TMWolf: Hoooo boy this chapter was a doozey. Not just writing it, either-editing it, too! I bet I still have a ton of mistakes haha. But this is a maaajor chapter and kinda the "main" climax of the story although there's a kind of mini one at the end, too. But, yeah. So! Got another chapter written in good time, so yay for y'all! Didn't have to wait as long this time, hehe.

As always, I don't own the canon, but do my best to stay true to it while writing my own thing :)

And also as always, thank-you so much for all your support and reviews! I'm so glad you're all enjoying this crazy ride and keeping me going with your kind words *all the love*

So. This chapter's title is from the game Journey - Nadir. It was a PSN exclusive, but an amazingly beautiful game. I highly recommend it and the soundtrack! The title also, for once, fits the chapter haha xD

Now onto the story climax!

20 - Nadir

June 30, 1501

Roma, Italy

It was nearly dawn when Ezio returned to the hideout. He'd seen a few of the recruits doing the same, all of them doing well. Only Piero and Giotto were missing, the two Assassins having banded together and sought a doctor to heal his wound. He was assured the man would survive, though, and ordered the others to lay low—until their next move. There was an exchange of curious looks, but they thankfully obeyed, and the Master Assassin was left to ascend the stairs to the rooms above. He paused at Diana's, peeking in to make sure she was still sound asleep. Thankfully, she was, and he let his heart rest easy—at least, until he noticed red on the door. Panic seized him, and it took effort to not break the door down to rush to his daughter's side.

To his relief, she was unharmed. Nary a scratch in her blissful slumber. There were no other spots of blood, either—only on the door, by the handle. He frowned, knowing there was no way anyone would have gotten in so easily. They had too many eyes, and Bartolomeo had graciously given them guards in the main foyer just in case. No trespasser had come in here. So, then who was it from? Surely not the other Assassins, they didn't know Diana that well and only Giotto was wounded enough, and he wasn't here.

Ezio used his Vision as he stepped outside his daughter's room and noted there were small flecks going from below to higher up—towards his room. His frown deepened, and his chest hitched.

Catherine.

His gut was sure of it, and he didn't know what he was more worried for: that she was hurt, or that she'd hurt someone. It was a strange and terrible thing to think about his wife, but he was no longer sure what to think about her. He kept his mother's advice close, but doubt was even closer along with fear and terror and sorrow. Was his wife still there, deep beneath the madness? Or had she lost herself in it, and she was something else entirely now? It made his steps heavy as he realized how hard it was to believe in the former. Yet, how could he not after what happened? After everything? He had denied it all this time, but he could do so no longer. His wife had suffered so great at the hand of the Borgia, and because he could not save her, she had lost herself. And because of that same weakness, he might not be able to find her again.

But until that reality became final, he would try. For all his doubt, he would fight for her. No matter how much doubt and worry plagued him, he couldn't give up. She never gave up on him. He couldn't dare call himself her husband if he didn't do the same.

Ezio held his breath as he reached his door, hand lingering on the handle. He closed his eyes, steeling himself for a moment, and pushed the door open slowly. It creaked softly as it did so and revealed a dark room. The sun hadn't risen, leaving the only light the twinkling of the stars in the night sky beyond the window. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, though, and first he saw the mask upon the vanity—the white wolf. Only, there were dark stains on it, making the fur look black. He repressed a chill at the sight of it, having wished to be rid of it from the first day, but he'd relented to Catherine's whim to keep it. He looked to his wife instead, who sat on her side of the bed, facing the window. Her head was lowered, gaze fixed on her upturned palms as her arms rested on her legs.

They were covered in blood.

Ezio felt cold as he forced his legs to move, inching his way over to her. She didn't look up at him; didn't even more. Her gaze remained on her palms even when he sat down beside her and realized there was blood on her clothes, too. A lot of it. She smelled like death. His doubts and fears ignited, and he feared he was too late all over again. After all, how could this creature here, so quiet and still she might have been dead herself, be his wife?

It took a long while before he could muster his words, "Catherine… are you… are you alright?"

It had been a whisper so soft he was surprised she heard, but she inhaled deeply, as if taking her first gasp of air. Her fingers twitched but didn't clench. Her eyes closed, then opened to glance at him, then back at her hands.

"It's not mine," she replied, voice as quiet as his—and weak. "I… went out. Hunted. I went after the Followers. I went into one of their lairs. I killed them. A lot of them. Then… I saw him—that man. He was a leader of the Followers. With the mask. The one who tossed me to them and left me to die."

Ezio looked sharply to her, heart beating fast. He recalled the night she'd returned to him—the moment they'd finally were able to lie down by each other again. She'd spoken of it; of being thrown to the wolves. He'd sensed the hate and loathing then. He could only imagine what finding that fucking bastard had stirred in her.

Yet, her voice didn't hold it—that anger. It was something else.

"I killed him, too. He ran, but I caught him… and I stabbed him. Again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. I finally made him suffer. He died knowing it was me. I finally got him after all this time. He's dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead."

"Did…" Ezio began, reaching towards her, but hesitated. His gaze fell to her hands, which trembled now. He looked back to her face and couldn't read her expression. His gut twisted as he asked for an answer he wasn't sure he wanted. "Did it… help?"

Catherine didn't answer at first, her breathing slow and shaky. Her shoulders slumped and when she breathed in, it sounded like a struggle, the words coming out in an agonized croak.

"No—or… I don't know. I hate him. Hated him. I wanted to kill him. I wanted it so bad. Now I feel… I feel…," she began, closing her eyes and clenched her hands. "Empty.

She paused again to bring her hands to her face, dragging her fingers down one side and up the other and through her hair, "It wasn't enough. I don't feel anything after it. There's nothing. They're still so loud, though. They want more. I want more. But it did nothing. I don't know what to do."

The madness was so clear. Who were 'they'? Why were they so loud? Ezio couldn't fathom it—couldn't even begin to wrap his mind around it. He only knew this was the true depth of the sickness plaguing her, and from it he was at least certain of a few things. Firstly, was that vengeance could not assuage her. Secondly, if it was not vengeance, then perhaps it really was their son she needed. The missing piece of it all.

And that gave him hope.

Perhaps his wife wasn't fully lost. She was still in there—fighting this; trying to come back. She wanted to be whole again but didn't know how; only that vengeance wasn't it. Or rather, she was beginning to realize it when it was all she'd had.

