TMWolf: Sorry for the delay, folks. It ended up being a very busy and... well, not my best month. I definitely had some down weeks that left me without any urge to want to write or do much. I ended up spending my time playing video games since that did what I needed, and keeping myself busy with school. I'm working on a new step of my research, so it's... been hectic. So, yeah. No writing because I just couldn't bring myself to, but the writing bug finally nipped me and I was able to finish up another chapter. I think another part is that, a part of me knows the story where I'm at (I write ahead) is almost near the end. I knew it'd be shorter, but still.

Anyways. Enough of my pouting. Thank-you to everyone who reads my work! You guys make it worth it, and I love how invested you get with the characters :) I hope you'll continue to enjoy and let me know your thoughts, questions, or any critiques!

This chapter is from Linkin Park - Points of Authority

16 – Points of Authority

February 12, 1801

Rome, Italy

There were four in total—so far.

Three men, and one woman. Each looked around their mid-twenties to mid-thirties, and all had proven their worth in taking on the challenge of becoming Assassins. They had courage and the fire burning within; the desire to face the Borgia without cowering in fear. They each had their own reasons—vengeance; justice; hatred. Whatever the case, they had shown the Auditore they had the spark and were willing to mold themselves into something more; something greater. It was why they had come here, to Isola Tiberina, and sought out Niccolò Machiavelli so that he could fit them with the proper provisions and teach them what they needed to know. This place was to be their new home, and it was in the training room—a lower sector of the building with a wide area—that would serve as their smithy.

And Catherine would be their blacksmith.

So far, she was only mildly impressed. True, they'd showed promise against the soldiers, but it was the common ranks; the weakest of their army. Still, they'd survived and taken down men, which was wort something. They were a bit scrawny, though. They didn't have the same meat on their bones as a mercenary, and their stances already showed flaws.

The men had an air of confidence she didn't like—especially the one on the far right. He was tall, though perhaps a few inches shorter than her husband, although he could just be slouching too much. He had lighter brown hair with decent scruff, and he had old scrapes and scars to suggest he'd seen a scuffle or two. His clothing was a bit more high-end than the others, but his boots were just as worn. Unlike the other two men, though, he also looked at her with what could be mistaken for discontent. That, or annoyance. Perhaps both. She imagined he thought her husband would be teaching him—the "fabled" Assassin of Roma. Who was she, after all? No one knew he would have heard of. She was a nobody to him, just a tag along that helped Ezio Auditore. Who did she think she was to teach him?

It was expected, of course, though still irked the redhead some.

Catherine looked to the others. The two other men weren't nearly so haughty. They were confused, mostly, and unsure of what was going on, but didn't seem to be concerned she was a woman. They looked more the farmer type, their clothes simple and a bit dirty with old stains. Their hair looked more unkept with curly, dark locks, and their bushy, thick beards weren't well groomed. She could see wear and tear on their hands, suggesting they knew hard work, and there was a hint of muscle under their sleeves. A good sign, though she needed them stronger. At least they looked more malleable than their first compatriot.

She glanced to her fellow female next, whom appeared to be uneasy, or at least unsure of her position. She had a reddish tint to her brown hair, and her eyes were an unusual green, which liked to hide behind her bangs. Her gaze skittered this way and that, never quite meeting Catherine's except to glance away quickly. She wore a man's tunic, worn and torn here and there, and when she looked hard enough she spotted a few nicks from old wounds and a scab or two. She even noted a bruise forming on her shoulders where she'd been struck the day they fought together. She could do well, whether she knew it or not. And like everything else, her anxiousness was to be expected. She was here to be an Assassin, but she was the only female trainee. The job of an Assassin was, in some ways, better suited for a man. It required great strength, endurance, and a fierce, indominable will. Women did not always possess such a thing in the wake of taking a life, but she had already proven she had. Better still, Assassins needed more than that. There was a subtlety that only a woman could wield that would serve a killer better than brute force could ever hope to do.

