TMWolf: Right, so sorry for the delay! Been like a month, jeez. I got caught up in a lot of stuff including a bathroom remodel that kept going awry at every moment, toilet problems I managed to fix myself until I needed our plumber thanks to the remodel lol, then family business for the holidays so lots of prepping and spending time with them, getting really into video games for a good stretch, and just... yeah. I've been busy, but got the next chapter done! :)

So, per usual, I don't own AC (god, wish I did), but I am using the canon characters as best I can to canon with my own twist! ;)

Thank-you to all my reviewers, too! I love, love, love reading your opinions and answering any questions and also really appreciate y'all catching my mistakes! So don't be shy and please feel free to leave a review *all the hearts*

Okay, now, this chapter from Lana del Rey - Ultraviolence.

And lastly: this chapter is, uh, INTENSE. As in like prepare for some crazy f'ed up scenes. Things get... ultra violent. HUE HUE HUE /slaps knee

19 - Ultraviolence

June 25, 1501

Roma, Italy

"They're ready."

Ezio frowned, although he trusted Catherine's opinion. She had trained their recruits for months now, and she knew them better than he did despite having become more involved lately. Still, he was reluctant to bring the Assassins-in-training along on their mission—to assault Micheletto's entourage on its way to Roma and bring the bastard down. It wasn't going to be an easy task, unfortunately, even with their numbers. The man controlled a worthy force of soldiers, personally given to him by Cesare to command, and the man himself was a powerful warrior. He'd grown up as most nobles did learning the art of the sword, and he was a cruel man. Honor meant nothing—all that he cared for was taking as much pleasure from the kill as possible. There was no telling if his soldiers would do the same, but they would potentially fight to the death.

It would be their novices' first real fight, too—one where their lives were in true danger. Any one, simple mistake could mean their lives. They had trained to believe as such even when sparring, but real battle was so exceedingly different from the sparring rings in the basement. Both master Assassins knew that all too well, and it was only their years of experience that had kept them alive for so long—that, and relying on one another.

"They're ready," the redheaded woman pressed, glancing up at her husband when he didn't answer.

At last, he sighed and replied, "I know. I know… I just… God, how did Mario do it?"

"By giving them all he had—including his faith in the skills he gave them. They're ready. They know how to fight, and how to run. We need their help for this, and it's a good opportunity. They'll get a real taste for it," she countered, motioning to their recruits as they danced around one another, trading blows, landing some, and missing others entirely. They were drenched in sweat, covered in bruises, some limbs wrapped in bandages, and all had a similar, vigorous fire in their eyes. They were warriors now. Assassins—ready to serve the people.

"Alright. Alright, alright… let's give them the news. We have to leave tomorrow if we hope to catch Micheletto and his men when they're tired," Ezio rumbled, and Catherine whistled to signal for them to stop. They did at once, though with confused looks as they hurried to stand at rest in a straight line. They stood with their chests and chins raised proudly, arms clasped firmly behind their backs.

"You have trained well and you've trained hard. You have proven yourself worthy of taking one, final step into becoming true Assassins," Catherine began, and she saw the fire glow a little brighter. "Thus far you have only fought with each other, mastering your techniques, but now it's time to put them to the test. One of our targets is returning to Roma, and we aim to cut him off outside the city where he will be most vulnerable. He will not be alone, though; he comes with a small squadron and we aim to meet him with our own—with you."

"Indeed," Ezio went on in her place, stepping forward. "It is time for you to witness the true breadth of battle. This will not be a skirmish. This will not be to a yield. This will be a fight to the death. The men you are going to face will strike you down if you give them the chance. You must take them out first, but remember: we are Assassins, first and foremost. Whatever grudges you have to the Borgia, leave them here. Kill your enemy but show the dead respect. We do not kill for ourselves—we work in the dark so that others may walk freely in the light. This is our duty, and it is time you become a part of it. After this fight, you will be Assassins."

"We are ready, Mentors!" came one shout, and the others shouted their agreement in unison. The two Assassins looked to one another, a small smile creeping on their features.