They could fix this. They had to.

"Catherine," he called softly, taking her hand from her face into his, squeezing gently. She looked to him, eyes wide and so unsure. "La Volpe's thieved came to me not long ago. They found a way in."

Her eyes widened a bit more, then suddenly became focused. A calculated expression overcame her features, and he was reminded of a predator on the prowl.

"Where? When?"

Ezio breathed in deeply as he considered his words carefully, "Catherine, I need you to listen closely: this is meant to be rescue—of our son and Caterina. But… both Rodrigo and Cesare might be there… and if they are, we will kill them. But only them. You cannot raise your blade to anyone else. We target no one else. Do you understand?

When she didn't answer right away, her lips pressed together tight, he pressed on, "Catherine. Promise me—promise me you won't kill anyone unless it's Cesare or Rodrigo. You can't do what you did back there—with that Micheletto. And the Templar woman. You can't become that again. That's not who we are. That's not who you are. We have to be better than them. We have to fight for something more than ourselves. We can't become them. We can't lose our way."

"What about guards?" she hissed, but there was little fire behind it.

"If they try to stop us, then we do what we must. But it will be done proper. It will be done quick. We do not torture our targets. Give them peace, and no more. We must give the same to Cesare and Rodrigo—we must. We can't linger for more or cause a commotion. Too much is on the line. We have to get our son and Caterina out safely. This is our only chance. We won't get it again. Now, please… Catherine, promise me."

He couldn't let her go down that path.

"I… okay," she responded, and he had to blink, surprised. It had come quicker than he thought, and he almost thought he was hearing things, but he hadn't been fooled. She'd agreed to it.

"I'll… I won't kill anyone—except Cesare or Rodrigo. If I see them I'll…," she went on, breathing become slow and shallow.

"We need to find Caterina and our son first. We don't know where they are exactly," Ezio spoke up quickly, to which she frowned. He reached up, cupping her cheek. She looked to him, and he swore he saw a glimmer of the woman he knew. "We'll get him back. I promised, and now we can do it. And then we can put an end to Cesare and the Borgia. We'll end this."

"Yes… finally," she breathed and squeezed the hand he still held. "When?"

This time, he relented, "In three days. He won't know we're coming. Not this time. La Volpe only told myself and his messenger."

"Good," the redhead murmured, and suddenly pulled away from him. He watched her, somewhat perplexed. She looked to him, then her hand. "I need to wash it off. I want Cesare to see me clearly when I cut his throat."

Ezio watched her go from him to the tub but looked away to lie down on the bed as she bathed. All the while, he prayed this was the right choice.

-O-

June 30, 1501

Roma, Italy

A crowd was gathered before the bridge leading to the Vaticano district—and the Castel. It was of moderate size, but mostly of nobles. No lower class had the time to watch the forthcoming display; none cared that the great Caterina Sforza, now naught but a prisoner, was going to be paraded down the cobblestones to her new prison. The higher ups, though, would revel in it, regardless if they approved or not. So long as it meant a show and they could join in the gaiety of the moment, cheering with their brethren and jeering their hated "enemy"—sharing in the spoils of the hunt. Such was the lull of the drink of victory.

But not all that gathered partook. Along the edges of the crowd, armed mercenaries stood at attention, but not too attentively. They lounged against walls, yawned here and there, and preened over weapons and armor. They had to look the part and they did it well. Likewise, courtesans danced and trilled, flaunting their breasts and succulent gifts in hopes of enticing any lucky—or perhaps unlucky— patron. That, and they might serve to cover the tracks of their allies; their Assassins.

The white-robed group was situated atop the roof tops, overlooking things. It would still be some time before Caterina arrived, and so Ezio and Catherine had brought their recruits to scope it out. They were short a man, but the mission would only call for the two Masters. It was too risky for their Brothers and Sisters, although they were now full-fledged assassins themselves. It would be easier with two moving, anyways, and their students could serve as cover on the way out. After all, there was no way they could escape the same way they were going in. Caterina could not climb as they did, and the child would make it cumbersome. And if their targets were there—if Borgia blood was spilled as the sun set in the distance, then Roma would be up in arms. Their remaining loyalists would take to the streets with their guards, and it could come to war, but the hope was that their own loyal allies could quell the flames.

The aftermath, they left for Machiavelli, though. The nobleman had not been pleased of the prospect of the mission focusing more on rescue, despite knowing the urgency. He was not unknown to the love of a child, having become fond of Diana, and he understood the logic of Caterina being an ally, and so helping her now would provide boons in the future. Yet, he was reluctant to put it above killing Rodrigo and Cesare, even if only for a moment. He relented, however, when the two Assassins swore to kill the men—first, if they could.

And now they waited.

It was agonizing, remaining up on the roofs, keeping silent as the heat bore down on them, although it was beginning to cool overall. Their Brothers and Sisters were anxious as well, eager to do more work after their first real mission, even if it had ended unexpectedly and not particularly in their favor. Ezio was also glad they bore no ill will towards his wife, whom he glanced at carefully.

Her face was stoic; impassive, really. He couldn't read it, and so he prayed she would keep her word. He'd made sure she wore only Assassin garbs, her new robes carrying a whiter and redder scheme as opposed to the blue, although he thought the latter suited her better. Regardless, it was, by far, countless times better than the wolf mask which sent shivers down his spine whenever he laid eyes upon it now. The thing was a curse, one he hoped might be lifted. Once they had their son, it might all be enough to bring his wife back.

"Movement—down the street," Alessandra spoke up, and all eyes moved. Sure enough, a carriage adorned in Borgia ornaments and colors and driven by their guards came rolling in. It wasn't Cesare's cart, unfortunately, but he had been seen within the city. He was most likely already within the Castel, so they would get to him eventually. For now, the Assassins focused on the carriage as it stopped before the bridge, and from it came the unexpected appearance of Lucrezia Borgia. Ezio felt Catherine shift beside him, her breath hitching, and eyes going wide. She was one of the ones who'd hurt his wife. She was also the one raising their son. She would know where he was, if she wasn't with him when they found either of the two.

"Hail citizen of Roma!" Lucrezia spoke, her voice booming in a surprising way. She held her head high, swaying her hips just so. It drew the crowd in as much as her voice and her prisoner, held by two guards. "Behold a sight most splendid! Caterina Sforza—she-whore of Forli—has at last been brought to heel!"

