Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt.2

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Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.2
Fill Only

Welcome to the Brotherhood

∆ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.

∆ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.

∆ One request per post, but fill the request as much as you want.

∆ The fill/request doesn't necessarily need to be smut.

∆ Don't flame, if you have nothing good to say, don't say anything.

∆ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.

∆ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!

List of Kinks
(Livejorunal) Archive
#2 (Livejournal) Archive
(Delicious.com) Archive
(Dreamwidth) Archive <- Currently active
Part 1
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Fills Only
Discussion

Comments

In Name Alone 43/?

[(Anonymous)]

Cesare didn’t seem to mind that she had more or less punched him directly in the gut. His thumb and forefinger held her wrist, exerting just enough pressure to keep it in his grasp.

“Don’t,” Lena muttered. He was right. Her face was scarlet. She could feel the heat of those guilty splotches burning through her flesh.

“Tell me you acquired this in the heat of passion.”

This wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to feel butterflies flapping around frantically in her stomach or shrink under the hot stab of his gaze. Lena met his eyes, reluctantly, not certain of the glint there was a remnant of his pain or a flash of possession. She feared the latter, hoping dearly for the former.

“We quarreled,” she answered softly. “But he didn’t mean to grab me so hard. It’s nothing.”

Cesare frowned, deep lines cutting into his chin as he inspected the handprint on her wrist. “A man should know not to hurt a woman. Only a brute would treat a smaller creature so roughly…”

“A smaller…? I can handle myself, Cesare, thank you very much.”

He wasn’t listening.

“If I see him in this house again, so help me, I will cut him down where he stands.”

Lena snorted, tugging her wrist out of his grip. “You have neither the strength nor the blade,” she murmured, “and lest you forget, I have ready access to both.”

“Now why would that be?” he asked, canting his head quizzically to the side. A cursed feather of inky hair fell across his eye, so smooth and black it looked like the down of a raven.

Lena realized she was still leaning over him, her hand precariously balanced on his stomach. She sat back down onto the mattress, slowly pulling away from him. “You know why.”

“Ah yes, me.” Cesare laughed, tossing his head like an errant stallion. “One wonders if the world has tipped upside down when the delivery boy oversteps his bounds and the Borgia you hate springs to stop it.”

Smiling sadly, Lena couldn’t help but nod. “I had wondered that myself.”

“And to return to your previous question,” Cesare said, folding the blanket over his exposed legs. “I care because I prefer to be fussed over by a woman and not an old man who smells of foot cheese.”

“Michelangelo is capable,” Lena replied with a shrug. “More capable than me.”

“And rather more pungent, as I said.”

The prolonged silence that fell between them did not unnerve Lena until she began to feel the heat of him through the blankets. She ought to go… somewhere. But that was a lie. She was supposed to look after him, not run away at the first inkling of personal discomfort. After enduring many sleepless nights worrying about his oozing injuries and his disastrous fever, simply sitting in his company should’ve been a welcome change.

It wasn’t.

“He never sent them, you know.”

“Hm?” Lena looked up, disconcerted to again see his gaze resting on her with so much eerie insistence. She wondered if that was a conscious thing, or if he looked at everyone with such quiet intensity. “Who never sent what?”

“The artist,” Cesare replied. He nodded discretely toward the desk. “The poems. They’re still there.”

“How do you know?”

“I looked.” He grinned, wickedly, and Lena felt it echo like a cramp in her gut. “See for yourself.”

“He’ll return any moment,” Lena protested, though her eyes slid to the desk and the mountain of papers thereupon.

“You might copy them,” Cesare suggested lightly. “I’d much rather learn to read on those.”

“I am not teaching you to read with… with smut.”

“It isn’t decent for a grown man to read about farm animals all day.” Cesare’s arms shifted to his chest, and he pinned her with another petulant stare. Lena glanced away, worried that she would cave to that look if she wasn’t careful. She would absolutely not spend all afternoon with Cesare Borgia reading scandalous poetry – make that scandalous, ill-gotten poetry.

