Chapter Text
Asphodel hadn’t been to Forli since she was a young girl, having traveled there with her mother and father two weeks prior to their deaths, and it was nothing as she remembered. The streets were lined with women weeping about their unfaithful husbands (who the redhead pleasured in beating), the coops were teeming with assassination contracts from all across Italia, and there were plenty of messenger jobs to keep her distracted from the storm brewing within the borders of her skull. If she slowed down, she thought of her uncle, and if she thought of her uncle, she would be lost to despair and rage. The Apple was safe, they were safe, that was all that mattered.
They’d only been there two days before everything went to shit all over again, however, and she spent seventeen hours at Ezio’s side tending to his wound before Niccollo finally arrived. He delivered a letter that bore the seal of Helen’s family, and she knew it was only going to get worse. Her bottom lip quivered as she unrolled the parchment and held it up to read:
Η γιαγιά άκουσε τα νέα για τον θείο σου από τον Νικόλαο.
It was a little strange to look at the Greek equivalent of her cousin’s name written in the script of someone from her family. Just how connected was Niccollo? How had she never noticed?
Ο ξάδερφός σου είναι καλός άνθρωπος, λυπάμαι και για τους δύο σας.
Helen had always been exceedingly kind.
Η γιαγιά ανησυχεί πολύ για σένα, τι σκοπεύεις να κάνεις; Αν σκοπεύεις να μείνεις, δεν θα σε κρίνω, αλλά θα χαρούμε πολύ να σε έχουμε σπίτι. Το σοκ των ειδήσεων για την Έρκολε έκανε τη γιαγιά να καταρρεύσει. Ξέρεις πόσο δραματική μπορεί να είναι, είμαι σίγουρη ότι δεν υπάρχει λόγος ανησυχίας.
(TR: “Grandma heard the news about your uncle from Nikolaos. Your cousin is a good man; I'm sorry for both of you. Grandma is very worried about you. What do you plan to do? If you plan to stay, I won't judge you, but we'd be very happy to have you home. The shock of the news about Ercole made Grandma collapse. You know how dramatic she can be, I'm sure there's no need to worry.”)
She slammed the paper down on the table to her right and cussed aloud, emerald green eyes landing on Ezio’s comatose face and filling with tears, “They want me to leave you… How can I leave when I do not know if you will ever open your eyes again?” The redhead brought her right hand to his face and ran her thumb over the scar on his lip, sobbing, “Ti prego, amore mio, apri gli occhi, anche solo per un istante, giusto il tempo di dirmi che mi senti.” She cursed herself for staying in the city with Machievelli, wishing she’d known what was going to happen, “Or wiggle your nose, please.” (TR: “Please, my love, open your eyes, even if only for a moment, just long enough to tell me that you can hear me.”)
Caterina was a gracious hostess, and her children were a welcome delight. They took turns bringing her food, asking questions about her journey, and her daughter even asked for lessons in self-defense. It was heartbreaking, such a young girl having to face the reality that she was in danger and at an utter disadvantage, and Asphodel accepted so long as her mother agreed. She did.
The redhead liked Caterina a lot. She was the first woman she’d met like herself in Italia. Versed in hunting and camping, and no stranger to using vulgarity to get her point across, the woman quickly became a close friend.
“You need to get out, my friend.” She said on the third afternoon of waiting for Ezio to stir, “And not just to work.”
“All I know is work,” the redhead mumbled, running a cool, damp rag over Ezio’s forehead when she noticed he was sweating, “If I am not working, this is where I need to be.”
She chuckled knowingly, leaning against the wall behind her, “Have you decided if you’re going back to Grecia?”
She nodded, “My grandmother is dramatic, but if it is serious, I do not want to lose her and not try to say goodbye. Besides, it’s traditional in my family for the heir to give the final send-off.”
Caterina nodded, sitting beside her on the bench and grabbing the journal she’d been writing in, “I am sorry you’re going through so many uncertainties at once, God knows the Templar bastardi must relish in the pain they cause…”
“If they don’t, there’d be no fucking point to it.”
“Well said.” She nodded, reading over the page she was on, “And what are you reflecting on today?”
“It is only a hunch, and God knows the worst thing about hunches is when you’re right,” that rang true painfully as of late. A mere worry that her uncle was a traitor, and it turned out he was more than a monster. “But, I heard some of the merchants talking about the Ottoman Empire putting more pressure on Grecia, and I have been cataloguing their supposed activities when I have a quick moment between contracts. If they are planning to tighten their grip, I fear for Mystras.”