"Good. Then training ends for today. Eat, heal, prepare your gear, and rest your bodies. We will leave tomorrow afternoon and ride hard to the east. We won't stop until evening, and then we will make our strike at nightfall. We've already scouted our location and will go over the minute details once we arrive. Until then, ready yourselves—in all ways. Do not make this battle your last. Roma needs you alive and well to fight for her. Now, go."

"Yes, Mentor!" the six novices shouted and flooded out of the room.

"Not a bad speech there, 'Mentor'," Catherine mused a bit wryly.

"Still not quite used to the title, but it works… and thank-you. It was the best I could get on the spot… but you're right. They're definitely ready. I just pray it's enough for them all to make it out alive."

"They will, and that man can't escape. I won't let him," the redhead hissed, fingers clenching.

"He won't, but don't forget—," Ezio started, grasping her hands gently. "We do this for Roma."

Catherine looked at him sharply, lips pursing together; ready to make some retort. It pained him to know that wasn't her first reason. It ate at him to know the woman who had made him who he was—who had put him on this path to fight for the people, now could not seem to think the same any more. His only respite was that she nodded instead of saying otherwise.

"Come, then. We should rest as well and check our gear," he chuckled, tugging on her fingers. She nodded again, following behind him. All the while, he hated how the silence did not soothe him.

-O-

June 26, 1501

Roma, Italy

The room was dark, the only light coming from the afternoon sun that managed to press through the closed curtains. The only occupant were the furniture and the redheaded woman who sat before the vanity, elbows upon her knees. Her fingers were interlaced together, her chin resting upon them as her eyes stared forward. She wore her gear, tunic, pads both leather and metal, and weapons; she was armed for battle, and in her eyes was a fierce, steeled gaze. They were matched by the dark, empty holes of her wolf hood, the white fur as stained and dirty and matted as ever; always untouched save by the blood of her enemies. It stared unblinking, the eyes long since torn free from battle upon battle, the flesh torn and scarred in places that blades had managed to strike. Yellow fangs protruded down, some cracked, some broken, all fierce and dangerous.

She stared at the mask, her own eyes relentless in their vigil. Her mind was empty and all was quiet—save the whispers. They came to her like a wave, gentle at first; beckoning her closer. They called her further, louder. Another wave, a bigger crash. The cold rush filled her veins, tightening her muscles, yet slowing her heart in the anticipation. She could see it now; the battle ahead.

Kill them.

She saw the bodies clad in red, the ground beneath them painted the same. She saw their blades come close but missing white fur. Weapons clashed, teeth gnashed, and fangs found flesh. It ripped so easily and their screams silenced so quickly. It was not enough. She needed more.

Kill them...

Micheletto appeared, his smirk plastered on his face. He was laughing; mocking her. His hands came for her throat, but she was prepared. She had fangs now. She snarled and clawed and howled and bit his fingers. He still smirked, but his voice was in agony. Then Cesare was there and Lucrezia, too, and all the others. Her enemies. Her prey. They were all there, standing upon the mound of the dead. Ottavio. Federico. Petruccio. Mario. Paula. So many faces, silent, screaming, dead. She hated them. She loathed them. She had to get them. She had to rip their faces off; had to make them suffer as she had.

Kill them!

She obeyed, lunging and biting and ripping flesh. She tasted blood and hungered for more. She needed to do more; to kill more. The ocean of red around her wasn't enough; would never be enough.

Kill them! Kill them! KILL THEM!

She was brought back to the room, to the snarling wolf before her. It drew closer and closer. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe. She didn't want to. She did not fear the open jaws, the gaping maw. The feral howl deafening her ears was a lullaby as the wolf's jowls opened wider, the teeth curling around her head. She stared deep into the dark abys, and welcomed it.

KILL THEM! KILL THEM KILL THEM KILL THEM KILL THEM KILL THE—

"Mama?"

The voice knocked her forward, and Catherine sucked in air. The wolf's jaw was gone, replaced by the tattered hood, still in its place upon the mantle. It had never moved, but it left her feeling fuzzy. Empty, too. The rush remained, bringing her heart to race as she turned and found Diana at the door. Uncertainty was in her face, body slightly hidden behind the wood frame. Her gaze fell when her mother's eyes found her, but then looked up again—but only briefly.

"Diana," Catherine replied and waved for her daughter. "Come, what's wrong?"

