kill Cesare if I have the chance. Him I will not spare."

"Then hurry, Assassin. Before I change my mind."

Ezio spirited off, slipping back out through the way he had planned for his wife. All the while he wished he was not alone, but he could not mull on it Oh, he would feel the burn of his failure until the day he finally found Catherine again, but it would serve as a reminder; a reason to never falter; to never stop in his search. Only when he could look the love of his life in her eyes and apologize to her in every way possible would he finally allow himself peace. Until that day, though, he would not rest. He would ensure Cesare paid for his crimes as well. The man had taken too much and hurt too many. Even if that, too, cost him his life, he would bring the Borgia down.

This night, though, the Assassin retreated to his last sanctuary; to the home of Machiavelli where his small ray of hope still shined bright. There he found his daughter asleep, dreaming peacefully as ever. He was careful to not wake her as he joined her\, pulling her to his chest. She curled close, relishing in the warmth, and in those waning hours, Ezio finally allowed himself to grieve.

11 - End

Act I

End

TMWolf: He was too late.