"Ha! No one kneels as low as Lucrezia Borgia! Who put you up to this? Was it your brother or your father? Perhaps a bit of both? Perhaps at the same time!" Caterina barked back, a spitfire despite her situation. It was admirable in a way, as was how gracefully she took the backhanded slap to her face from the Borgia noblewoman.

"Shut your mouth! None speak ill of the Borgia!" the blonde-haired woman snapped, and turned her cold glare on the crowd, which had quieted down. "The same will happen to any who defy us!"

"Good people of Roma, stay strong!" the red-haired woman cried out as the guards began to drag her towards the bridge. "You will be free, your time will come, I swear it!"

She could resist no longer then, and the two men holding her yanked her backwards. She nearly tripped, but kept on her feet—bare feet, in fact. They looked dirty and might have even had sores or bled at some point. There was no telling from here, and soon she would be out of sight. Lucrezia was already gone, having slipped back into her carriage. She did not walk but rode back to the Castel while Caterina was left on display for all the cardinals, guards, and nobles to jeer and laugh at, pointing and condemning her when she was, perhaps, their best ally.

"We can't follow them on the bridge," Catherine growled, noting the high number of well-armed men at each pillar. There were more still in the actual district, and they were even more highly trained. Worse still were the Papal guards—men who had trained for years upon years. They would be the most dangerous opponents to look out for, besides Cesare himself.

"We won't need to. Look—see the sections in the water? We can pass them and head to the side where the fence is being repaired. Just like La Volpe said," Ezio replied, gesturing so she could follow. He turned to the other Assassins. "We're going in. Remain here. We'll need you to cover our escape. You have everything you need?"

It was Jacopo who answered, "Yes, Mentor. Knives, smoke bombs, Blades, and swords. We're ready. The Mercenaries and Courtesans are ready, too. We've got your backs. Get your son and get that son of a bitch Cesare."

Ezio grinned at the man then looked to his wife, who nodded in acknowledgement. The crowd dispersed while the guards remained on the bridge. The Assassins moved out, the former recruits spreading across the rooftops to cover any and all angles—and perhaps get rid of an archer that might prove problematic—while the two master descended to the streets. There they quickly blended into the crowd, mingling their way to the riverside where they descended further to the water below. It was easy enough vaulting from stone block to block, and the tricky part only came as they met an array of poles, which served as their only means of crossing further. They waited to make sure no guards were happening to look over the bridge and began the arduous and careful hop from pole to pole until they reached the Castelo's walls. They quickly hid behind the brick siding, keeping out of the watchful eye of a pike man on the other side. The metal railing that would normally keep them out was gone for the repairs, making it an easy leap over.

"I'll get them. Cover me, though," he spoke softly, and while Catherine frowned unhappily, she relented. He couldn't help noticing she sheathed her Blade, having drawn it in the first place, but let it slide as he waited one second, two, and then made his move.

The guard didn't see him, nor his Blade, which pressed into his throat, silencing any shouts as he died, almost instantly. The Assassin moved quickly, muttering a quick "rest in peace" as he went, and took out the next guard relatively fast. The last finally took notice of his comrades falling, but he was stopped short of making a cry for help with a knife to his head. Another hit his chest, at the heart, and he went down. His work done, Ezio signaled for Catherine to come forth while he scouted around and found a ladder to take them to the higher walls. It was the only way to go, the main door locked tight and the windows either unreachable or also sealed. They ascended quickly, pausing at first to scan their surroundings again before moving once more, but then they heard a voice—a familiar one.

Catherine's skin crawled and her hair rose. She knew that voice.

"Cesare," she breathed, and the two ventured close to the decadent, iron rails that blocked them from vaulting the ledge, but gave them a clear view. Sure enough, Cesare Borgia was below them in the courtyard, but he was not alone. Micheletto was with him, his face quite the mess—a variety of shades of blue and purple, and parts of it swollen. He held himself well despite the marred visage. Beside him was the man Ezio had come to know to be Octavian de Valois, the one leading the French Armies. There was also a man in red robes with a white tunic underneath—a cardinal. He didn't quite know who he was, but he was Borgia. Catherine recalled such a man at the fall of her home, too, and that meant he would die as well.

"Forget the Pope, you answer to me. Roma is the pillar that holds our entire enterprise aloft. She cannot waver. Which means, neither can you," Cesare told them, his voice firm. Catherine suspected his gaze was like-wise, and she would have liked to rip the expression off his face.

"What of the Vatican?" the Frenchman inquired.

Their leader scoffed, "That tired old men's club? Play along for now, but soon we will have no need of them. Now, I must go and see to things before I head out once more. Bringing the rest of Italia to its knees leaves little time for some luxuries after all."

The Cardinal bowed his head as Cesare turned and left, and then chuckled wryly, "He's left us Roma."

"She'll be in good hands," Octavian snickered, his mustache quirking upwards with his lip.

"Just remember who she belongs to, Valois," Micheletto growled softly, but his target gestured uncaringly with his hand.

"You need not worry—Cesare will rule when it is done. Although, whether you will serve him I cannot say."

The Borgia dog snarled, "What was that?"

"What?" the Frenchman shrugged, not bothering to hide the mock in his tone. "You were the one beaten to a pulp by the Assassins and came running back, tail between your legs. You even had the advantage."

"You would know about tucking your tail—you Frenchman love running. Cannot see sacrifice and strategy when you do not know the meaning, either," Micheletto spat back, and his opponent stepped towards him, cursing loudly. He only got a foot near when the Cardinal brought his arm between them, stopping the conflict.

"Now, now, my Lords. We must not fight amongst ourselves. Not when the Assassins linger. Micheletto did as was needed of him, even if we did not achieve our desired goal. We have an understanding of our enemy now, though, so it was not a total failure. Regardless, we made our play, now we must hold onto Roma while Cesare makes his. If Roma is to be strong, we, as her protectors, must be even stronger, no?" he spoke calmly—almost sickeningly sweet. It worked, though, and the two men calmed.

"Yes… let the Assassins fight amongst themselves. They will never know who betrays them," Micheletto hummed, and the Frenchman shared in their laugh.

"Catherine," Ezio whispered from on high, reaching over to tough his wife's arm. She flinched noticeably—as if struck. Her eyes looked wild, her features taught, and her fingers clenched. He didn't need her to say anything to know; just seeing the men had driving her towards the madness; had unleashed the rage burning inside. He wrapped his fingers around her fist, squeezing gently, and met her gaze. She looked away after a moment, but it seemed to do the trick; her fingers relaxed—even if only a little—and she nodded. He breathed out, "Alright."