The redheaded child hesitated before slowly walking over, fingers fumbling with her dress skirt, "Umm… I just… wanted to wish you luck. You're going to go take out a bad guy, right?"

"Yes, that's right," the woman hummed, lips curling into a strange smile as she stroked her daughter's hair gently. "We're going to hunt down one of the men who hurt your Mama. We're going to make him pay. He's going to suffer for what's he's done.

Catherine paused to cup Diana's face gently, firm eyes staring into wavering ones, "And I'm going to make sure he never touches you or anyone ever again. I swear, my little love. You won't have to be afraid anymore. That man is going to die tonight."

The redhead placed a gentle kiss to the girl's brow and then left, walking out into the main hallway and leaving her daughter there. The young girl stood still for a good while, fingers twisting her dress nearly into knots. Her eyes carefully—and slowly—looked to the white wolf mask to her right, but had to look away immediately. Her heart hammered and she moved her feet as quickly as she could out the door and down the stairs into the main area. Her mother was nowhere to be found, and it was, for the most part empty. Her father was there, though, leaning over his work desk. It was to him she went, and when he noticed her presence he turned to her. He smiled at first, but then frowned as he realized the oddness in her expression. He was by her side at once, taking one hand in his as he crouched down.

"Diana, what's wrong?" he asked softly, and as if the final blow, the young girl began to sob. Ezio panicked, pulling her to him and rubbing her back gently. "Diana? Diana, what's wrong? Are you hurt? What's happened?"

"M-mama! Papa—something—something's wrong!" she wailed, choking on her words as the tears flowed freely. Her father meant to say something—meant to tell her it was alright; that everything was okay, but in the end he couldn't. He never wanted to lie to his daughter, and, deep down, he knew if he tried to console her, that it would be a lie.

Something was wrong with Catherine, and Ezio no longer was sure he could help her.

-O-

Outskirts of Roma, Italy

The flicker of torches could be made out in the dark of the night, just barely cresting over the hill in the distance. It would be at least ten more minutes before the group of men were finally within range, and already the Assassins were ready. A quick round of owl-hoots rang out, sounded by Ezio from his position by his wife. A short howl was the reply, signaling they were good to go. The recruits were spaced out in the overlying cliffside mixed with old ruins, safe from sight and crossbow fire. They were close enough to throw knives, though, and strike from above with the Hidden Blade. Though their outfits were white, the moonless night made them near invisible. Only having adjusted their eyesight to the dark let them take note of the dirt road below, and the glow of red marking their targets.

It felt like an eternity before their enemy came into proper view. Micheletto rode at the front on his horse, head high and proud, and looking nonchalant. He appeared completely unaware of his predicament, as did his soldiers. They carried mostly swords and spears as opposed to bows, which was a welcome surprise, but they still had to be careful. All the Borgia rode horses except for two brutes at the rear, which meant they had to take down each steed or at least spook them off, lest their prey be able to run. Then the brutes would have to go first. Despite having more numbers, the soldiers might flee in the chaos, but they suspected Micheletto would stand and fight. He was too proud and confident to run with his tail between his legs.

That was the hope, anyways.

As soon as the first horse came close enough, the daggers flew.

Pained screams echoed through the night as one stallion fell, another bucked his rider and bolted, and others soon followed in suit. In the end, three horses died, some managed to escape with their rider in the madness, and at least five soldiers had been tossed One didn't get up, but the others staggered his way to his feet. The brutes already had their claymore and axe ready, more blades were drawn, and Micheletto somehow looked undamaged as he stood, though kept his sword in his sheath. He frowned in the dimmed light of the torch that had fallen. Soldiers converged around him, searching for their unseen enemy.

"Come out, Assassins! I know you're there," the man bellowed while the men around him fidgeted nervously. There was a bit of satisfaction in that as the Assassins moved in.

Catherine and Ezio had made it clear to their recruits to stay far away from the brutes—they'd never dealt with them, and they were difficult enough to take on even with their experiences—so they went after them instead. The others attacked the regular soldiers as they emerged from their perches, two of them landed down on soldiers, ending their life with a cut to the neck. They danced back into the shadows quickly while Ezio and Catherine duck and dove beneath the brutes' swings. The men grunted with the effort and their slowness gave the redhead the time she needed to get under their guard and shove the blade into the space between the chest and leg armor. Their shock stalled them, allotting her the room to move the blade to the throat, shoving the metal right into the jugular. He choked on his blood as he fell. Ezio's brute followed in suit a moment later, and the two spun on their heels to take in the rest.