Caterina read each note carefully, humming thoughtfully every few moments, “If you would like, I can ask around, confirm some of these things.”
Asphodel sighed, grateful, and nodded, “Please, it would be greatly appreciated.”
“Good.” The contessa rose and checked her teapot, “I will have more tea brought to you. Are you hungry?”
So hungry, but had not the stomach to stand it at the moment, so she shook her head, “No, thank you, Caterina. You’re too kind.”
“Nonsense, you protected my city, you threw yourself between my children and danger.” How was it she made friends so easily now? Asphodel could not remember when she’d transitioned from being an outlier of society to someone who could be known fondly. “Housing you, and the man you love–the man who brought my children back to me–is the least I can do.”
She left without another word, and the assassin resumed her focus on tending to Ezio. Alone again, the woman spoke, “I am sorry I spent so long choking on my words, my love. I have so many things left unsaid because I still don’t know how to speak. Not really.” She picked her journal back up and returned to writing, “I wish I brought the letters I wrote you while I was in Mystras, but I… was afraid. Afraid that you would not like who I had become, afraid that who I had become was too different from Luna that you would not even recognize me.” Asphodel began to make a list for Caterina, “Killing people, even rotten people, takes a part of your soul, and I was afraid that they had robbed all that was good in me.”
She sighed dreadfully, looking at the awning over their heads, “I have loved you since I was five years old. Can you believe that? How embarrassing.” Asphodel laughed softly, a breathy and sad sound, “I wanted to talk to you so bad, but I couldn’t figure out how to make my words come out. I still have that problem, albeit not as severe as before.”
Niccollo came later, as she was gearing up to patrol the perimeter, with news that he’d gotten Leonardo (and the machine she still hadn’t been able to try) back to Venezia safely, and walked with her as she strolled through the ramparts, “Ercole has locked himself in his rooms.” He informed her, watching her carefully as she went over her notes again, “Are you sure it is right to spare him?”
“If it was his time to die, cugino, he would have dropped dead the moment he exposed his treachery to us,” Asphodel sighed, turned the page in her book aggressively after crossing something out with her coal-stele, “I truly believe he still has a part to play in all of this.”
In truth, she didn’t believe she could kill her uncle, or decide that he had to die, for that matter. She would never forgive him, but killing him would only alert the Templar that she was onto them; she wanted to prolong their ignorance as long as possible. If she had to force her uncle into being a proper spy for the assassins and use him until he could not be used anymore, so be it.
Better to make him miserable with what he’s done until he dies of old age.
“If you say so.” The man sighed, nodding in agreement at this. “The girls are headed back to Naples to their mother for the rest of the summer; they’re safe.”
“Good,” she nodded, smiling as she allowed relief to wash over her. “That’s good.”
“And what of you?” He asked finally, unable to keep from doing so any longer, “Are you going back to Grecia? I would not blame you, after all that has happened, it would be arguably the best option. Safer.”
“I am not returning to hide,” she snapped, looking at the starry sky, “nor am I returning to stay. I will not leave him after promising him my heart.”
“I wasn’t saying that!” He quipped, narrowing his eyes at her, “Calm down.”
Deflating, she nodded, muttered an apology, and whispered, “I don’t want to leave before he wakes up.”
“It’s at least a four-week journey to Mystras, Asphodel.” This startled her, and she gave him wide eyes, “What?”
“Did you just call me ‘Asphodel?’”
“That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“I… Nicky, that’s my name, but please–call me Lunetta.” The woman devolved into sobs as the darkness rushed forth, and he barely caught her as her despair took her to the ground, “If you stop calling me ‘Luna,’ that means everything about my family is dead.”
He held her tightly, like she needed to be held together, and kissed the crown of her head, “Okayokayokay, I won’t do it again. Lunetta, it is.”
She nodded, sobbing harder, and allowed herself to be held together, “What am I going to do?” Her voice was rough with, “What am I going to do if I’m right again, Niccollo? How could I leave Mystras if my grandmother is dying and my family is in danger?”
“You will do what’s right, my girl,” he patted the back of her head, running his hand over the red hood to soothe her, “Just as you have always done, just as you always do.”
“And if doing what’s right means leaving behind… everything?”
“You will always have a home in Italia, Luna,” He gently coaxed her back so she would look him in the eye, speaking fiercely, “There is nothing you could do that would change that.”
