TMWolf: Sorry for the delay guys! Life has been... occupied by other things. A mix of writing things for school, my work, and I just really wanted to do some gaming instead of writing, so there's that. But I'm back with an update!

So, uh, real quick, because it's probably important: This chapter is VERY, VERY DARK. Like, I think I probably should put a trigger warning for some people? It's one of those chapters, basically, so... be prepared. Some f'd up shit is about to go down and you're going to get a look into the second big conflict of our couple...

But for now: thank-you for your reviews! They mean so much! I seriously love them and knowing y'all are enjoying the story! X)

The song for this chapter is Disclosure - Omen (ft. Sam Smith), and the title totally fits. You'll see.

Right. So. Like I said: be prepared for some gruesome, trigger-worthy stuff. SENSITIVE EVENTS HAPPEN OR ARE ALLUDED TO. I warned y'all, so don't say I didn't. Disclaimer out.

13 – Omen

January 31, 1501

Rome, Italy

Night had fallen upon Roma during his venture through the catacombs, so the hour was late. The moon looked to be already halfway across the sky, for which he was both surprised and grateful for. It made appearing from a hidden walkway into the city much easier. For himself it was not such an ordeal, but on the way out from the Lair he had finally considered his wife's appearance. She wore a white wolf pelt, a bit worn and torn and stained with blood, and her armor was just as wild. Her blue tunic was tattered and ripped in places and had dark stains. She wore a white under shirt, and her pants were white as well, but looked old from use. Those, too, had stains. He couldn't help noticing she had an odor to her as well—one of a person who had not bathed in some time, but also of death; more than one should ever smell like.

Yet, that would have meant nothing to him over the fact he had his wife back—that is, if not for the silence. He had not noticed it at first, his overwhelming joy blinding him to it. As they ventured to the surface, though, and found mounts to ride back to the hideout, he began to take note. Since they had begun their trek home, Catherine had said nothing. She was quiet and when he looked back her face was impassive—except for her eyes. In those he saw an intensity he did not recognize. A strange, dark inferno that made him worry. The silence, though, was the worst. The mad, deafening silence.

Ezio forced himself to believe it was just his mind playing tricks. She had faced an ordeal he could not fathom, but the happiness she expressed in the catacombs had been real. The passion in their kiss had been real. This moment of silence simply had to be something else—perhaps she was just overcome with relief and maybe disbelief. Hell, he could scarcely believe this was real himself; to have his wife riding beside him on a horse to their new home. It didn't seem real at all. But it was. He knew it was. So he pushed the nagging feeling in his gut, and instead allowed his joy to return and overcome him.

After nearly a year of separation, they were together once more. That was all there was to think of. Or it should have been.

As such, the Assassin could not help frowning as his mind continued to linger upon his observations. Even when they came upon the island, the streets empty at such a late hour, he would glance back at Catherine on her mount, see her eyes essentially unblinking and ever forward. The questions swirled and swelled, but he did not give them sound as they dismounted. Rather, he came to her, brushing her cheek gently. A small amount of relief came to him when she leaned into his touch, but it faltered when she smiled. It was not sincere—or rather not fully. It lacked something. It did not reach her eyes like he remembered

For all the joy he had felt but perhaps an hour ago, Ezio began to worry.

"So, this is the new hideout?" she asked, her voice quiet, and still a bit hoarse. Her gaze went to the tall, stone building, and he nodded.

"Yes—it's bigger than it looks. Come, Diana's room is higher up, but we must go down to enter," he chuckled, holding out his hand to her. Again, her smile did not reach her eyes, but she took his hand, and joy came to him again. To have her fingers within his grasp was just too much for his worries to match, although they would be back.

"How has she been?" Catherine asked, following him as he tugged her within the stone fortress.

He looked back at her, a small smile on his own face, "She has missed you greatly… but she's kept busy with her studies. Machiavelli started her on them, and she's been keen to continue. She's as intelligent as you are."

"She always did take after me a bit more, didn't she?" the redhead hummed, chuckling even. Ezio chose to ignore the strange feeling he got from her tone, and instead chuckled with her as he led her up the stairs inside.

"Just a little… ah, here. Her room is right here," he replied, coming to the first door in the upper hallway.