Soldiers fell, one by one. Their recruits did splendidly, avoiding blow and making decisive strikes that brought down their enemies and kept them safe. Their training had paid off, and the Assassins formed a ring around their main target. They'd been instructed only to not let him escape—his death would fall to their Mentors.

"I was wondering when we would finally meet, Ezio Auditore," the man hummed as he entered into what light they had. His expression finally faltered, though, when Catherine came up beside him and pulled back her hood. "You survived. I admit, I am surpri—."

Before he could say more, her fist rammed into his face. Bones cracked and blood splattered across his tunic as he staggered back a step. He touched at his lip, the soft flesh broken and bleeding along with his nose, and laughed.

"Restrain him. Bring him to his knees," the redhead hissed, and the two Assassins nearest to him, Belloza and Piero, moved forward. The kicked the back of his knee in, forcing him down, and pulled his arms back. He showed no signs of concern, though, but rather grinned as he looked at the master Assassins.

"Finally come for your retribution, Lady Auditore?"

"You are beaten, Micheletto. You will die here," Ezio spoke up, stepping forward and extending his blade.

The man chuckled, almost ruefully, "A battle won, but you foolish Assassins will lose the war. You think yourselves invulnerable. So sure of your loyalties. You do now know the meaning."

"Shut up!" Catherine hissed, but her husband frowned and brought his hand in front of her.

"You are not a man of riddles, Micheletto."

"No, I am not. And you are not a man of wisdom. You must wonder why it was so easy, no?"

Ezio's frowned deepened, heart racing as his mind worked quickly. Now that he thought about it, it had been easy. The man on his knees hadn't even drawn his sword. The soldiers had put up a fight, so that hadn't been a fluke, but why hadn't Micheletto? Did he know it was a losing fight? No, that couldn't be. But why the cryptic message? Why speak of loyalties?

"Do you never wonder how we destroyed your home so easily? How we knew every one of your secrets? How we bested your precious commander, Mario?" the man hummed.

Catherine snarled as she struck him across the face again, "Shut up! You will not speak his name you fucking piece of shit!"

"Catherine, enough!" Ezio barked, earning a look of surprise. Before she could go on, he looked to the recruits. "Get your horses and whatever extra you can find. You two, take his weapons and get your mounts as well. We're bringing him back with us."

The recruits holding Micheletto nodded, took the man's blade, and hurried off, leaving the Master Assassins with him. They'd kept the horses further off to avoid the noise, so it would be a minute or two before they returned. Ezio glanced around, noting one of the Borgia's mounts wasn't too far off, looking to be in good health. He touched Catherine's arm gently.

Accusation was in her eyes, "Why?"

"He knows something. We need to question him before he dies."

Ezio knew she wanted to refute him; wanted to make the blow, but she managed to refrain—just barely. She was dying for the kill, and it made his heart ache. Still, there was a small flicker of hope in how she held back, though glared daggers at the man on his knees. He glanced to the horse, which hadn't bolted yet.

"I'll be right back," he murmured, and made his way for the stallion. Catherine, meanwhile, refused to move her gaze from their prey, whom regarded her for a moment. When he smiled, blood was smeared across his teeth.

"I had thought the Followers would have had killed you by now—having had their fun," he hummed, almost at a purr. Catherine's fingers twitched, lips pressing together. "But I misjudged you, it seems. You are more tenacious than we thought. Cesare was so sure he'd gotten rid of you. A pity…. I would have enjoyed your screams… Ah, but it has been you then—the one thinning the herds, no? We heard rumors of you. A she-bitch killing the wolves. Come for her vengeance. They took her dignity so she took their—."

Another punch. Another splatter of blood. The blow knocked him back onto his rear, arm braced on the ground as he spat out a glob of red.

"Come now, surely you can do better. At this rate you have barely done more than your commander, and look where he ended up," Micheletto went on. "Shame he was not any smarter than you fools—thinking everyone is so loyal to you… yet your people are so easily bought. Pathetic."