"So," she spoke at last, arms clasped behind her back. Her students perked up, the one unhappy man narrowing his eyes as he did so. "You wish to become Assassins."

"That is the idea," the unruly man grunted. Catherine stopped herself from shooting a scalding glare, but couldn't deny herself a flare of hot annoyance.

"Then I will be your teacher. I imagine you couldn't tell from first glance, and perhaps the battle during which you were recruited has faded on some of the details, but I am an Assassin, like my husband—the Assassin you all regard so highly," she went on, pausing to watch looks be exchanged. Even the trouble maker raised a brow in what she supposed was begrudging respect. Probably not, though. "Like him, I have trained for decades under the tutelage of the former Assassin and Mercenary Captain, Mario Auditore. He passed along his vast knowledge of the ways of the Assassins until he believed we had mastered it, and now I am here to bestow the same knowledge onto you."

The man scoffed slightly, "Why can't he?"

"Because he's dead," she replied curtly, looking right at him. She said no more, and she did not pause in her stare. He matched her, of course, but he was weaker. She saw him waver; saw his lips press together; saw his fingers clench. He cracked and broke their staring match. His loss had burned him, and it was only the first of many.

"The Borgia—our enemy—killed him. However, my husband and I survived. We remain, and the knowledge lives on with us. This was where the enemy made their first mistake. And now it falls upon myself to teach you how to survive them—and kill them in turn," she spoke, pacing back and forth in front of them, and when their eyes settled on her it was not with uncertainty, but that same fire she'd seen when first meeting them. "Your reasons are your own. Vengeance. Justice. Anger. Vindication. Whatever it may be, you are here now, and you will gain the tools you need to fight against your oppressors. You will be able to take back what they have stolen from you.

She paused to face them again, "If you prove your worth. Not just anyone can become an Assassin. You will endure the harshest training you will ever know. Your body will ache in ways you couldn't imagine. Your blisters will have blisters. Cuts will have cuts. You will cry in frustration, and yet you will push through until you can move no more. And then you will keep going. Assassins must endure everything the enemy can and more. You must be faster. Stronger. Smarter. Better. And I will you teach you how, but you must have the will to do so. If you do not, then I assure you, you will not join us. And so I offer you this one chance to leave before it begins. If you do not have the heart to become one of us and rise against the Borgia, then leave, and you go without judgement and our highest respects. But if you think you have the strength…"

Catherine looked to her recruits. She waited, watching for any hesitance—any who wished to back away. She had meant what she said. She would not think less of any who did not believe already they could become an Assassin. It had not been an easy life for her, but it had been her only choice, or, at least, it had appeared that way to her. It had been her only means to return home she could fathom, and it was only later it had become something more, but it was never easy. Death was always waiting, eager to pounce with one error. The lesson had become harsher with the loss of her powers, and more still after the loss of her home. Her recruits could not make her—their —mistakes. They had to be stronger. Faster. Fiercer. Deadlier. More ruthless.

They had to be better than them. Than her.

The redhead smiled when not one of the recruits wavered. Not even so much as a flinch or a falling gaze. They were firm in their belief—their will. They were ready to begin.

"Good. Welcome to the Brotherhood. With luck, you'll become an Assassin. If not, well, perhaps you'll still become a bit stronger. Certainly, a bit more bruised," she hummed, coming down from the higher platform to stand just before them. "Like I and all of my mercenary brothers, we'll start with the basics. These will form the fundamentals of your abilities, and you'll come to find they make up a part of everything you do. As such, discard your weapons—put them on the racks."

The recruits exchanged looks, but did as they were told. That is, except the one man who'd showed disdain. He showed it now, too, and was perhaps even about to sneer at her. She faced him head on, gaze never wavering. His looked ready to falter again, but he was, she personally thought, too stubborn.

"Why isn't the Assassin teaching us?"

"I am an Assassin. My husband is another. He and I are both well versed in our skills."