He refrained from knocking, realizing the late hour, but pressed the door open slowly anyways. The light of the hallway's torches shot a beam into the room, hitting their daughter's bed in the center. Diana was sound asleep, not the least bit disturbed by their entry. Ezio pushed the door open a bit more to allow Catherine in, although his love paused in the doorway. She didn't breathe at first, staring at their daughter's sleeping form as if in a trace. He watched her carefully, saw a flurry of emotions wash over her face. He moved to touch the small of her back, to urge her to go forward, but she did it on her own instead. Slow at first, but then she crossed the gap between her and the bed and stood beside their child.

Diana remained asleep, snoozing peacefully as her mother looked down on her, though he could no longer read her face. He kept back, wanting her to have the moment to herself. Catherine reached out then, hand nearly brushing the red locks that were so like her own. The child turned in her sleep then, revealing her perfect, freckled face. Her mother's hand came closer, but then paused, lingering just inches away. It drew away a moment later, and when she turned back around there was a sad smile there. Catherine walked back to Ezio, whom grasped her hand gently.

She looked to him briefly, "I don't want to wake her… and see me like this."

"Alright," he replied, barely at a whisper. "I'll take you to our quarters…and draw a bath."

"I could probably use one," she chuckled, and for once it felt genuine. He smiled back, squeezing her hand, and closed Diana's door. He led her up another set of stairs, to the "master" suite of the tower. It was not unlike the Villa in that way, although the room wasn't nearly as lavish. It was still a fine spot, some of the best wood and furnishing reserved for it. It had windows that filtered in silver moonlight, illuminating the large bed and its cotton sheets. There were a few dressers, a vanity, and even a desk along with a tub to one side—just what she needed.

"Here, sit, I'll ready it, although, I don't think I'll be able to get it very warm," he spoke gently, kissing her cheek before he finally left her side and began to prep the water.

"It's fine—I don't have to have it warm," she replied, moving over to the vanity instead of the bed. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye as he relied upon the hideout's piping structure to fill the tub. How it worked, he couldn't fathom, but he was glad for it as the water began to flow. She pulled off the wolf pelt first, lying it upon the vanity's edge. Her hair was messier than he had realized, and had been badly cut. The back was longer than the front, but would not tie into a ponytail easily anymore. He didn't dare imagine how it had happened.

Catherine began to slip off her bracers, belt, and boots next, revealing pale hands and feet. She undid her tunic, letting it drop, and then unbuttoned her shirt. A part of him thought he should look away, as foolish as that was being her husband, but even if he had tried, the sight of her back once she removed her undershirt would have made such a thing moot. His breath hitched in his throat and his chest clenched tight. Scars—all along her shoulders and a bit of her lower back. They looked like whip marks, and some wounds from a blade. They were new, and not from their long journeys together before this. They had healed some time ago, but they were still visible, even if only a little for some. A mixture of sorrow and rage filled him, knowing only the Borgia could have inflicted them upon her. Those bastards had done this to her. To his Catherine.

He forced himself to look away as she pulled down her pants, his anger sure to get the best of him if he didn't. Still, he vowed revenge on Cesare for this—for marring his beautiful wife in this way. Oh, the scars hardly detracted her beauty, but he had heard of the pain of the lash. He had never endured it himself, but he heard the screams of those who had, and to know his wife had suffered it? He couldn't barely keep himself from striking the floor board. He held back, though, and turned his attention the beautiful creature that approached him, her smile suddenly the most radiant thing in the dimly lit room. He held his hand for her, which she took, and helped ease her into the tub.

Some of the dirt on her body came off at once, but the rest remained caked on. There was more on her than he realized, even on the flesh that had been under her clothes. Some of it blotted out her freckles, and he could not help noticing other, smaller scars he did not recall her having before. From the Borgia, too? Or the Followers? What in God's name had happened to her?

Shame struck him. Sorrow, too, but mostly shame. His wife had suffered all this time, and what had he done? Lived well, succeeded in his ventured in Rome—save for rescuing her. Oh, he'd felt sorrow and despair and such agony, but she had no doubt felt the same. She had endured all he had and more. So much more. How she could even be here in the tub now astounded him, and he hated himself for having not suffered even an ounce of what she had.

"What? Not going to join me?" her voice cooed, breaching his solemn thoughts. He blinked, managing to chuckle, and brushed a lock of wet hair from her cheek.

"Not tonight—I want to focus on you… may I?" he asked, pulling a rag off the side of the tub.

She held out her arm to him, "You may. Do… forgive my state. I've… been unable to bathe for some time."