“It isn’t decent for you to pry into someone else’s private affairs, either.”

Cesare sighed, deeply and dramatically, rolling his eyes in a way that made Lena feel two feet tall.

“Are you always such a miserable bore?”

In Name Alone 44/?

[(Anonymous)]

“Bore!” Lena lurched up off the bed, knocking one of the vials to the floor. “Those poems aren’t meant for you… or for me… And frankly, the content and the fact that he hasn’t sent them means Le – whoever they’re meant for probably doesn’t return his affections.”

Cesare sat up straighter, a wide, cheeky smile spreading across his face as Lena’s heart sank, like a stone, to her toes. Shit.

“Minx! You know who they’re intended for, don’t you?”

“Of course not,” Lena replied flatly. “And I’d appreciate it if you used my name, or doctor, or something else other than minx.” She pulled a face, retching silently in her hand.

“You almost said a name!” He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through the mattress and into her backside. “Tell me!” Cesare tried to reach for her arm but she withdrew. “Come now, what is a little fun between friends?”

“No,” she stood, gathering up her supplies and striding around the bed to the desk. The letters scattered there were too numerous to completely ignore. “I am not your friend, Cesare. I am your doctor, remember that.”

“That is no way to treat an injured man…” He pouted, doing an impressive impression of a wounded puppy. “Please, tell me. I can keep a secret…”

“Tell him what?”

Lena froze, swiveling her head an instant later to find Michelangelo watching from the doorway. Cesare coughed into his wrist. Her supplies safely set down, Lena threw up her hands and stomped across the room, shoving Michelangelo aside as she fled.

“Teach him to read, you said. It will help his memory, you said. Ché perdita di tempo! There is no teaching an animal.” Lena dodged Michelangelo’s shoulder as she ducked by.

“But I thought you needed me,” he muttered, confused.

Lena plucked a stray twig from her hair. “He’s fine, unfortunately. Dio I need a bath.”

End of Part II

Part III

In dreams he learned about his former life, but only in the vaguest of terms.

Women figured prominently, though no faces materialized and stuck. He would hear their voices, teasing with laughter, flirting with him until it became a torment. No eyes arrested him, but now and again he’d feel a hand brushing suggestively over his wrist or a warm body pressing insistently into his from behind. And if he let go, if he stopped trying to dwell on who they might be or what significance they held, those wicked hands would do more, undress him, caress him in a direct and familiar way. These women knew him, or knew his body, and in the delirious fog of his dreams, they played him skillfully until he had no choice but to give in, and later, reciprocate.

In the end, when he woke, only the tiniest remembrances lingering, he felt chilled. Clearly, he had known these obliging ladies intimately and yet none mattered so much that he could recall their favorite color or the way they wore their hair.

And it became embarrassing, troublesome, when his brain – lacking for past images – began to draw on the present. Those flirtatious smiles became more nervous and staid, attached to a sun-kissed face with a pert, pretty mouth and eyes that didn’t glance but prick. When he was touched, it was not with the light, skittering fingertips of a girlish lover, but the practiced and steady motions of someone accustomed to feeling bodies but not adoring them. Her explorations took time, too much time, to the point where he felt himself scrabbling for his last vestige of restraint. How he wanted to teach her. How he craved to be the one holding the knowledge and not receiving it. Perhaps he could not remember how to love a woman but he knew how, deep, deep down, in bone and sinew.

Worse now, the dreams, worse now that he had seen Lena coming in from the fields, grass stuck in her hair and her cheeks blooming with exercise. A pretty flush extended down to the tops of her breasts, which strained delightfully against her bodice.

In Name Alone 45/?

[(Anonymous)]

Until then it had been easy, well, easier, to ignore her gilt hair and the bright intensity of her eyes. She almost shone, as if a day out in the sunshine had polished her to a stunning gleam. Just a smile, just a blush… it enhanced the parts of her that were dulled when she sat for hours in the gloomy house, fretting.

He woke to the sound of heavy footsteps and sat up to find a most unwelcome guest entering the house.

-~-

“You’re giving up on him then?”