"But why isn't he. I thought the infamous one would teach us. I don't know who you are."

"If you must know, he's dealing with matters of the Brotherhood—of our Order. Things you are attempting to become part of."

"Come off it, man," one of the other men scowled, but the insufferable one glared at him.

"Fuck off. I didn't risk my neck against those fucking Borgia dogs to be taught by some woman. How do we even know she's the real deal?"

The woman recruit barked, "We saw her fight! Jut because you didn't—."

Catherine raised her hand, silencing the woman, and regarded the man, "Enough. The three of you, stand back and don't interfere. As for you… if you are so displeased with your situation, you may either leave… or prove your worth."

The redhead began to remove her weapons then, both sword and dagger. If she had a Blade she would have removed that, too. Regardless, she was left with only her bare hands and boots, which she set just so that she was ready for combat. She shifted her feet slightly, balancing herself, and kept one hand in front, ready to counter.

"I will make it easy for you," she went on, and motioned for the man to strike.

He laughed, unbuckled his sword belt, and tossed it aside, "I don't need a sword to beat you. Can't say I'm fond of beatin' a woman, but a man's gotta put them in their place every once in a while, eh?"

"If you think you're up to the occasion," she mused, and the man waited a moment before he lunged. It was a pitiful attempt—bestial, even. He merely charged as if she were such a feeble creature, but she was fine with that. It made it all the easier to side step his attack, sweep his foot with her own, and send him tumbling. She returned to her original position, staring down at him.

"You're dead. Get up. Try again."

"Tsk. Just got quick feet," he snapped, shoving up, and coming at her again. He had, to his credit, learned not to charge, and instead threw a punch. It was sloppy, though. Just an attempt to hit anything possible without any plan involved. It reminded her of a petty barfight or when the men had forgotten their training in a fit of anger. It was a simple thing to out maneuver and counter, and with a simple duck she had his arm in her grasp and wrenched it behind his back. She made sure it was done tightly and up a little too high so it hurt. Even if he was a little stronger, the position was too painful to fight against, and when she kicked his knee forward he went to the ground, preventing any escape.

She touched the back of his neck with the side of her palm, "You're dead. Try again."

"Damn you!" he hissed once he was released, rubbing his shoulder. His haughtiness had faded, she noted. He looked more like a fighter. He was still too brash—too much of a rookie. She had fought too many men to not see the signs, and she could sense it; perhaps even smell it. His fear. Small, but very much so there beneath the surface. His fear made him smarter, though; he was gauging her, trying to find her weak points. He eyed his sword. It would have been advantageous, but it was behind her now.

"Again," she pressed, egging him on. He growled, eyes narrowing, and took on a better stance. He was still shaky, though, and unsure of himself now. He'd failed twice—what were the odds of being victorious on the third? He was preparing, though, and her body tensed instinctually. Blood rushed, vision focused. Breathe came slow, the world grew quiet save the voices, which sang in her ears. They rang in tune with the drum of her heartbeat, and as soon as he moved, so, too, did her body.

He made a feint charge, dodging to the side at the last second. It was a more advanced move, but she'd fought worse. She'd fought trained soldiers and warriors and killers. She'd fought mad men in handfuls. She'd fought time. This mad dog was nothing. The voices urged her on, the call of the fight bringing her to spin just out of his strike, then bring the butt of her palm to his nose. Blood came quick, along with a yelp of pain. She grabbed the hair atop his brow, set a foot behind his heel, and forced him down. She made sure not to slam his head against the stone, but he hit hard on his rear and shoulders. He certainly felt it by his pained groaned as he peered at her through squinted eyes.

"You're dead," she spoke low and cool, fingers tightening briefly. "Have we reached an understanding?"

"Tsk—fuck! Y-yes," he growled reluctantly, clutching his bleeding face, and she released him.