The only way up was to climb the wall. It was an easy feat, as was yanking the guard over the edge to a quick death as his head cracked against the stone. From there, though, things got a bit complicated. The inner workings of the Castel were not so easy to traverse. The main towers where they needed to be didn't have an easy jump to, and the gap to the ground from the higher floors made a for a fatal fall. There were countless guards, too, despite many being pulled out to serve under Cesare. Yet, it was manageable. They'd surpassed worse situations, but it was much slower going as they overcame each obstacle; killing guards when they needed and jumping and leaping from roofs to ledges before finally crossing a thick wire crossing to the main tower. There they clambered up to another ledge, this one large enough for them both to rest on. They needed only a moment or two, but it became longer as, from the window above, another chorus of voices.

"Cesare," a woman spoke, and they knew at once it was Lucrezia. They didn't dare peak over, for fear of being seen, but Ezio again noticed Catherine tense again. Her breathing was shallower, fingers clenched again.

"Lucrezia," her brother purred before both became quiet for a few seconds. "I hope you have treated our guest with kindness."

"That mouth on her… How I would love to sew it shut," the blonde hissed.

"I rather like it open myself."

Her annoyance was palpable, "Oh?"

He chuckled in response, "Have you talked to the Pope about the funds requested by my banker?"

"He is away from the Castel, and he might need some convincing when he returns."

"That should not be a problem, should it?"

"No," Lucrezia replied after a pause. "Only… it gets quite lonely here. You and I spend so little time together these days, busy as you are with your other conquests."

"Soon. Once I have secured the throne of Italia, you are going to be my queen," Cesare rumbled, voice low and husky, "and your loneliness will be a thing of the past."

"I cannot wait," Lucrezia breathed. Ezio couldn't help frowning with a twinge of disgust. To think—the two were lovers? It was unholy, and he was not much of a believer compared to most. He did not see the lure in such a man, either—not in the way he commanded his own sister to behave. That was not the bidding of a lover. No, what Cesare and Lucrezia had was not the same as he and Catherine. Not by a long shot.

"Fucking bastards," she hissed, fists shaking. Her eyes turned to him, a dangerous flare to them. "Rodrigo isn't here. Fuck. And now Cesare is leaving? God dammit!"

"Shh!" he hissed, coming closer. He kept quiet, waiting to hear any sounds of surprise, but there we none. "It was bad luck. We may not kill them now, but we will later."

"You keep saying that! They need to die now!" the redhead hissed back. The anguish in her voice struck him hard, and the wound filled with guilt. "Why—why do they keep getting away!? Why can't I kill them!? They took everything and yet—!"

Ezio brought her to him, arms wrapped tight around her. She clutched at his shirt, body shaking some, though not from tears or sadness. It was the anger and madness, driving her to this insanity. He wished he could quell it there and now, but he couldn't. He could only make his empty promises that he had no hopes of fulfilling—not truly. Not when she was right; not when their prey constantly eluded them.

"We may not kill them today… but we will get our son back. That we will do."

"Yes… yes, we'll get him back…," the redhead hissed, and though her words gave him little comfort, Ezio released his wife and they continued onwards.

The way was a bit treacherous, but their experience allowed them to overcome the climb to the next window sill, this one giving them a view into the prison. Through the slits they saw an armored guard, and closer towards them was the top of a head of full of red hair. It was no doubt Caterina, and even if they needed more convincing, the furious sight of Lucrezia suddenly storming into the prison was the nail in the coffin. She was like a bat out of hell as she nearly pushed the guard aside when he opened the gate. She made a point to grab an iron rod as she went.

"How was the journey to the Castel? Did you sit in Cesare's private carriage? I heard you rode in it on the way here to Roma, too," she sneered, but Caterina was not any easy woman to subdue. No, she sneered right on back.

"You are pathetic, Lucrezia," she snapped, and the blonde shoved her back roughly, eyes full of venom.

"What did he talk about? His plans for Napoli? Did you like it?"

"I cannot remember."

"Perhaps you will remember this!" the blonde snarled and quickly whipped the iron rod against Caterina's side. The woman gave a sharp cry, to which Lucrezia laughed at, "That put you in your place. Guard, lock the cell and give me the key."

"We need to hurry," Ezio grimaced and they pushed onward once more.

Their climb took to them to the very peak of the Castel, the city so far away and the sky seemingly so close. The setting sun shone down on them as they kept low and crawled along the stone stops towards the roofs. A few archers were in the way, but they fell quickly to knives and daggers. Next were the guards in the courtyard below, from which all but one portal was closed. By some stroke of luck, it was the very way they needed to go. The stairway descended into a lavish hallway, adorned in red tapestries and rug that ran all along the marble floors. At the center was an archway with a staircase that led further down—to the dungeons. Ahead was a path upwards.

"Caterina will be that way," the Assassin mused, turning to his wife. "Lucrezia took the key, but I don't know where she went… the guards may have another, though."

"I'll go on ahead. Our son will be higher up—where the family and guests stay."

He watched her carefully, "There's a lot of rooms to search."

"Then I'll ask the one who knows," she growled, low and dark, her fingers clenching; ready to unleash the Blade.

"I'll come with you," he spoke quickly, but she shook her head without meeting his gaze.

"We'll waste time. Go get Caterina while you can. I'll find Mario."

"Catherine," he called, and this time she did look. Fierce eyes found equally serious ones. "Don't forget."

There was a long pause in which his heart skipped too many beats, but then she made a sound; a grunt, if anything. But it was acknowledgement. Lucrezia was Borgia, but not their priority. Not like Cesare and Rodrigo. Although, it was hard to force himself to not want to see her harmed—not when she had brought pain to his wife. He had to be better than that, though. He had to only kill those that needed to die, and Lucrezia was not a threat to Roma like her brother was; not that he could see yet. She was a spiteful, hateful creature, yes, but he did not think she deserved death. Not today, anyways.

"Go, and meet me here," he spoke, and she nodded.