"You know I don't care about that. You're alive. You could be covered in waste and I still would only be filled with joy," he grinned, taking her hand in his and beginning to wipe at her skin. Thankfully, the grime came off easily enough, and her freckles appeared once more.

"Your nose might think otherwise… but I am glad you're alive. So very glad… I tried to hold on to the hope… but… when Cesare showed me your bloody sleeve… he told me he'd killed you," she murmured, so soft he almost didn't hear. He felt her fingers on his face, though, the rough knuckles brushing his skin now that he'd moved to her neck. "I believed him… I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

"Don't—don't you apologize," he replied quickly, leaning forward to take her head in his hands and press their brows together. "It's my fault… I didn't get to you in time. I'm the one who should apologize, Catherine."

"Ah… I haven't heard my name in so long," she uttered, and his chest clenched again. "It sounds good to hear it."

"I'll say it as many times as you like—even if my throat begins to bleed," he chuckled, and though she grinned, it felt lacking. Again, his concerns returned, but he knew the rest had been true. She was sincere, but there was something else there. He couldn't place what, but it did worry him.

"Well, I prefer to hear your voice, so don't strain too hard."

"I'll do my best, my love," he replied, kissing her brow, and then continued his work. He scrubbed her face gently, removing the dirt and grime there as well, and then worked gently with her hair. He wet it more, and slowly, carefully, worked through the snarls and tangles. He managed to free the locks from the matted bits and got it close to resembling how it was before. Her bangs were longer than before, but the back had been hacked off by a blade of some sorts now that he could look closer. He restrained himself from imagining how as he cleaned her other arm and then worked downwards, not missing the bruises along her pale flesh. Each burned him, and he hated himself even more, no matter if she did not blame him.

He kept himself in check as he scrubbed the rest of her, being sure to be slow and methodical, but also gentle and soothing. He wanted to ensure she enjoyed this—to have some measure of peace after everything. It was the least he could do. Truthfully, he wanted nothing more than to embrace her and kiss her and never let her go again, but, in a way, he wasn't sure if he should—not now, anyways. He wasn't worthy to do so.

"How's that?" he asked as he wiped the last bit of dirt from her leg.

She smiled, this time sincerely, "Better."

Catherine stood up then, and he saw more of her scars—the smaller ones on her legs. Again her back was exposed to him as she began to step out, and he scrambled for a towel to dry her. She let him do that, too, wiping her down as gently as he had before, and be extra careful with her hair. He lingered by her once he finished, the towel wrapped around her shoulders as he pressed his brow to hers. There was so much he yearned to say, but his lips would not move. She must have known, for she smiled slightly again and placed a chaste kiss on his lips.

"I need to borrow your clothes to sleep in."

"Ah," was all he managed, and left her there with the towel to drag her out a shirt and trousers. She slipped them on, and it was almost as though things were like before, but they weren't. They were very different, and he couldn't bring himself to move as she ventured to the bed. Her hand caressed the sheets, as if it were something so new, and then she slipped beneath them, resting her head on the pillow. At last, he saw her relax—truly relax, though he didn't know for how long it would last.

It was then he finally stripped himself, pulling off his armor and attire until he was in naught but his trousers. He slipped in on the other side, facing her quietly. He gazed upon her face, her eyes closed as if she had already fallen asleep, but he could sense she was still awake. Though she had seemed reposed earlier, he could feel her tension, even with space between them. His throat tightened, gaze dropping, and he wondered if he had the right to be here next to her. What kind of husband was he, after all? Yet, even as the guilt ate him he reached for her, as she had to Diana, and, like her, he paused and let his hand drop.

Her eyes opened in the same moment and a coy smile appeared, "Are you afraid to touch me now?"

"No—no. Never… I just… I failed you… I… I should have… sooner—I should have come sooner," he began, and the guilt breached the flood gates. "I feared if I moved too soon they'd hurt you or the baby, but I was—I came… you were gone when I got there, and I… God, Catherine, I left you to them because I wasn't fast enough. I wasn't strong enough. I failed you."

He meant to go on, but a finger touched his lip, "There was nothing you could do. The Castel is a formidable prison, and Cesare was watching me. Constantly. I tried to send a message even, and he waylaid me. He would not have let you near me."

"I would have killed him if he dared," Ezio hissed, but his wife only chuckled, the strange look coming over her once more. His chest, too, clenched again, and when he reached out this time he did so completely. He brushed her cheek with his fingers and then found hers on the sheets, grasping hold of them. "Catherine… what happened? Rodrigo said Cesare took you away…"

"After he was done with me, yes… after he took all I could give from the Apple, he was rid of me."