She wanted to say there obviously was something, as Ercole had shown that even assassins are fallible to Templar influence, but she knew there was no point for two reasons. The first being betrayal by her just wasn’t possible; she made her choices carefully, and where she staked her loyalty would not be changed easily. And the second was simply because Niccollo would have rolled his eyes.
“Let us go back, you’re pale and look dreadful.” He ushered her away, “It is time to eat, Lunetta.”
Asphodel stalled for two more days, filling a journal she’d purchased with notes for Ezio front to back, and staying by his side every moment she could spare. At the end of the second day, he opened his eyes and mouth long enough to rasp for water, to which she responded by kissing the breath from his lungs (and helping him sit up long enough to drink). He gave her a tired smile and drifted back to sleep, and the redhead knew it was time.
Habitually, she removed any trace of herself from the area and hid the journal in his robes that she’d had redyed before striding over and pressing her lips to his forehead, “Ti amo più di quanto tu possa immaginare e tornerò da te.” Her voice broke, and she fell to her knees, kneeling at his bedside as she rested her forehead on his forearm, “Non so quando tornerò, ma spero che mi accoglierete ancora... chiunque io sia.” He frowned, as if knowing what was happening, and her heart broke clear down the middle, then into trillions of tiny little pieces that collected in the pit of her belly. She then took off her sister’s necklace, eyeing the metal skull before placing it on the small table beside the water pitcher, “I am so sorry Ezio. I’m so selfish. I’m the fucking worst.” (TR: “I love you more than you can imagine, and I will come back to you.” & “I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I hope you’ll still welcome me... whoever I am.”)
Asphodel stood abruptly and turned, facing east, planning a route to take across the tiled plains, “You will tell him?”
“Of course, despite popular opinion, I do not believe in wastefully breaking hearts,” Caterina frowned, watching her friend vault over the ledge of the roof and disappear into the thick shadow of night. She would not hear from her again until over a month later. When she got the letter that Xanthe of house Blooming Shield, Asphodel’s grandmother, was dead. She walked over briskly, yelling after her silhouette, “Vittoria agli Assassini!”
Asphodel smiled, mounting Aetios and muttering in agreement, “Vittoria agli Assassini.”
Her ride to Venezia was largely uneventful, but she did encounter a bandit camp that had no idea who they were dealing with. Seven men surrounded her when she set up camp for the night, leering at her body and how ‘foolish’ it was for her to be traveling alone. At first, she ignored them, knowing that most men were deterred by the silent treatment and cold shoulder, but when it became clear to her that they meant to ravage and rob her, she could no longer control her temper.
One wouldn’t be able to blame her, especially in light of the things they’d been saying. But, it was the circumstances of her life that made it most difficult to remember they were only stupid, stupid bandits with nothing going for them but their ability to intimidate. Imagine their surprise when she unsheathed her weapon and screamed, “Well? WHOSE FIRST, THEN?”
Ezio would have been exceedingly proud of her; only four had to die, while the other three wisely fled. She did not give chase, not wanting to waste her energy and not wanting to hunt to replenish it. If she could make it to the city with the little food she packed for the journey, that meant preserved energy and more money to resupply the ship for their journey back to Grecia.
She looted their weapons, liking the mace of one of the brutes, “Not too heavy,” she swung it experimentally, testing how much effort she’d have to expend to swing it around, “but heavy enough to cause some serious damage.” The redhead swung it again, tilting her head to the side, “What do you think, Aetios? Shall I keep it?” The stallion neighed and shook his large head, making her hum thoughtfully, “No? You don’t think so?” She eyed it a moment longer before casting it aside, “You’re right, I prefer a sword anyway.”
When she boarded her ship the next day, Niccollo was waiting for her with a letter, “I collected it from the coop by Antonio’s yesterday morning. I believe it is for you.”
The woman smiled and took the message from him, her heart leaping into her throat when her green eyes landed on the seal it was stamped with, before clutching the paper to her chest and sobbing in relief. He’s alive, she thought, he’s awake. For all the tragedies she’d had to endure these last weeks, the fact that Ezio was feeling well enough to write her kindled the dying hope in her heart.
Asphodel was so close to losing him as well, so close to being all that was left of her childhood, and of course, he pulled through. He didn’t have to say that he’d never leave her like that; the woman felt that promise in the way he’d touched her. She felt that promise in the way he said her name when he was asleep.