Ezio turned and started down. Catherine, likewise, turned, but went up. She did so slowly, straining her ears for any signs of movement. So far, there was nothing. It was a bit unusual for there to be no extra guards, but the Castel was less heavily staffed with Cesare keeping most of the men out to war. Still, she didn't let her guard down. Although, it was hard when she had to resist the urge to run instead of stalking like she was. For all her promises and nods of agreement, the calling was there. The whispers called in the back of her mind, and she wanted so badly to run the Borgia woman down and slit her throat. Or perhaps first she'd draw lines into her back—so she would never forget in the last moments of her life. She would pay for her sins, that Catherine was certain of.

The stairs gave way to a larger complex, one she didn't recall from her time here, or rather her short walk to her cage. It had an open canopy to the sky, and ornate walls that reminded her of a garden. There were flowers here and there, but thus far the only occupants were a guard on the far side, and—there. Lucrezia. And another. A man, but not Cesare.

Catherine narrowed her eyes as she kept crouched low and lumbered closer, readying her Hidden Blade. There were no other guards, though, giving her more freedom. It made the urge all the greater, but she resisted—for now. She wanted her prey alone. She wanted to enjoy the moment for all it was worth.

"I love you so, I want to sing it to the heavens," the man spoke, causing Catherine to pause. His tone was sincere, as odd as that was.

"Please!" Lucrezia gasped, reaching towards him, her voice urgent. "You must whisper it only to yourself. If Cesare found out, who knows what he would do."

"Are you not newly widowed?" the man inquired, truly perplexed.

"He killed my husband."

The man paled, "Oh."

"Cesare has always been jealous of my attentions," the blonde sighed, "but that should not deter us."

"No?"

"I will keep our secret."

"Lucrezia, your lips call to me."

Catherine's stomach twisted at the display. It was disgusting. This woman was a harpy; a succubus, even. She preyed upon men to feed her deplorable romance with her brother. She had dared to lord herself over the redhead, and yet she was the one so far beneath her; beneath everyone. Catherine hated her. Loathed her. All the memories returned in a rush—of her little spats; her attempts to strike her; the burn of the whip with every lash. It fueled the fire and her hands shook as she forced herself not to suddenly barge through the gates and cut her down. She needed the woman to speak, but by God once her tongue had spilled enough she would slice it clean off!

Catherine's blade loosened with a soft clink of metal against metal, but it was enough; Lucrezia and her secret lover suddenly parted from one another's embrace, eyes wide.

"What was that?" the woman gasped, gaze darting this way and that.

"I…" the man began, standing as he did, "am late for rehearsal. Farwell, my love."

He darted towards the hidden Assassin, whom crouched lower and against the gate's obscure portion. He never noticed her as she went, but the redhead remained still as the hidden guard suddenly approached Lucrezia.

"I heard the entire exchange, My Lady, and can vouch for it."

"Good," the blonde practically smirked. "Tell Cesare. We shall see how it feels when the shoe is on the other foot."

The guard bowed respectfully and left, leaving the Borgia alone. In her believed solitude she plucked a flower from the garden, regarding it closely. A wry smile came about her, and she laughed lightly as she began to pluck at the petal with a sigh.

"He loves me… He loves me not," she chuckled, almost ruefully. "He loves me… He loves me not… He loves me—."

"You do not know love."

Lucrezia spun with a gasp, face turning pale as Catherine emerged, Hidden Blade at the ready. She pulled her hood back in one fell swoop, and the Borgia's face went a shade whiter. The flower dropped from her grasp as she backed up a step. Catherine followed in suit, hazel eyes burning in the firelight.

"N-no—you—it—it cannot be! You are dead! Cesare said he was rid of you!" she stuttered, panic overcoming her. The whispers howled, and though the wolf mask remained at the Isola, she felt its fangs, nipping at her mind. Blood was needed to quench the thirst, and she imagined a good deal of blood would flow from that ripe bosom.

"I survived, you pathetic, worthless, she-bitch whore!" the redhead snarled, suddenly surging forward and shoving Lucrezia back against the gate behind her. She cried out in pain, but her guards were gone, and she had not the strength to fight the Assassin, whom grasped her hair tight, yanking it so her neck was fully exposed, and pressed the cool steel of her Blade to her neck. "Where the fuck is Mario!? Where is my son!? What have you done with him!"

"Nothing!" she yelped, her seemingly stalwart walls falling apart. Not even the Borgia pride could save her, the woman not a warrior like her brother or father or his dogs. Her only weapon was the hole formed by her lips and the one between her legs. "He's safe! With Giovanni!"

"Where!" she snapped, pressing the blade closer so blood began to trickle. The woman shook in her grasp, lip quivering as fear began to claim her. It was intoxicating, seeing the fear in her pitiful, dark eyes. To think, the mighty Borgia "queen" could be brought to crumble so easily. It was a sweet justice—the kind one could not resist drinking from.

"Through there! He's safe! Just please—don't kill me! Please!"

Catherine paused, a strange kind of rage coming over her. Her hand shook, and she threw the woman down, who cried out in pain. The redhead stood over her, teeth and fists clenched.

"You—you dare beg me to spare you!? After everything you've done!? Did you spare me when you took my home? Killed my people? When you murdered my Commander who I loved like a father?! Did you spare me when you took my son!? Did you spare me when you whipped me until I bled?! Why the fuck should I spare a sniveling coward who doesn't even know what love is! You are a disgrace! You are the scum of this Earth! You have never known love and you will never know it!" she snarled, each word a blow that made Lucrezia sink further and further into the stone. She shrunk ten sizes, becoming nothing more than a flea before the wolf's fangs. Catherine snarled as she crouched down, grabbing Lucrezia collar with one hand and putting the Blade to her throat. "You said the Borgia never forget. Well, the Auditore never forgive, and today you will pay for your sins. Then I'll come for your brother and your father and every fucking God damned one of you bastards who dared try to take my son and destroy everything I know! I will—"

"Catherine! Enough!" Ezio's voice resonated, turning both heads. His gaze was fierce, matching hers, but the latter's faltered. She recalled his words and her promise as he went on, "You've done enough."

"Where's Caterina?" the redhead asked, refusing to move her weapon or loosen her grip.

"The guards did not have an extra key. Lucrezia has the only one."

Catherine looked to the woman, who looked ready to break down into tears, "Where. Is. The. Key? Or shall I give you a pretty scar like you did me? I wonder if Cesare will still love you after such a blemish on that pretty face of yours."