"Good. Go clean yourself up and see a Doctor if need be. The one on the island is allied with us and will give you aid," she replied before turning to regard her other students, whom shifted a bit nervously. "You three will begin training. I'll start with gauging your hand to hand combat skills. You'll spar with each other for now, and treat it as a proper fight. I need to see where you stand. Pick amongst yourselves who will go first. First to submit loses, the winner faces the next opponent, then the loser of that round faces the first one. Got it? Begin."

Catherine stepped away from the group to lean against a nearby pillar and let the world gradually coming back to how it was. The only sounds were the scuffle of trainees sparring one another—and the scuff of boots of the wounded novice leaving to find a doctor. Her heartbeat slowed, the fire in her veins ebbing as she watched one of the remaining men and the woman begin to fight. She could fathom plenty of reasons as to why they chose this first round as it was, but she let them all slide as she gauged their skillset. Oh, she'd seen them fight soldiers, but this was different. Swinging a sword was one thing, doing so with proper purpose and precision was another. They had potential, though—that she could see with every punch or block or side step. It was raw, but could be turned into a sharp blade to turn against the Borgia.

"That was harsh," a familiar voice hummed from the other side of the pillar.

"Mario's training was harsh—don't tell me you forgot," she hummed back, folding her arms over her chest.

Ezio snorted, "Hardly… but that was unnecessary—nearly breaking his nose. He might not come back."

"He will. He wants to put me in my place. He's like Emilio, but unlike that scum he's against the same enemy. He can be tempered… or he won't join us."

"That's… not comforting. We need them to want to stay with us, not walk away bloodied and beaten, 'Cat," he rumbled uneasily.

"They have to be prepared for the fight they're getting into," she growled back, though her anger was not for her husband. "The Borgia aren't the Pazzi or those we faced before. They won't take it easy on us. We're not unknown. All of Roma knows who we are. Who the Assassins are. The Borgia won't stay the blade out of arrogance or ignorance. If they aren't prepared, they will die. They have to be ready. They have to be stronger. They have to better than we were."

He was quiet for a long while before sighing, "Just don't go too far. I'd rather not see you beating them to a pulp every day."

"That was just to knock the arrogance out of him. The others are fine," Catherine snorted, noting how the woman was holding her own still, and using quick movement and her flexibility with greater finesse than expected. The redhead wondered how well she'd do free running the rooftops. Later, though. Catherine spared a glance over her shoulder, "How did the hunt go? Are you alright?"

"Don't worry—the only wound is perhaps to my pride. There wasn't a trace of the target. I'll keep looking, and searching for more recruits. There's another I can search for tomorrow, too."

"Good—anything to get a blow against that bastard… any word on our other goals, though?"

"There might be. La Volpe's courier mentioned they have something, though not necessarily anything good."

"I'll join you once done here. I imagine they'll want to rest after a few hours," Catherine mused, watching as the woman finally met defeat, but made the young man work for it. She made note to learn their names, but for now labeled the winner Man A and the new challenger Man B. "Let him rest for a few minutes—catch his breath."

Both men nodded, and the woman sat on the ground, panting lightly. She'd fought well—she'd make a good Assassin.

"Remember: don't be too hard. Even Mario let up when he knew we needed it," Ezio chuckled.

"Hush. Just focus on finding our enemies. I'll make Assassins of them yet," she quipped back quickly, and her husband chuckled before pushing off the pillar and departing once more. He would probably see to Diana, whom was thankfully busy with her tutoring right now, else she'd no doubt be trying to watch. She'd probably even try to join in.

Perhaps one day.

But not today. Today was for her students, and she felt a sense of eagerness come over her as she watched the two men spar. They, too, had great potential. And, if the novice who finally slunk back in, nose free of blood, proved himself—then he, too, would make a fine Assassin.

One thing was for sure, though; the Borgia would rue the day they let her live.

-O-

"Ah, good, you are both here," La Volpe spoke as he sauntered through the doorway, his lithe frame moving smoothly and silently. There was hardly a pitter patter upon the stone tiles as his cape swayed behind him. He wore his usual grin, although it sobered some as he approached the two Assassins. "I come with news, though, perhaps not the kind you would hope for."