Lena deflated, having anticipated that a quiet, drunken night on her own was too good to be true. She turned at the waist as she clung to the porch banister for support. Silvia stepped out from the kitchen, sewing in hand, and padded over to the rocking chair behind Lena. Company. Excellent. Just what Lena didn’t need.

“Just for the night,” Lena said, swigging carelessly from her wine bottle. It burned with cleansing fire on the way down. “God only knows why I’ll try again.”

Silvia laughed hoarsely, her legs creaking as loudly as the chair as she took a seat. “He upsets you because you let him.”

The darkness, purple-black and complete, obliterated the forest and the meadow. Nearby, she heard the goat munching dry grass with slow, lazy chews.

“Who knows how long it will take his memory to return,” Silvia said, tucking into her needlework with a contented sigh. “You will only make yourself miserable if you fight him every step of the way.”

“I’m not fighting him,” Lena replied quickly. She spied a dark indigo shirt in Silvia’s lap. A new project, judging by the scant threadwork edging along the collar. “He’s impossible. He may not remember his past, but he certainly still possesses the Borgia insolence.”

“Indeed,” Silvia murmured. “How dare he have a personality?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Lena drank from the bottle again, wiping fretfully at her stained lips. “I just wish he didn’t derive so much pleasure from causing me pain.”

“Pain? Hardly, child. He makes a joke or two at your expense and you call that pain?” Silvia chuckled, rearranging the shirt in her lap. “When I was a girl, there was a neighbor who followed me everywhere. He would throw stones when I tried to bring in the family dogs. He would spy and find the places where I liked to hide little childish treasures. He would steal my things, taunt me, mock my skinny legs and my flat chest…”

“Let me guess,” Lena slurred, “he was really in love with you.”

“I never found out.” Silvia stopped working, the shirt falling in a hushed pile on her thighs. “He was kicked dead by a horse. Right in the head. Nobody followed me then. Nobody stole my things or called me names. I missed him after a while, you know? Perhaps he was spiteful, but I mourned him. Nobody else paid me so much attention.”

“And what kernel of wisdom shall I pluck from such a story?” Lena turned, leaning diagonally against the banister. She didn’t trust her wobbly legs or swimming head. “I should appreciate him, should I? It could be worse, mm? It’s better to be insulted than to be ignored?”

“He’s reaching out blindly, child, for whatever handhold he can find.” Silvia picked up her work again, both brows lifting toward her hairline as she added, “You have not offered your hand to lift him up. He has, I think, decided to defend himself accordingly. He senses your disdain, even if you do try your best to hide it.”

“He deserves far more than my disdain,” Lena grumbled, turning away. The coolness of the night washed over her but it wasn’t enough to chill the heat rising in her face. “I just… thought… when his memory failed him... I suppose I thought he would be one or the other, an angel or a devil. As it stands, he’s neither.”

“Few of us are.”

In Name Alone 46/?

[(Anonymous)]

Lena wanted to listen. It might be easier to strive for peace in the house. They could all be happy and hold hands, but she knew that wasn’t right. He might show his true Borgia colors at any moment. It would be much harder to do her duty and stick a knife in a friend. No, she had to keep her distance. Even if she had glimpsed behind the evil mask, even if he wooed her into complacency… How much heavier the burden, to kill a man she thought redeemed? If she remained neutral, if she bricked off the part of her that yearned to delve into the mischief she saw in his eyes and the warmth he doled out with measured self-consciousness, then she might stand of chance of emerging from this mission with a whole and happy spirit. Ezio might call for her return tomorrow or the next day. He might end her work in Spain in a few hours or a few weeks. Lena had to prepare for a life that did not include the cottage or Silvia or Michelangelo or their strange charge.

“I think I’ll read for an hour or two,” Lena announced, polishing off the bottle and wandering toward her chamber.

“Sweet dreams, child,” Silvia called after her.

“And you.”