There was nobody else who mattered more to her than him. She would swim clear across the Adriatic if he asked it of her, and all he was asking was that she return.
Of course, she would.
…
Helen met her in Nauplia, beaming as she watched her cousin walk down the pier, and bounding over to sweep her into her arms. “Chaíromai pou írthes, prinkípissa Asfódeli, i giagiá eínai cheiróteri apó ó,ti nómiza.” Apshodel hugged her back, tightly, as she rolled her eyes at the title. Not a princess, she thought. Helen rubbed her back, squeezing her tighter, “Prépei na viastoúme, o Léon periménei stin pýli gia na mas afísei na boúme.” (TR: “I'm glad you came, Princess Asphodel, grandma is worse than I thought.” & “We have to hurry, Leon is waiting at the gate to let us in.”)
“Waiting at the gate, huh?” Her red eyebrows shot up, “So it is as I feared. The Ottomans mean to tighten their control?”
Helen nodded, “We have been dealing with several thorns in our side in the months since you left. Though, from what I hear, you have as well.”
Apshodel spat at the memory of her uncle and the men she’d killed, feeding Aetios five more apples before mounting him. The horse had fared well during the voyage, mostly because of her spoiling, and she was glad to have him with her. She then changed the subject, “You said grandmother is worse than you were thinking?”
She nodded, “She’s been bedridden since her collapse, and has come down with a fierce fever that nobody can seem to break.” Helen’s blue eyes watered, “She keeps asking for you… You have no idea how happy I am that you’re here.”
“I’ve lost enough family without being able to say good-bye,” the redhead muttered curtly, glaring at the space in front of them, “I would not make that choice.”
Nodding, the blond fell silent and sighed gently. All Asphodel could think about was sitting down at her desk in the barracks and writing to Ezio immediately; he’d asked one thing of her, and she didn’t want to be distracted from it for long. However, she knew she needed to see her grandmother first, and planned to do just that.
…🌑...
Ezio woke the next day feeling cold and downright dreadful, and Caterina waiting at his bedside was not what he was expecting, after Asphodel kissed him like he’d been resurrected before her eyes. And when she informed the man about his lover’s grandmother falling ill, his stomach sank, and he mumbled dejectedly, “So, she had to leave.”
“She didn’t want to.” The contessa stated sadly, looking at the sky as she remembered the fair amount of tears the woman had shed. Asphodel had despaired, and it was a stomach-turning sight, “And that is not all. She fears for Mystras’ safety; it will not be long before the Templar know that she is merely using Ercole D’este.”
As sad as it was, he was not surprised and could not blame her. He would be doing the same as she. That somehow made it harder. For all the love they had for each other, for all their willingness to commit, they would not be each other’s first priority before they were ready. He was still chasing justice for ghosts, and she was trying to hold two families on her shoulders while one actively tried to destroy itself.
They weren’t ready to be committed, but God, they wanted to be. He’d never wanted anything more, and she only ever wanted him. It was the same dance they’d been playing for more than twenty years. Close, closer, closer, but never close enough.
“Thank you for your hospitality.” He stood and began to dress, frowning as he pulled a leatherbound journal out of his pocket that he knew was not his. Well, until he opened it and found the beautiful handwriting inside it:
To my best friend, to whom I promise my heart to the end;
My champion and my source of inspiration.
Ezio ran his fingers over the penned dedication, bottom lip quivering as a small smile quirked his lips. I am her ‘champion.’ He thought, closing his eyes and nodding; those were not the words of a woman that left for nothing. Not the words of a woman who intended to commit to anyone but him. No matter when it happened.
And, somehow, she got her payback and left him with nothing more than a written message. Then, she reset the bar and wrote him a book. He closed it and faced Caterina, “Could I trouble you for some parchment? I need to write a letter.”
“I will have my stationery brought up,” she smiled at her finger, watching curiously as the man looked down at the signet ring on his finger, before leaving without wasting more time.
He hoped he could get a pigeon to Venezia before she boarded her boat and returned to Grecia, and was excited to use his ring for the first time. When someone brought what he needed, he settled with something short, but sweet:
Stai attenta, ti amo, mio Fiore di Luna. Scrivimi non appena torni a Mystras. Thank you for the book. (TR: “Be careful, I love you, my Moonflower. Write to me as soon as you return to Mystras.”)