"Still, we would have it," Ezio chuckled, clasping his shoulder warmly. Catherine only nodded with a small smile to the thief, whom returned it in kind.

"We finally found news of one of the nobles that could prove invaluable. His name is Micheletto Corella and he's considered the righthand man of Cesare," he began, and the redhead's fingers clenched. "Our glorious Lord has seen to it he was appointed him the Governor of Piombino—a city on the coast about three days ride from here."

The pause led the redhead to believe it was supposed to mean something. She supposed it already did—she imagined such a title granted him even more power than before, and since he was Cesare's right-hand man, he had a lump sum of it.

Her husband pressed, "Meaning?"

"Meaning, he has work to do in Piombino now, and will not always be directly in Roma. He also tends to follow his master into the field, which is where he resides now, according to my men."

"We need to find him," Catherine hissed, earning looks.

La Volpe paused before he spoke, "It would be impossible to reach him at the moment; it is best to wait until he returns to Roma. He does every so often—to tend to Cesare's boy."

All familiar names, and all things that didn't matter except Micheletto's. She hadn't forgotten him, or what he had done. That man had to pay, and she would be the one to deliver it. The gaping face of that girl wouldn't let her rest until she did.

"Do you know how often?" Ezio asked, glancing to his wife. He couldn't stop the frown on his face from forming.

"Unfortunately, no; only that I can send word when he has returned. There are… rumors about this man, though—ones that should concern you. He is not a man to trifle with."

"What do you mean?"

"He means, he's a fucking bastard who tortures and kills and enjoys it," Catherine hissed, and the Lord Auditore looked at her sharply now. "He was there at the siege, too. He was the one who captured me. He's ruthless, and he needs to die."

"If he played a role in all this, then he will. La Volpe—you will keep an eye out for him?"

The thief nodded, "Of course. If I find anything else or new I will return."

"Thank-you, my friend," the Assassin replied, holding out an arm to clasp. The thief did the same with Catherine, who managed a smile before her glower returned. Ezio turned towards her, touching her arm gently. She didn't move, but she didn't unclench her fingers, either. A darkness was in her eyes, and her gaze was somewhere else—some place far away. It made his chest ache.

"He hurt you."

Yet another failure—one he hadn't even known about. The knife dug deeper.

"He'll pay for what he did. For all of it."

He wanted to ask what. He wanted to know what this man had done, but he couldn't bring himself to ask. It didn't feel right. He wasn't even sure she would tell him, even after all they'd been through. That uneasiness returned, and he suddenly knew what it was. He was standing right beside her, even touching her, and yet, he felt a million miles away. He felt farther from her than when he thought he had lost her. It felt like drowning—suffocating, even. It was a pain he thought he had known before when he lost his father and brothers, but this? This was immeasurable. The chasm there between them in that moment was infinite, and he had no idea how to surpass it.

"'Cat," he spoke, his voice weak; barely a whisper. It somehow pulled her back, though; pushed back the darkness there. The chasm closed some as she looked to him, a new glow flickering. It reminded him of a man dying of thirst, but there was no water.

"He must die. He has to."

His throat was dry as he cupped her cheek and replied, "He will."

Catherine stared at him for a good, long, endless moment, and he felt the chasm creeping upon them once more. Then she reached up and touched his hand, squeezing it with her eyes closed. She breathed out slowly, met his gaze again, and then she was gone, slipping by him.

He stood there; unable to move, to breathe, to think. Despair filled him, and suddenly drowning felt like a far better fate.

16 – End

TMWolf: Like I said, I'm moving up the training of recruits to fit my story purposes. So that's going to be going on for the next three years along with a lot more.

For now, though, we begin the training, and 'Cat has made sure to nip any naughty boys in the but. Namely, the one who fought her (poorly). She's not taking chances, and... well, there's still plenty wrong.

Guess you'll see how it goes hehe...