"Shut up!" she snapped, striking again, and this time a cut opened on his nose. Again, he laughed, lying flat on his back now as she stood over him.

"You lack finesse, she-bitch. Tell me, do you miss your child? Your little boy?" he crowed, and when her face went pale, he chuckled. "He's doing quite well, you know. Lucrezia sees to him every day; makes sure he will grow into a strong Borgia as he keeps to her breast.

She hit him again, and he only spat the blood out, grinning like a mad dog, "They named him Rodrigo, you know? After his grandfather. He'll grow up never knowing you, except as the enemy. He'll cheer when he sees your heads upon the ramparts."

Catherine did not punch him this time. She did not respond with snarls. Her eyes stared, unblinking, as her hands shook with rage. The fire within her grew unmanageable, and the whispers screamed in her mind. The fangs wrapped around her, threatening to clamp shut. Her breathing was shallow and slow, and her body moved closer. Arms extended out, reaching, and the man watched her closely. When he found her gaze and looked—really looked, he let out a laugh.

"Ah, and here I thought we were so different," he spoke as her fingers found his throat. He laughed even as she squeezed. He didn't fight it. He only laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed until he could not muster the breath. Her fingers squeezed tighter and tighter, eyes frozen upon his face as he began to struggle. His hands reached for hers instinctively, but her grip was firm and she ignored his groping at her face. The whispers came faster and louder and the world was silent as she watched his eyes bulge, felt his body squirm beneath her. He was dying. She could feel it. The very life was leaving him as she squeezed his throat tighter and tighter. Blood gurgled from his mouth, and a dark satisfaction filled her as she saw him pale; saw the irises begin to roll back.

"Catherine!" a voice shouted, and suddenly she was thrown back. She stumbled but managed to catch herself before she fell. Fire still flowed through her veins, but the look of horror, shame, and so much more gave her pause. Worst still, was the realization the emotions were all swirling in the eyes of her husband, who struggled for the words. Behind him, Micheletto coughed and hacked, sucking in much needed air. His tunic' collar hid his bruises, but his eyes were nearly as red as the blood in his mouth. He vomited the same color as he turned over onto his knees, still struggling to breathe.

"Why—why did you stop me!?" she rasped, the fangs leaving, but trying desperately to stay.

"Why?! Catherine, we need him alive! And that's not our way! We don't torture our targets! We—"

"Mentor, look!" Giotto shouted as he came up, horse's reigns in one hand, the other pointing to the hill their target had come over before. Torches were appearing, one by one, and in greater numbers. Soldiers. Many of them. Too many. Ezio cursed, and then cursed again when the same recruit suddenly yelped. The Assassin turned to find a dagger sticking into the recruit's leg, placed there by Micheletto whom had staggered up and away some. He was still pale and struggling but had his back to the incoming soldiers.

"I-I t-told you, A-assassin. A battle w-won. N-not w-war. W-we know—e-everything," he coughed and hacked, and Ezio's fear grew tenfold. He spun to his incoming recruits, whom had their mounts while Giotta pulled the dagger free. He hissed in pain but forced himself into the saddle.

"Fuck! Everyone, retreat! Go! Go! Get back to Roma!" he howled, and they did as told. It was just in time, as the soldiers on horses that arrived were coming too close for comfort. Ezio mounted and held his arm for Catherine to grab. She did so after a moment's hesitation to stare at Micheletto's grinning face. Once secured in the saddle, he spurred the horse in a fierce gallop.

He didn't dare look back as he and his recruits vanished into the night. He did not worry for them—save for Giotto and his wound—as they knew what to do. They would each find their own safe place to hide, and once the coast was clear, they would return to the hideout. It was the best way to protect the Order and their brothers and sisters, although, Micheletto's words struck the Assassin to the core. He had known they would come tonight. Oh, he hadn't said it outright, but Ezio knew. The Borgia knew they would be coming, which meant they did, without doubt now, have a traitor—perhaps even before the fall of Monteriggioni. The notion struck him to the core, and his stomach sank further than he thought possible. It was, truly, becoming too much. Worse still, the image of his wife, strangling a man—it made the bile rise in his throat.