He folded it and sealed it with red wax and his ring, stamping the melted wax firmly and furrowing his eyebrows when he felt a strange texture on the inside of the band. Once the wax was set, he took the ring away and held it up in the sunlight to inspect the inside of it, and his jaw dropped. An engraving, simple and direct: For Matteo.
Asphodel had gifted him a fucking heirloom. And not just any heirloom, for that matter, it very well could have been the only thing of her father’s–that she remembered on his person–that survived the fire. The redhead continued to outdo herself with these grand gestures, amazing and heartbreaking as they were. (Ezio would cherish this gift until his death). He brought the iron jewelry to his lips and kissed it lingeringly, whispering, “Come home to me.” He then slid it back on and rose to his feet. A short trip to a pigeon coop was in order, and he was sure he could manage that in his condition. “Bene. Iniziamo.” He muttered to himself and stepped onto the ledge, “No more stalling.” (TR: “Okay. Let's begin.”)
The next day, Niccollo met him in the city as he was intercepting a Borgia courier, looking as miserable as Ezio felt, and offered to take him for a drink. “How are you feeling, my friend?”
The older man asked, hiding the body in a nearby haystack, when he noticed Ezio struggling. He wasn’t firing at a hundred percent, yet, but soon he would not be so obvious. The younger assassin shrugged, “Physically, I am fine…”
Niccollo nodded, understanding him without Ezio having to say anything at all, and ordered them both a drink, “Lunetta should be getting to Venezia around this time, and her ship has been waiting for her since she arrived.”
“Her ship?”
“Well, her grandmother’s ship, Luna’s crew?” He shrugged, “Her family is a military superpower. That is why their rites are different than ours, because we are assassins, but house Blooming Shield is built with soldiers. Luna’s skill shines on the sea and on the battlefield because that is what she was made for. Leading a crew is the final stage before becoming a maestro.”
“Fascinating,” Ezio chuckled, thanking the barmaid when she set down their wine, “How came you by this information?”
“I am very good friends with her grandmother,” the man chuckled, “I was the only from the D’este family to send my condolences following Marina’s death, and again following Selene’s.”
“Huh,” Ezio scoffed in disgust, “I hate your father.”
“Likewise,” the men shared a laugh, “he’s a bastard.”
Over the next hour, Ezio informed him of all that he remembered after being stabbed, and when he mentioned a man without a finger, Niccollo’s face drained of color. “Which finger?”
“The pinky; why?”
“Because Luna took that pinky the day he shot her off Aetios’ back.” He downed his wine and slammed the cup down, “His name is Girolamo Savonarola.” He had a name now, that was more than he had to begin with, “Oh, she is not going to be happy when she finds out about this, Ezio. She was already mad enough for staying in the city while you were out there alone, but adding Shitface to the mix? Did he stab you?”
Ezio shook his head, “No, that was Checco Orsi.”
“Oh, grazie a Dio.” Niccollo sighed in relief, “My cousin can be… less than respectful of the dead, or dying, in cases of revenge.” He clapped the man’s shoulder, chuckling, “I cannot imagine what she would have done to him if he’d shot her, then stabbed you.” (TR: “Oh, thank God.”)
Knowing this man’s name only left him with more questions. Was he Templar? Was he just a crazed civilian who happened upon the Apple? If it was the former, how had he managed to lie in wait after already being targeted by the assassins once and not reveal himself? If it was the latter, was he drawn to the tempting device and corrupted before he even touched it? Ezio couldn’t figure it out.
How did this man fit into all this? How was he going to give the bastard a respectful death when the scar on Asphodel’s breast said he deserved nothing short of a painful death? He was sure it would be impossible. Savonarola had tried to kill the love of his life.
He’d pay for it.
Ezio found the necklace when he was packing his things the following morning, the sight of it glinting in the red rays of sunrise halting him in his tracks. His throat felt tight as he walked over and gently plucked it from the table, bottom lip quivering, “Avrei dovuto seguirti, mio Fiore di Luna.” He kissed the metal eagle skull and sobbed, sitting down on the ledge, “Avevo giurato che non mi saresti mai più mancato... eppure eccomi qui.” (TR: “I should have followed you, my Moonflower.” & “I swore I would never miss you again... and yet here I am.”)
“You still could, after you recover.” Niccollo’s voice startled him, and Ezio leapt to his feet to give the man a wide-eyed look, “We have no leads on Shitface, and she may need our help.”
“I–”
“Chase her across the seas, Ezio.” The man smirked, tilting his head to the side, “I dare you.”