He frowned, brows scrunched, "He used you for the Apple?"

"Turned out I could still activate it. See things. He saw something he wanted, and then he felt he needed no more of me," she shrugged, as if it were nothing.

"Did he… those scars…" Ezio growled softly, fingers clenching.

She chuckled, of all things, and he felt his blood run cold, "It was Lucrezia. His bitch of a sister whipped me herself for her petty revenge for calling her out as the whore she is. She struck me until I bled and bled and bled… No doubt she sleeps soundly thinking I'm dead."

"That woman will pay—all the Borgia will pay for this," he hissed. He paused, though, meeting her gaze, which seemed so strange to him now. "But… where did he take you? You weren't at the Castel when I came…"

"Ah… that bastard threw me to the wolves. A 'token' to the Followers," she laughed, and his inside twisted as his blood froze.

"What."

"A masked man who led them came; told him his little wolves could use fresh meat—a bit of spitfire for the men. He gave me to the man—let him take me to the Colosseo. I was too weak to fight then. They had me bound, anyways, but I would escape later. I knew I would. I could do it. As long as I got free of that fucking Cesare I could do it. I would get free and find him and gut him… and then they brought me to a door. They stripped me and threw me into the dark," she went on, and each word drove a knife deeper and deeper into his gut. He could barely move, barely breath. His mind screamed and raged and despaired at her words, his fears growing uncontrollable and more vile and horrid with each passing moment. He begged it not to be true, though—begged her silently not to let them be real. Her eyes were cold, though, some place far away as she spoke, so soft now, it was almost impossible to hear. "They were there. The Followers. They were waiting. They came for me, so I ran."

"Did you… Catherine—did…" he managed to utter and hated even considering it.

Her eyes had looked elsewhere, but when they flicked back to his, he didn't need her answer to know. His skin bristled, and his shame and fear and rage and sorrow increased infinitely.

"I fought them," she replied, her gaze going somewhere farther—beyond him; beyond the room; beyond everything.

Howls. Snarls. Laughter. Barks. Hoots.

They came upon her—there, in the dark. Her heart raced as she faced them in what little light she had. The flames flickered off the dead eyes of their hoods and the feral fangs in their mouth, grinning hungrily. They circled her, growling and panting like wild beasts. They were starving, though not for blood. For meat—a different kind of tender flesh, and she had no weapon. She was defenseless. They came closer, hands—claws—reaching, fangs gnashing.

She sensed movement from behind and struck, slamming her elbow into their nose. The man howled in pain, blood splattering onto her and the ground. She saw a glimmer of steel and lunged, ripping it free from his belt. The second grabbed her then, yanking her hair. She hissed as she dug the dagger's tip into his side, but he held fast. A third was on the way, so she flung the dagger up to his hand, but avoided the flesh, instead going for the red locks. The metal sliced through, cutting enough to loosen his hold and stab the metal through his elbow. He, too, howled in pain, and she faced the third. He tackled her, meaning to pin her hands as he grabbed one, but she shoved the dagger into his throat, which had been left exposed. He lurched, choking on blood that splashed down onto her, and then slumped to the side.

She scrambled up, eyes wide and heart going too fast. The fourth came, but he had a weapon drawn. She made to parry, and did so for the first flash, but there was another dagger. She couldn't dodge it as it sliced through her cheek, carving a line almost to her nose. It burned like hellfire, but it was nothing like the icy fear as she tried to shove her weapon into his throat, too.

Instead, a hand caught her wrist, and her face met the ground. The blow dazed her, made her drop her weapon, and then they had her. Pinned her. Grabbed her hair and twisted so it hurt, made the pain worse. She could see stars, but when she felt them grasp and pull more and she fought and twisted and thrashed.

But it was no use.

They snarled. And laughed. And howled.

Catherine's focus returned briefly, eyes meeting his. Ezio wanted so badly to embrace her, but he didn't dare. Already he knew, but he didn't want to believe it. He couldn't. Yet, her eyes said it all.

"I didn't get away."

Pain was foremost. There was pleasure, but mostly pain. It was matched by self-loathing and betrayal and a reverberating shame she believed and denied and hated. She could do nothing. They had her, and each moment, each thrust and laugh and snarl was worse than the last. She could only endure and hate and rage and despair and pray for an end—one that seemed to never come.