The image didn't leave him as the horse slowed, its energy spent. They weren't far from Roma, but plenty far enough away from their enemies that the Assassin dismounted and paced away from the mount as it breathed heavily. He heard the redhead follow in suit, and he couldn't stop himself from turning towards her, his anger palpable.

"What the hell was that!? What were you thinking!?" he snapped, throwing his hands in the air.

She came at him with fire of her own, "Me?! What were you thinking! You should have let me kill him! I almost did it! I almost killed that bastard!"

"We needed him alive! He knew things—about what's going on in the Order! We have a traitor among us and he knew! And even then why would you strangle him!? That isn't our way! We're better than that!"

"It doesn't matter what he knew, he needed to die! They all need to die! I have to kill them! He—God, he talked about my boy—our son! He talked about him! Taunted me with him!" she howled, grasping at her head, eyes wild now. "That fucking bitch has him! She's coddling him like her own and that fucking bastard Cesare he—he's raising him as his own! They took him! They took our son! Our Mario! They have him!

Her eyes were raging with fire as she turned to her husband, "You should have let me kill him!"

"Not like that, Catherine! Never like that! It can't be for revenge!" he rasped, reaching forward, but she pulled away.

"It has to be like that! They have our son, Ezio! My baby! They took him—they took everything from me, and I am doing everything it takes to get him back! If it means using my bare hands to kill them, then I will! I will hunt down every single one of them and kill all those fucking Borgia dogs. I will turn Roma red with their blood if that's what it takes to get my boy back and make them suffer for it—for everything!" she howled, and if Ezio had managed to summon any hope for his wife, it shattered. This creature before him was not the woman he loved. This wasn't Catherine. This was something else. Some malformed beast consumed by despair and hate. This wasn't Catherine. It couldn't be.

"You don't mean that," he rasped, the words nearly catching in his throat. When she didn't answer, he spoke again. "You don't mean that. Don't you see what you've become!? You're consumed with revenge! You're worrying everyone and frightening Diana! Your own daughter! You brought her to tears, dammit! You have to stop this!"

Catherine's shoulders lifted as if she to shout back at him, but when he spoke of their child she shrunk back, as if struck. The fire hadn't been doused, however, but she no longer met his eyes.

"I have to get him back. I have to. And they have to pay," she barked, but her voice sounded weaker; her energy spent. "Either help me, or get out of my way."

Ezio couldn't speak. He didn't know how to—didn't know what to say. What could he say to her? That he would help her with this? That he would condone slaughtering mindlessly for revenge? He wanted his son back. He did. He longed for the day to have the boy in his arms and to put an end to the tyranny of the man who had nearly destroyed everything—but there was so much at stake. He wanted his child back, but the city was on the line as well. He could not put one life over so many, even if it was his own flesh and blood. He couldn't let himself become his enemies, either; he couldn't debase himself and mar what the Assassins were.

He was stuck, frozen to his spot. He could not move forward; could not go back. He didn't want to push her away—to lose the love of his life again. But what could he do?

He had no answer, and she saw it.

Catherine opened her mouth to speak, but changed her mind. Her lips sealed shut. She turned back to their mount and shoved her boot into the saddle to swing up. She met his gaze one last time, her anger now mixed with a kind of sorrow, then spurred the horse into a canter. She left him there, and Ezio didn't move for the longest while. Too much weighed him down, and when he did finally lift his feet to move, each step was agony. He barely registered where he went, only that he was returning to the city. His mind was clouded with so much, he couldn't recall how he made it to the stone streets, pressing through the small remnants of people leaving for their homes to sleep before the dawn came. He didn't even notice when he'd knocked on the back door to the grand villa or when he'd made it to the back room. Reality only crashed down when two gentle, warn hands touched his face. He blinked, slowly, and found his mother there, face full of worry. It was too much then, and all the torrent of emotions came out in a short sob.

He did not cry for long, but it was enough for his mother to embrace him tight, kissing his brow, and cooing to him gently as he shuddered and shook and wept for all that had happened. He did not speak for a long while, trying to work through it all, and though no more tears came after the initial burst, he felt ready to fall apart every moment.