She swept into the cottage with a drunken fog settling over her thoughts. Everything felt so twisted up. She had half a mind to track down Lucio and lose herself in a mindless fling. At least then, held or kissed, she might escape the dark, consuming eyes that followed her everywhere. Lucio’s touches could replace the brand on her fingers, the remembrance of an inconveniently warm and firm leg and the whorls of coarse, black hair that had tickled like feathers beneath her fingertips. Unfair, how desire could wage a winning war against sense and instinct. More unfair that she would have to endure the night in her bed with nothing but a stomach full of wine and a head stuffed with untenable yearnings. Even fantasizing felt wrong; such indulgences could usher in more unwanted feelings.

Voices. Candle light. Cesare was supposed to be asleep. Lena roused herself from the depths of her swirling thoughts and deposited the empty bottle on her dresser next to Lucio’s wilted roses. She tiptoed clumsily to the curtain, bracing against the doorway and edging her toes away from the pool of light on the floor as she listened.

“I’m here to see Lena,” someone – Lucio – was saying. “I have no quarrel with you, sir.”

“And yet that’s where you’re wrong, sir.” Cesare’s voice, still lyrical and wending, had dropped to a register that dripped poison. A gruff promise of retaliation rumbled beneath his every word. “You have the stink of deception about you. Creeping into this house… Did you think nobody would notice?”

Lena winced. Cesare had no idea. Lucio would be armed with at least a dagger and possibly more, throwing knives, poisons… If the disagreement escalated, Cesare might find himself in need of healing. Again.

“I don’t have to answer to you,” Lucio went on defiantly.

“Perhaps not, but allow me to give you some advice – speak to Lena, apologize to her for behaving like a cowardly brutta and be on your way. Linger, harm her, breathe too heavily upon her and I will see to it that from now on you piss from a ragged stump.”

Oh shit. Assassins never took taunting well. Especially from Borgia. Especially from an impudent, bedridden Borgia. Lena steeled herself, preparing for the inevitable outburst and violence. She would have to charge in and disarm Lucio before he had a chance to do real damage to Cesare. But there were no screams of anguish and no sounds of drawing steel. Lucio laughed, hysterically, and she could easily imagine the murderous look on Cesare’s face.

“Threats?” Lucio could hardly breathe for laughing so hard. “From a cripple? Don’t make me laugh, you idiot.”

“I won’t repeat myself.”

“Good, I’m sick of your voice.”

Lena backed away from the curtain as Lucio’s footsteps drew near. She managed to drape herself awkwardly over the dresser, grabbing for the first thing she saw, which happened to be the empty wine bottle. Superb.

“Lena? Are you awake?”

In Name Alone 47/?

[(Anonymous)]

“I am… yes.” She winced, plainly hearing the drunken fuzziness in her voice. Lucio swept the curtain aside without so much as a ‘may I?’ and swiftly closed it again behind him. Softly, she heard Cesare snort in the next room.

“There you are,” Lucio said, flushing. Had he guessed she was eavesdropping?

“Here I am.”

Then she noticed the shuffle to his gait. She wasn’t the only one who had been enjoying a bit of wine that evening. Lucio shifted toward the bed, stopped, turned, tucking his hands into one another as he hovered and stared at his feet.

“You’re well?” he asked, glancing at her waist and bottle dangling loosely in her grasp.

“Quite, yes.”

“I was… I thought you might have been out in the sun too long this afternoon.” His eyes lifted to her face. “But you don’t look too red… that’s good.”

“Just a little browner,” Lena replied. This was pathetic. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say. A prickling feeling stuck in her throat, an itchy embarrassment that wouldn’t abate no matter how many times she told herself the man next door – no doubt listening in – meant nothing. What did Lucio expect? For her to kiss him with a pair of rapt ears on the other side of that curtain? And after his performance earlier in the day? She frowned, suddenly insulted by Lucio’s presence.

“About today…” he said, his fingers tangling.

“You’re forgiven,” Lena said, anxious to see him gone. His eyes glittered as they moved over her face, slightly unfocused as they drifted down toward her bodice. Drunk. Drunker than she first thought. “Please… It’s very late and I’m exhausted, Lucio.”