"My dress—between my breasts!" she spoke quickly, earning a curled lip from the redhead. She dropped her collar to reach in and, thankfully, the key was easy to find. Catherine held it out to her husband, but instead of taking it alone, he grabbed the redhead's forearm and tugged her up. She looked at him, confused and angry.

"You promised me. This is not our way," he spoke softly as Lucrezia sat up some, breathing uneasily as she forced back her sobs.

"She deserves to die. They all do. She took him from us! She's one of them! She gave me those scars. I can't forgive her. I won't," she rasped, wrenching her arm free. "Don't take another chance from me."

"Vengeance isn't our way!" he replied, but to her surprise he didn't stop her as she grabbed Lucrezia's hair again, keeping her at her mercy. The woman let out a proper sob as the Blade came near. Ezio's heart raced, his fears growing and hope withering. If she killed the Borgia now—when her only true crime was the arrogance of nobility and a cruel lineage—then she was no better. "Don't do this, Catherine. This isn't why we're here—why we do this. You know that. You taught me that."

Catherine grit her teeth, his words calling forth the past, but the whispers were becoming howls. They hated him for it. They fought against him. They told her he was the enemy, too—that he was with the Borgia; that he didn't care; that he didn't want to kill them. Ezio wanted something else. He didn't want their son back. He didn't want vengeance. No, he wanted to stop her, but what could he do? Her neck was right there; the soft, tender flesh, ripe for the culling. All she had to do was stick the Blade in, and that would be it. She would bleed out before anyone found her, and oh God the despair it would bring her enemies. Cesare would lose a piece of himself, and Rodrigo would lose a daughter and an asset. The Borgia would feel the wound to the core, and all she had to do was push a little harder. She was helpless in her grasp—it would be so easy!

Catherine's hand shook, the howls so loud, and yet. And yet!

The rage had not ebbed, but the redhead brought her Blade arm down. Instead, she brought her face close to Lucrezia's, making sure she could see the hate in her eyes.

"That man does not love you, and he never will," she hissed coolly, and then slammed the woman's head against the ground. She didn't yelp as she lost consciousness, even if only briefly as she groaned in pain. Catherine ignored her as she stood and shoved the key to Ezio.

"Go get Caterina," she growled as she turned and made for the door Lucrezia had told her to go to.

Ezio's heart raced, "Where are you going?"

"To get our son," she replied plainly and without looking back. She feared if she did, whatever power kept her from slitting Lucrezia's throat would break and the fangs would lock around her own. Even as she left the half-conscious woman there, she wanted to go back and finish the job. She wanted to make her scream and cry and suffer, but she pressed on. Her son needed her more. Her baby. Her child. Her little Mario. He was here, just moments from her. The call to find him was nearly as strong as the screaming whispers, which grew louder and louder with every step. It was deafening and maddening, and her fingers clenched and unclenched as she made through the long hallway, the walls lined with tapestries and paintings but no other doors. No, the only door was at the end, thick, dark wood, and a metal handle keeping her apart from her goal.

It swung open with a groan and had there been anyone there—a guard or even another Borgia, she would have gladly stuck them. But there was no one; naught but an empty, large room. It had an entrance to another, this one with a much larger adult bed and furniture as such. It looked to be the room of a woman—Lucrezia's, no doubt. The notion made her skin crawl and a low growl escape her lips. It faltered at the sound of movement, and from the other room a woman appeared. It was a maid, whom looked with surprise as she breathed in sharply.

"You—you did it. You survived," she spoke, disbelief paramount. The words tugged at memory, and it was only a moment before Catherine remembered. The maid. The midwife. The one who had helped her during the birth and given her time with her son. The woman who gave her the potion to keep the Followers from doing more.

She was also the woman who did nothing. She'd done nothing to stop the Borgia. She let them take her—let them hurt her. She let them take her child from her! And her potion? A lie. It had only saved her for a night but cursed her for a life time. She was no ally. She was like the Borgia. She was like all the bastards who had hurt her and her family. She deserved to be punished, too. She deserved to suffer.

Kill her! Like the rest!

It took everything for the redhead to scream back at the whispers, telling them that wasn't true. The woman had helped.

It was so hard, though.

"Where is my son?" she rasped instead, muscles tightening. If the older woman sensed the danger, she didn't show it as she stood aside.

"He's in here—sleeping. He has remained safe, and in good health," she replied, though it did little to assuage the howls. If anything, they grew worse, demanding she take her vengeance—her pound of flesh. Blood had not flowed; the coffers were empty. The hunger needed to be sated.

Kill her! Kill them all!

She forced her legs onwards, the thought of her son giving her the strength to hold on to herself—to ignore the callings that threatened to pull her under. The fangs were biting at her ankles and wrists and snapping at her neck. They grasped her mind and dragged and pulled her back, but she pressed on and on and on; every step heavier than the last. She crossed the mantle, though, and stepped into the smaller room, a crib at its center. Her mouth felt dry, her tongue catching in her throat as she came closer and closer. The whispers screamed and wailed, clawing and scraping and biting as she finally, at long last, could look upon her child.

And then—silence.

The whispers were gone, her mind quiet after so long, and in its place was the small, rounded face of her child. His hair had grown dark and thick in the months apart, and his cheeks were a bright pink and a bit pointed on the edges. He was a good size, although perhaps a little small still, but he looked healthy and strong. And he was right there. All she had to do was reach, but that felt an insurmountable task. Her hands were heavy, and her arms were like lead. She could barely bring her legs to take another step, and yet she found her glove but inches from the child's soft face, eyes closed shut as he slept soundly.

Catherine sucked in air she didn't know she needed as she surpassed the distance and felt the solid flesh against her glove. Her hand cupped his cheek, and then his head, and then he was in her arms and against her breast. Her heart beat a million miles a second, unable to believe this was real. Everything was so quiet and still, her child's breathing louder than anything else. It was proof, she knew. Proof he was alive and real. The feel of his body against hers was real. His soft cheeks and even softer hair were real. The light, soothing scent about him was real.

She'd found him. Her Mario. Her dear, precious boy. He was in her arms at last. At last.

"Oh—Giovanni, no wait—!"

Catherine spun around, eyes wide as she caught sight of the young boy at the door, having passed the unsuspecting maid. She grasped his shoulder, though, which he did not shrug off, but did not move away, either. His gaze was upon the redheaded woman, and the child in her arms. The fear and disappointment were all too clear, but there was something else—perhaps relief, or a strange acceptance. Either way, he became crestfallen, head falling briefly, and then met her gaze, more resolute.