"Ezio?" Maria called softly, taking her hand in his. She rubbed the back of it gently with her thumb and brushed his hair back—not unlike when he was a child. He did not meet her gaze, but he did look up, staring at nothing in particular.

"I'm losing her, Mother… Catherine… she… I'm not even sure I ever had her back anymore," he croaked and pressed his face into his hands. "She's… I don't know what to do. I don't know how to save her. I don't know how to fix this. It's so much. I want to save her, but I can't do it without giving into the madness. I can't. There's… there's so much more to all this. But—but I want to help her. But she wants revenge more than anything. I want it, too, but not as the risk of destroying everything. And I fear—I'm afraid that's what it would cost if… if we don't do it right. If we just kill blindly—if we just cut them down… when would it stop? How much blood will we spill before she's satisfied? I just—I can't do that to myself or to her. I can't do that to the Order. We have to be more. I have to be more. This city needs us, but she needs me. Or—or I don't… I don't know. I don't know."

Maria took her time responding, keeping her son's head against her breast as she soothed him as best she could. It was not easy, to see her son so distraught. He was always so strong—just like his father. He kept so much of the burden and loved so deeply. It made her own heart ache to see him this way—to see them both this way. It was a struggle no man or woman should face. Yet they did, and she only hoped she had the wisdom to help it.

"Ezio… do you… remember when we lost your father and brothers?" she began, and he looked up at her, brows scrunched slightly.

"Yes, I do… you were… we feared you had lost your soul."

"Because I nearly did, my son," she smiled softly. "The loss of Giovanni and my boys—your brothers, nearly broke me. I was so lost in those days—those years. I did not know how to live without him. I had been with him for so long, and to have my sons—my children—taken from me so violently… it was too much. I did not know how to save myself, and neither did you know how to save me… but you did not give up on me. You kept searching and searching until—at long last—you found the key to healing the wound in my heart. The feathers. You remember?"

A small smile appeared on his face, "I do. They reminded me of Petruccio… and you smiled when I brought them to you. Feathers won't heal Catherine."

"No… no, they will not, but my point is… you need to find out what will save her… and it will not be vengeance. You and I both know this to be true. Vengeance only poisons the wound. Makes it fester and swell and drive one to madness. You must find what was taken from her—what broke her so deeply to infect her so… and you must give it to her."

Ezio squeezed his mother's hands, thinking deeply, "I.. it… ah… our son. It's… it's been about him—our boy."

"A mother's love is deep. This I know all too well. You must help her get your child back," Maria nodded.

"But… but what if… what if that's not enough? What if we get him back and… and…"

"Do not do that to yourself, my son. Do not doubt. Only, do not give up on her—she needs you now more than ever. She will push and fight it, but she needs you—just as I needed you."

"God, I fear so much for her, Mother. I don't want to lose her again. Diana can't lose her again."

"I will pray for you my son… and wish I could more. I fear all I have is my wisdom," the older woman spoke softly, her smile weak and sorrowful. He returned it with a small, gentle one, and kissed her cheek.

"You do more than enough for me, Mother. It is just… a great deal to endure."

"Then stay as long as you wish—you need not shoulder it alo—," she replied, only to be cut off as the door to the secret room opened, revealing a young courtesan.

"Madame, Sir Auditore has a visitor—it is a thief, sent by La Volpe. He says it is urgent."

Ezio and Maria looked at once another for a moment, then his mother pat his hand gently, "Go on. Perhaps it is something good. Come to me whenever you need, I will ensure you have a safe place to be."

"Thank-you, Mother. I love you," he replied softly, kissing her cheek again, and quickly followed the young courtesan to the back door. There he found, indeed, a thief, whom was flirting with another girl. He straightened at once when he spotted the Assassin, though, and motion for him to follow. Ezio raised a brow, steeling his emotions once more, "What is urgent news?"

"Well, we actually found out this afternoon, but you were gone so we didn't get to you for a while there, but once we saw you come walking back in here—."

"The news?" he pressed, and the thief chuckled.

"Sorry, but don't worry, it's worth the interruption. You remember how you wanted us to find you a way into the Castelo?"

His heart raced, "Yes?"

The thief smirked, "Guess who found you a way in."

-O-

He's against you. He's like the others.