“I only wanted… wanted to tell you that I’m not usually like that. It’s just that… that…” He lowered his voice to a ferocious whisper. “That bastardo brings out the worst in me. He’s poisonous, Lena, can’t you feel it?”

“I feel drunk,” she said impatiently, “and tired. I said – you’re forgiven. We can speak tomorrow if you insist…” She clung to the dresser, certain she would tumble to the floor if she let her grip slide.

“Here, let me,” Lucio said, approaching and reaching for the wine bottle.

“Lucio… Go…”

Her irritation flared, bright and red hot in front of her bleary sight. His stubbornness, his ridiculous little pout… She was no longer in control of her emotions, not with the wine screaming through her veins, heightening every touch and sound. Lucio pulled at the bottle, grunting softly.

“Go,” she said again, more firmly. Lena pushed at his chest but he held on.

“I just want to see you," he whined. "I just... Lena…” The alcohol on his tongue made her queasy. He was stumbling, probably two bottles into a serious binge. “Lena… you’re so beautiful to me. Listen, Lena…”

“Lucio, you’re shaming yourself. Go now, alright? I promise, we can speak tomorrow.”

Lucio pulled again, a hard jerk that made her knuckles scrape against the front of his shirt. Her temper spiked again and it took all of her control to clamp down on the urge to strike him. Yet again she had forgotten to arm herself with even the most rudimentary weapon. But the wine bottle would work, should the situation become truly dire. Not that she felt confident enough to fight – the drink was making everything spin, the room, Lucio, the candles…

“One kiss, yes? Just a friendly kiss. You have no idea… no idea how I ache for you…”

“Lucio,” she warned, finding that the threat of his kiss was like a cold splash of sobriety to the face. “You mustn’t…”

Another tug on the wine bottle. Another quiver in his chin, a wet film glazing his dark eyes. His head lowered, coming for her, his breath foul and sour.

“Just one,” he was saying, “just one, Lena.”

“I don’t think so Lucio, I don’t...” She winced, hearing a sound next door. Cesare. “Now, Lucio. You have to go now.”

“Lena, don’t be heartless. Please. I beg you…”

She pulled savagely on the wine bottle, determined to break his hold on it. Lucio’s grip had tightened and the bottle slipped out of their grasp, crashing noisily on the floor and shattering. Lena swore, crouching to sweep the sharp pieces aside. Lucio snorted, swaying on jellied knees above her.

“It’s him, isn’t it? You lying bitch.”

In Name Alone 48/?

[(Anonymous)]

Too late she heard Cesare’s uneven steps approach; too late she thought to spring up and put herself between the two men. A tall shadow melted through the curtain, looming for a brief second before Cesare’s cane was flashing, lashing out at Lucio’s knees. Cesare, bare from the waist up and disheveled, growled as he lunged for Lucio. But the assassin, even drunk, was faster than Cesare. He dodged, easily, but not before aiming a rough elbow at Cesare’s shoulder. Lena finally found her senses, lunging forward to keep Cesare from falling on the jagged shards of glass littering the ground. He went down hard, grunting and swearing as his knees hit the floorboards, his upper body supported by Lena’s hands.

“Clumsy finocchio,” Lucio shouted, dancing by both Lena and Cesare as he slid toward the back door. He laughed, insane, his eyes wide and staring as he made a rude gesture at them. “Why don’t you go back to Roma and fuck your sister, you disgusting stronzo!”

Lena nearly fell backward with the force of Cesare’s bellow as he surged against her, spit flying as he screamed, “Pray I never walk again, pray you never wake up with my foot up your ass and my blade in your mouth!”

“Fuck your mother,” Lucio cried with another mad chuckle, banging his fist against the wall. “Or maybe you already have, eh? Your list of perversions is so long nobody could recall them all!”