The pain continued.

"They left me there, once sated. They'd had their meat. Their fill. They'd come for more later, perhaps, so they left me," she went on, voice quiet once more.

She lay there for some time, though for how long she didn't know. It didn't matter. They had done their work, and they had gone, thinking her beaten. Broken. A thing to be used as they saw fit. But she was not broken. She was not beaten. No, there was a rage in her. Silent, bubbling, foaming at the mouth like a rabid beast. It clawed at her insides, begging to be released. It called upon memory to convince her—to show her the past days and months; the infinite hours of agony and despair and anger.

She saw Mario.

She saw the Villa.

She saw Paula.

She saw her son, in the hands of her enemy.

She saw the Borgia bitch, her whip flaying her flesh.

She saw Micheletto, his hands on her throat.

She saw Cesare, his vile mug laughing down at her.

She saw her husband, her daughter, her family—all her people dead, bodies lifeless on the floor.

She saw them staring at her with those hollowed, black eyes, their mouths agape.

She heard them wailing.

She heard them howling.

She heard them speak.

They demanded vengeance.

They demanded Retribution.

They demanded death.

She would grant it.

She would kill them. Every. Single. One.

They would die by her hands.

The walls broke, and her rage burst.

Her body, though once tired and weak, felt a vigor she had not known before. Her body, bruised and bloodied, pushed up, ignoring the aches. Shame was forgotten. Loathing was discarded. There was only hate and anger. Her gaze flicked to the dagger left behind, forgotten in their sated stupor. She took up her fang, and, recalling the way they had gone, a new kind of beast hunted.

Ezio couldn't fathom it. His rage knew no bounds. He wanted to hold her again, but he refrained. His hands shook too much to do so properly. And even then, he wondered if she would want him to.

He grit his teeth as he snarled, "I'll kill them. I'll rip them apart. I'll make them suffer."

"No need," she hummed, and when he looked to her in surprise, she smiled. "They're already dead."

She found them, reposed. They did not hear her coming.

She slit the throat of the first, drawing the sharp point quick and deep. The wolf died quickly. The others did not hear, content to sleep, their weak bodies tired from their efforts.

She thrust the dagger through the heart of the next, saw him jerk awake as steel met flesh, and reveled in the way his eyes bulged—the way terror engulfed them. He felt death for a moment, and then he perished. It didn't feel enough. She needed more. She needed suffering.

The third she pinned down, her hand clamped over his mouth as she drove the dagger into his groin. Blood pooled immediately as he bellowed in agony. His screams were only muffled, but it was enough. She saw his eyes rolling back, so she stuck him in the gut next and the pain pulled the man back. His screams continued, and she dragged the cool metal through his warm flesh, ripping through the tender meat. His death was slow and beautiful, and she relished in it.

The fourth—the one who'd cut her—had stirred from his slumber. He was the last of them, the others having gone elsewhere. It made him easier prey as he saw her, eyes going wide as he leapt up. He screamed something at her, but she didn't hear. There was only the dark whispers, calling for blood, and she answered. The man came for her, howling like an animal, but she was ready this time. As he had, she grabbed his wrist and shoved the dagger into his elbow, ripping through the muscle. It went slack and she took to the back of his knee next. Again, she ripped through the flesh, slicing the tendon. He fell, screeching in pain. He called her many things, but they were but pleasurable sweet nothings in her ears.

She cut his other leg in the same spot, rendering the limbs useless. She slammed the steel into the palm of his hand, all the way into the wooden construct behind him—enough so it stuck. His screams were like whimpers now, and he could do little as she took the dagger from his belt. She inhaled deeply, taking it all in.

He smelled of fear and blood and piss.

He was powerless now, bleeding out slowly. His eyes were wide with his fear—his regret. But it was not enough. She needed more and more and more.

Eyes unmoving, face impassive, she slipped the dagger's tip into his shirt, and began to cut.

"He begged me not to kill him. Begged me to let him go. Told me how sorry he was. Like him, I didn't listen. I let him wail. I let him bleed and scream and cry and piss and beg and beg and beg and beg… but I didn't let him go. No… no, I made an example of them. I made sure whoever would find them knew I had done this. That no ally of the Borgia would escape their up commence," Catherine spoke, her eyes wild—enough so Ezio found his breath stolen. Fear urged him to flee, but he held fast, torn between concern for her—and himself. It took all he had to repress a shiver as she smiled, moving her hand to the mattress where she began to write out letters with her finger. It was slow, methodical, and she watched her movements with a dark pleasure.