"You've come for my little brother, haven't you? You… you're going to take him away… aren't you?"

Her mouth was dry as she nodded numbly, "Yes… he is my son… and he does not belong here."

"I… I knew you would. I knew… but… but even so… I… I'll miss him… He… I…"

"I'm sorry. I know you were good to him," she spoke, voice soft, and an odd sensation of guilt overcoming her. Oddest of all, was the lack of the burn she'd become accustomed to. This child was a Borgia, and yet she recalled no foul thought of him; no enraging memory. She only knew sadness and kindness, and so she felt it for him now.

"Yes—I protected him. Just like I promised. I was a good big brother," Giovanni went on, sounding strong, but his eyes were watering. He clutched at something under his shirt, which seemed to give him a new strength. He pulled a chain over his head, placing the item into his hand, and then held it out to Catherine. Her heart skipped a beat this time, eyes widening, as she saw it.

The Clock. Her Clock. Cesare had given it to his son, and now the boy gave it back to her.

She could barely believe it was real as she reached for it and took it gently. It was real, though, and solid. It was cool to the touch, but she remembered the feel of it beneath her gloves. It was the very artifact that had brought her here.

"Please, give it to him—to remember me. I don't know if I will ever see him again," the boy smiled sadly, a tear trickling down his rounded face. Catherine's stomach twisted, and she looked to the maid, whom met her gaze.

"You… you could come with me, Giovanni. I could take you with me. You would be safe," she spoke, looking to the boy again. His eyes widened, and he considered it for a moment as he clutched his shirt tightly. His lip quivered as he thought, and, for a moment, she thought he would agree. When he looked back up, though, she saw a different kind of resolution.

"I… I can't. Auntie… she needs me still. Grandpapa, too. I… Father and Micheletto frighten me, but… I am still needed here," he replied, but it was not entirely no. In her arms, Mario made a soft sound. Catherine stroked his head gently, which seemed to calm him, and thought quickly herself.

"If… If you decide to leave… you can come find me—my people. People like me. We can help you. We can get you out. We'll keep you safe. I promise."

His eyes went wide again, "Your… people…? But… but how? How can I-I find you?"

"I may be able to help you with that, my child," the maid spoke up, stroking his hair gently. "When you feel you can stay no longer, come to me. I will make sure her people can find you. But for now, you must go, little Giovanni. You cannot linger here, and neither can she. Time is running short, do you understand?"

The young boy looked back to Catherine and the baby, "Don't let him forget me… okay?"

"I won't. I promise. And… thank-you—for being a good big brother to him," the redhead smiled gently, which she received in kind. Then the maid ushered him off, and he did so quickly, tears rolling down his cheeks faster now. When he was gone, Catherine regarded the woman carefully. "Who are you?"

"Only know I am an ally… and that you must leave—quickly. I gave the boy a drought to sleep through until morning, so he will not expose you by accident. But I cannot prevent the guards from finding you. Now, go, my Lady. I will look after Giovanni. And… I pray we not need to meet ever again—at least here," the older woman smiled, sparing the redhead one final look before wandering off the same way the young Borgia had gone.

Catherine was alone then, her child in her arms. It was strange, holding him there, and the silence it brought. She had not known such emptiness, and yet it was a soothing kind. She didn't know emptiness could be soothing, yet there it was. She only lamented she could not linger on it, forcing her legs to move and keep her child as steady as possible against her breast.

No guards waylaid her on the way back, and Lucrezia was barely regaining consciousness—her arms moved, and body shifted—as she went through the gardens. Emptiness was replaced with worry and urgency in those moments, and panic and fear kept her blood pumping hard. There was some relief when she came to the hallway and found her husband at the bottom of the stairs. Caterina was in his arms, her leg swollen and red even in the dark room. There was another with them, as well, much to her surprise. It was a young man, although an adult, wearing prisoner's rags, and looking like he'd seen better days. He had dark eyes and hair, long and unkempt, and a thick beard growing. Most of all, though, was that he was so familiar. She couldn't quite place him, so she looked to Ezio, whom did the same, and then gazed at the bundle in her arms. They went wide, but there was relief there, a look which she shared. She raced down to him, revealing the boy just enough. Now that she was closer, she could see the other man, and had to blink twice.

"No… It… it can't be… Federico?" she breathed, and the young man smiled weakly.

"Yes… it is me, Auntie."

"How?"

Ezio smiled at his nephew, "Turns out the Auditore's are better at surviving than the Borgia thought."

"I heard Uncle talking with the Lady. I managed the strength to call out, and, thankfully, he had the key," he chuckled tiredly this time, then noted the babe in Catherine's arms. "A child?"

"Is that—?" Caterina gasped, finally noticing as well.

"Our boy. We'll have to do a proper reunion later. We need to go," Catherine replied, and no one argued. Though not in the best of shape and incumbered, the motley group hurried out into the outer walls of the Castel. Ezio had to set the Lady of Forli down to open the gate, which left them waiting in countless, tentative moments, but then they were rushing through to the stables. Ezio set Caterina upon a readied horse, and then helped Catherine up onto another. He slipped behind her, allowing her to keep the child close to her chest while he handled the reigns. Federico, like-wise, hoisted himself up behind Caterina—she helped him as best she could—but let his riding partner take the reign in his stead. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, as if his life depended on it. In that moment, it probably did.

"Hurry!" the duchess called, alarms starting to ring out from the Castel. "And you, boy, hold on tight to me!"

"Way ahead of you, my Lady," Federico chuckled as he rest his head against her shoulders, all his strength going into holding on.

"Ride across the bridge! Our allies will cover us!" Ezio bellowed and urged the horse into a canter.

Catherine pressed back against him, keeping as steady as she could while holding the child. The drought did its work, though, as he barely stirred as they raced through the open gates and onto the cobbled stone of the side path of the Castel to the main bridge. It was encumbered with guards, Cardinals, and pedestrians, but they all either moved or were shoved aside. It mattered little, although there was a cry to rally from behind. The guards would be converging to follow after them soon, but the Assassins and Lady Forli had little to worry about. Just as they passed the bridge in full and made towards the Isola Tiberina, a wall of smoke suddenly burst into existence, creating a walk of grey. It was enough to give the guards pause, but only for a moment before they moved forward again. They only got a step or two before they had to stop once more, a lone figure clad in white emerging from the smoke: a hooded man with a sword in his hand.