"No—no, he's Ezio's, he's not," Catherine rasped, pacing the floor of her room. On the vanity, the wolf mask sat on its mantle, unmoving and silent. The whispers continued.

He doesn't want to kill them. He's against you. He's like the others.

No. That wasn't right. Ezio was on her side. He loved her. He wasn't against her. He wanted to get revenge, too. He wanted to get their son back.

He stopped you. That man lives. He's against you. He's like the others.

No! Ezio did it for a reason. He would only do it for a good reason. Catherine knew it was true, even as her fingers dug into her hair, trying to reach the skin beneath. Her skull hurt, and her heart pounded too loudly. The whispers only made it worse.

Het stopped you. He got in your way. He's against you. He's like the others.

"No!" she hissed. "He's not! He had reason! He—."

He's like them. He's against you.

"No!" she snapped, turning to face the mask. It remained where it was. For all her denial, though, the burn remained. The scalding heat of Ezio's supposed betrayal. He'd let Micheletto get away, but she forced herself to remember why. He'd known something—something important.

He needed to die.

He did. God, he did. He should have died. She was so close. She felt him dying. Her hands were about to break him. He was going to bleed for her. She was going to have the first taste of her vengeance, but it was gone. Micheletto was gone. It wasn't enough, though. She needed it.

But Ezio wasn't against her. That was certain. The whispers relented in this, as they spoke again.

You have to kill them. Kill them. KILL THEM.

Them. Yes, she would kill them.

Ezio wouldn't, but he was still with her. He was on her side. He wanted their son back. Maybe he didn't want to kill them—not anymore. But she could do it. She would kill them. She'd swore it. She had to kill them. She had to. She couldn't be satisfied until she slit their throats. She'd get her vengeance and she'd save her son from them. She'd get him back, and she'd swim through the rivers of their blood.

But not yet.

It wasn't time.

But she'd been denied her prey tonight, and there was still blood to be spilled. The wolf's hunger was not abated.

Kill them.

Yes.

Kill them.

The wolf's mouth opened, and Catherine welcomed it. She pulled the hood from its mantle and slipped it over her head. She breathed in the stench, the smell of death and the hunt. It filled her, brought her back to the tunnels. Ah, yes. That sweet darkness she'd flourished in; where she'd had the first taste of it all.

Her true enemies were still out of reach, but the wolf needed to feed, and she had unfinished business in the dark.

It took a moment for the beast to consume her, and, with a slow release of air, she opened her eyes, and was Catherine no longer. She was la Lupe, and it was time to hunt. Escaping into the cool air was easy enough. Finding the gateway to the darkness below was even easier. She knew where all of them were and knew their walls even better. She was moving swiftly even before her eyes adjusted, and prey was abundant. They had not forgotten her, their screams and howls of despair echoing through the dark chambers. She either found them or they came to her. Regardless, she cut them down, but it did not sate her. She needed more and more and more. Her belly was deep and infinite, and no amount of blood could quell the hunger.

It did swell, though, as she came upon a different kind of prey. One she'd encountered before—one that had escaped. A sheep in wolf's cloth, pretending to be big and proud, but once her fangs bared they squealed and ran like a pig. Their feet raced and raced, but she never lost the trail, never lost the scent. She kept on their heels, nipping and snarling and biting; teasing and letting the lust grow. Only when the walls went no further—only when her prey had reached the end of their flight and hope was gone, flickering into nothing like the flame of the torch they'd dropped into the water—did her rage release.

Metal found flesh, but one blow was not enough. The pig screamed and squealed but it did not soothe her ears. She needed more, thrusting the blade again and again and again and again and again and again. Blood sprayed and splattered, and the screams, feral and wild and full of everything, never stopped.

It was only later, when the hunger ebbed and the body beneath her was still, that Catherine realized she was the one screaming.

19 – End

TMWolf: So. Like I said.

Intense. :'D

Catherine is a lil' crazy, just so we're clear. There's been a LOT of signs to this, though, and it's all been building since her trauma way back when. She has not gotten the proper help she needs, which is even harder to get in this time, and, well, she's a highly skilled and trained killer. You mix crazy with that, and, well... this happens.

Will she get better?

Guess we'll find out X)

P.S. This was a fun chapter to write lmao