"I carved the letters into his chest."

He was barely awake as she drew the tip across the white skin, plastered with dribbles of red that trickled to the ground. He had stopped screaming some time ago, perhaps having choked on the blood from his tongue, half of which dangled on his lips. She still worked, though. She wasn't done yet, after all. She had to make sure they knew—that all these pathetic, worthless, scum that called themselves men knew there was a knew hunter in the midst. They would know they were no longer the beast in the night, but rather prey; weak and vulnerable.

B… O… R… G… I… A… D… O…. G.

There. It was done. She'd left her mark. Left the dog's corpse to rot there. She laughed then, or perhaps giggled. She marveled at her work, enjoying the sight of his gaping maw, eyes rolled back so only the white showed. His once pink flesh was dark red, and it was such a pretty color. It stood out so pleasantly against the white fur on his head.

Golden eyes stared back when she gazed upon the silent beast, and she could not help feeling a kinship. Yes—there, in those eyes she could see it. They were like her own. She could hear its whispers; the cries for vengeance; a life for a life and more. A wolf—a beautiful, powerful creature—wrongly brought down in its prime and made to sit upon the head of a mongrel. It needed a new bearer; one who was worthy of the strength; one who could hear and listen.

She grasped the scruff of the pelt, wrenching it off the cur, and let it fall upon her own. It was invigorating, the feeling of the rough skin and warm fur against her bare, marred skin. The whispers came louder, fueling her. She needed more.

She needed to hunt.

"I took their clothes, their daggers. I made them my own. They didn't need them anymore, and I escaped them. Left their bodies to rot—to feed the rats, perhaps. A fitting end for their filth," Catherine hummed, fingers lying still now. Ezio didn't dare imagine the ordeal the man had endured, even if he thought it was, as she said, a fitting end. Still, the ferocity of it was appalling—even for the crimes committed. He hated them, but this was something else. Something sinister. He forced himself to understand. They had violated his wife. She had every right to kill them in any way she liked.

And yet, the woman before him felt so foreign now.

It was his wife, certainly, and yet it wasn't.

She chuckled, sitting up now and reaching over with the same hand. For all his worth, he nearly flinched, but she only smiled as she brushed a lock of hair from his eyes.

"Do I disgust you now, my love? After what those men did to me?" she hummed, and although her tone had not suggested anything, he couldn't help the flicker of shame. He sat up and set his hand on hers, pressing his face into her palm. He made sure to meet her gaze, however strange it seemed now.

"No. Never," he rumbled, and he was sincere in that. He could never be so petty. His gaze fell briefly, though, as he thought to change the course of things. "Why could I not find you after? I have traveled almost all of Roma, and not seen sign of you…"

"Ah… yes… Because I did not remain in the light for long," she replied, head tilting slightly. "I found a doctor first—to tend to my wounds. I luckily had no fear of child, but I would do no good a bloodied mess… I hid for a time, nursing myself, and then I sought out Cesare and the rest of the Borgia's allies. I thought to take them on—get close and slit their throats, one by one… but I found myself at an impasse. The way to the Vaticano was neigh impossible on my own, and though I yearned for their blood, I knew better than to throw myself onto their swords after all I had done to come this far. There was no way back—at the moment. I knew a chance would come, but I had to retreat. After all, it seems even one dressed like the Followers are not welcome in the city—even by the guards they are allied to. Perhaps a show to the people, perhaps their own stupidity. Who knows.

She paused to draw her hand back, leaning up, elbow resting on her knee, "So I returned to the shadows. I needed to do something to hurt them—to make them suffer, and if I could not touch the Borgia… then I would work slowly. I would cut off their fingers and toes first and work my way up, so I went back for the Followers. I began to hunt. I scoured their dens and lairs and learned of their plans, and for months I've hunted down there, in the dark. I would only surface briefly, working my way through them. I only lament I have not killed them all yet. Two more leaders and their Lairs evade me."

Ezio's heart trembled as much as his hand, torn between his shame and worry and sorrow. He had let this happen to her. He'd left her in their grasp; left her to be thrown to the wolves; left her to be hurt so deeply; left her to agony and despair. For all his fear of her gaze, he could not be stopped from moving to her. She turned towards him, and as soon as she did he pulled her into his arms. He buried his head into her neck and did his best not to let out a short sob. His wife had been hurt in ways he couldn't fully understand and could barely believe, and he only prayed that her return to him—to their family—could finally heal her.