"Who the fuck are you?" the lead guard, a man adorned in black armor, snapped, brandishing his weapon.

"The liberation of Roma has begun!" the man bellowed, turning even more heads than the wall of lingering smoke did. "No longer will the Borgia be allowed to do as they please! Too long has their voice gone unanswered, but no more! The people will not tolerate your crimes against them! No longer will we let you brandish your swords and claim what is not yours! We are the Assassins and we fight for Roma! Today, we emerge from the shadows to fight! Today, the Borgia's will rule freely no longer! Today, the peoplewill rise! Long live Roma!"

Behind him, four more figures emerged, shouting the very same and brandishing a wide array of their own weapons. One moment, the groups were at a standstill—the silence and tension so thin, a simple prick of the knife would cut it. In this case, it happened in the form of a dagger into the chest of a guard. The scream erupted into carnage as the Borgia charged against their enemies, and their white-garbed attackers did the same.

"Slaughter them all! And you! Mercenary! Come here now!" the leader clad in black snapped to one of the warrior groups to the side. The "leader" of them raised a brow but sauntered over nonchalantly. He regarded the leader with a raised brow, sparking ire in him. "Don't just stand there, you bastard! Get in there and attack those sons of bitches! The Borgia comma—gah!"

His words were cut short, a long sword stuck through his abdomen. He gasped in agony, blood dribbling through his helmet from his mouth. He looked into the dark, cold eyes of the mercenary, whom smirked.

"Funny thing is… we don't take orders from you. Love live Roma, you fucking cock suckers," the man snarled, using his leg to shove the Borgia off his blade. "And long live the Auditore. Men! To arms! Defend the Assassins! Make Bartolomeo proud!"

His call was met with a thunderous roar as all the mercenaries joined in, weapons raised only to be brought down upon Borgia skulls. It was chaos as blood spilled across stone, screams echoing across the sky. It was a revolution, and the city of Roma would never be the same.

Yet, such an inferno was unknown to the pair of horses and their riders as they rode hard through the streets, skirting around guards. It was perhaps a miracle none bothered them as they went, or perhaps it was simply the commotion at the Castel that kept them all busy. Either way, the riders were relieved when the hideout came into sight. Any citizens still out in the night gasped in shock and surprise, while others called for a doctor already—allies of the Assassin, if only in secret, but allies all the same. A stable boy came to grab the mounts' reigns while their riders dismounted, Federico practically falling as he did so. Caterina helped him up, although she, herself had a bad limp on her right side. Ezio was careful as he helped Catherine down, keeping her close as he gazed down at the round face of the babe in her arms. He could not muster the words as he reached out, thumb gently brushing the pink cheeks. He did smile, though, so wide it made his own cheeks turn a different shade.

"We should get inside," the redhead spoke softly, but she, too, had a small smile about her.

"Yes… Yes! Yes, we should," Ezio laughed lightly and moved to his nephew and the Lady of Forli's side. Caterina assured him she could shuffle her way in on her own, but Federico required a bit more help, his body too exhausted from his ordeal. The Assassin could barely imagine what the Borgia had done to him, but he had more bruises than he could count, and both old and new wounds littered his flesh. He looked gaunt, too, his cheeks sunken in some, and he had lost a good deal of weight. Ezio prayed he would live through the night, and that the Doctor would get here sooner. First, though, they needed to get inside and away from all danger.

With the Assassins gone, the hideout was essentially empty, which surprised Ezio some, but he paid it no mind as he found the nearest chair and set Federico into it. He grabbed another for Caterina before hurrying to get food and drink. Catherine, meanwhile, stood off from the rest, staring down at her babe. She hardly noticed her husband coming to and from, bringing what he could to soothe their allies. She didn't even hear the doctor come with his assistant and tend to her nephew right away, listing off the several things wrong with his body. No, all she could see and hear was her child and the soft breaths he took. She could only notice how he was alive and well, and how quiet he was—how quiet the world was.

It was so strange. So very strange. She had not known this kind of peace; to be able to think, and to do so clearly! Her mind felt her own, the howls and the whispers so far away and the fangs even farther. Yet, the absence was not left alone. No, so much else had been pushed aside, dammed up, and now it flooded in. It crashed and slammed into the walls of her mind and heart, and the memories struck her to the core. The things she had done and seen and endured—the chaos she had justified in her madness. It brought her knees to the hard stone, shocking her bones, and breaking her will. Her strength began to fail her, the weight of the world and her actions on her now.

With a heart-wrenching cry, Catherine began to sob. She held her child close, the babe undisturbed in his slumber as his mother let loose the tears. The streams tore down her face and wouldn't stop. There was just too much and the fire that had kept her going—gave her the strength to fight and rage—was gone. It had been doused and only sorrow, guilt, joy, and relief remained.

Even as the arms of her husband found her, pulling her into his chest and cradling her as she did their son, the tears came. She wept and wept and sobbed until the last of her strength that remained was spent and she collapsed into Ezio's chest.

It was then, for the first time in an eternity, Catherine did not dream and did not hear the whispers.

20 – End

Act II

End

TMWolf: And that ends this chapter and the second Act! :0 As I said, this was the main climax for the story, and, uh, it's probably obvious why. I took some major liberties with this game mission, as I felt it was a good time to do it. That, and I wanted the Assassin babies to be badass, and for Giovanni A. got some badass moments, too (he's the mercenary that stabs the Borgia, btw xD).

But, okay, SO. Catherine crying is a big, big deal. If you hadn't noticed, she has not cried ONCE since being found, not even during their reunion. She's finally releasing a lot of the hate and seeing what she's done and realizing all the terribleness and it's a LOT to deal with like that. And she's just finally feeling the weight of everything that happened. So, yeah. The crying is a big, very good sign.

Also, in case you missed it... some of the events in the preceeding chapters were foreshadowed by the Apple! :'D I suggest going back to the chapter she gets forced to use it to see for yourself hehe ;)

Anyways... so Act II ends, which means the next Act is leading towards the end game. But it won't end too quick! I expect the story will end with 40 chapters, which uh, I did NOT mean to do lol! But it happened and I don't mind, and things are going to get way more complex and expanded on. So woo hoo!

But for now... some sweet times coming, so breathe out folks. The worst is over!