"God, Catherine… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have gotten to you sooner… if I had… then you—none of this… I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he rasped, body trembling as his fingers clung at her shirt. He nearly flinched when he felt her fingers on his back, touching gently. It was more than he expected or could ask for, and dared to let his body relax, even if only a little.

"They have him—our son."

Ezio flinched, body once more going cold. He pulled back slowly, brows scrunched with confusion. Her eyes were as cold as he felt, though not out of any spite or hate for him. No, it was for someone else—for those that had done this to her.

"What?"

"Mario. I named him Mario. I gave birth to a boy, and they took him from me. They have him, Ezio. They have our boy."

"Wha—but… I… I thought… I thought he'd… I thought you were both dead…" he spoke softly, mind working quickly. Had Rodrigo lied to him? No—no, the man had been true. He simply hadn't known. Her hand touched his cheek and his gaze met her intense one.

"The Borgia have lied about many things… and we must reclaim what they took from us. We must make them pay, Ezio. For everything."

He reached up, cupping her cheek, too, and pressed his brow to hers, "And we will, my love. We will. I swear to you—here and now… we will bring the Borgia down. Roma will be free of their influence, and we will reclaim our son… our Mario. A fine name. Strong. He will become a strong Auditore. The Borgia will rue taking him. I swear it. I swear it."

A smile appeared on Catherine's face, and it was both beautiful and terrifying. He could not look away as she leaned forward and placed a short kiss upon his lips. It was electrifying, and yet stung like a blow. He didn't know what to think of it as she pulled back, the smile still there, painted on her visage.

"I look forward to it."

No more was said as she lay back down, resting her head upon the pillow. She closed her eyes, and, for a moment, he was reminded of a life long ago—back at the Villa where things were as they should be. But this was not Monteriggioni. This was not the warm bed they once knew. This was Roma, a city still ruled by their enemy that had nearly destroyed him. He had his wife back now—a piece of his family restored, yet perhaps cracked still, and a new piece he had not known remaining to be found. A son. His son. His Uncle's heir, in some way. They would get him back. They had to. If not for the sake of his child, then his wife.

Silently, Ezio swore yet another oath. He would do all he could to mend his wife—to makeup for all the wrongs he had let come to her. He would not falter, not even once, until he could see her smile the way she used to.

With a quiet whisper of love into her ear, the Assassin finally settled down himself and allowed his guilt to crawl back into it's hole, allowing him sleep.

-O-

The Auditore stirred in the night, woken by nothing in particular. He blinked, the moonlight gone from the window and perhaps almost to the horizon. He faced the doorway, having turned from his wife in the night. He rolled to the other side and had to pause, blinking again, and then frowned. Catherine was awake—sitting up even. She stared ahead, eyes focused on something in the dark. He could make out only his furniture, the tub, and their gear spread out upon things. She simply sat there, her knees brought up to let her arms wrap around them. She was still, almost serene in the dark.

"'Cat?" he called softly, reaching over to brush her side with his hand.

She didn't look at him as she replied, "Don't worry—just not used to a bed again. Go back to sleep."

He didn't want to. He wanted to press her further, but she was quiet again, and he sensed a change. It drove his words back and made him listen. He closed his eyes, still facing her, and willed himself to try and sleep again.

The redheaded woman remained awake, though, even as the dark of the night began to grow brighter. She stared into the dark—to the crown of white fur, adorned in golden gems that gleamed even in the lack of light. She stared, unblinking, and let the jaws pull her deeper and deeper into its empty throat. There, she heard it. The silent howls. The wailing, mournful screams. They echoed in a bellowing cacophony that threatened to render to her deaf.

It stopped suddenly, and the fading night was silent.

And then she heard the whispers.

13 –End

TMWolf: So, like I said... this chapter was... intense. Truthfully, I originally had her escaping out okay when I first thought the sequel up, but... I ultimately decided it wasn't realistic. Sure, she's a trained killer and has trained for decades, but... there's only so much you can do in her situation and it just didn't feel realistic like I said. Also, it ended up working for what I wanted for their relationship problems in this Act, so... there it is.

I may be a sadistic bitch. I'm not sure.

Anyways. Enjoy the start of this f'd up mess. :L