It was instinct. It was fury. Lena hardly felt the bite of the glass as she picked up the shard, its shape almost exactly that of a small dart. Training. Sweat. Blood. Hours of Ezio shrieking into her ears whenever she missed a riposte or flubbed a hasty reload. The glass left her hand at the optimal height, whipping out of her fore and middle fingers with arrow-straight accuracy. Lucio saw the small green dagger at the last second, ducking enough to make it miss his cheek and skim his ear. He grabbed for his face, blood trickling through the cracks in his fingers from the deep gash the glass had sliced in his ear.

“Mignotta,” Lucio hissed, kicking open the back door to escape. “You’ll regret that.”

Lena watched him go, breathing hard, one hand still keeping Cesare half-upright. He shifted to the side, away from the glass, sitting against the base of the bed as Lena stared mutely at her bleeding palm. Cesare closed his hand over it, squeezing. She looked up, surprised to find him smiling sadly.

“We should bandage that.”

Her hand began to ache, pulsing beneath his fingers.

“It’s bad,” she said, numb. “Deep.”

“Nothing you can’t fix.”

Silvia came running in, clutching her throat and then crying out to God when she saw the broken bottle, a bleeding Lena and both of them sprawled on the floor.

“All that screaming! I was afraid that…”

“Lucio is gone,” Cesare answered calmly, giving Lena’s hand another squeeze. “Lena frightened him off.”

“Good God, what happened?” Silvia asked, her eyes going to the glass shard stuck in the wall at head-height.

“It appears he had too much to drink. His presumptuousness was not met with favor.”

Lena stared at Cesare’s cheek, close enough to lean her forehead against. She was glad for the way he spoke, so gently, as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t just winged a glass shard at a fellow assassin. Ezio was going to throw her out of the Order. The only thing that kept her from subsiding into hysterics was the strong, warm hand clamped around her own.

“Did he harm you, mi hija?” Silvia asked, drifting toward the bed.

“The bottle… I dropped it. He was… and then I threw glass at him.”

“She’s untouched,” Cesare murmured helpfully. “But Lucio was behaving like a beast and her hand is badly cut.”

“I’ll fetch Michelangelo,” Silvia whispered, smoothing down the front of her apron before darting out through the curtained doorway.

“Shall we put you to bed?” Cesare asked. His free arm looped around her waist.

“How… How can you be so calm?” Lena asked, allowing him to assist her. It took a moment for Cesare to rearrange himself. He grabbed for the cane and used it to hoist himself back up onto his feet, one arm still anchored firmly around Lena. She stood, shakily, and then sat down onto the tick with a hushed sigh.

In Name Alone 49/?

[(Anonymous)]

“I bloodied my hand,” Cesare said, sitting beside her and still holding tight to her palm. “I was trying to impress my brother, taking sticks and sharpening them into arrows. Something distracted me and the knife missed the arrow.” He held up his hand, where a pale knick had scarred the event into his flesh.

“Gio took me into the house and bandaged it up. He was quiet and collected and it made me feel better. I didn’t want to cry when he was so calm. Do you want to cry?”

“No,” Lena whispered truthfully.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Cesare asked, nodding toward the shard in the wall. “You put me to shame.”

“I have to look after myself,” Lena replied. “There aren’t many women in my profession.”

“But plenty of clowns like Lucio.”

“Exactly.”

Michelangelo arrived in a flurry of curses, his smock flying out around him like a storm cloud. He peeled Cesare’s hand away, blood bubbling up from the cut as soon as the pressure was released. Cesare discretely reached for one of the linens Michelangelo had brought, and wiped his hand with a blank expression. Lena watched the hooked needle come out, burned to black in a candle, before Michelangelo carefully passed it through her cleaned cut. The stinging in her palm became too much to bear, and the urge to cry rose sharply until she felt Cesare’s shoulder bump her. No, he was calm, they were all calm; she would be fine.

“I ought to hide that fool myself,” Michelangelo muttered, swiping the fresh sutures with cooling ointment. “What gives him the right, hm? To march in here and disturb you like that?”

“He won’t be back,” Cesare observed. “Lena will defend herself. He knows that now.”

“Does he? Ha. I doubt it.”

Michelangelo picked up the bits of bandage and bloodied linens, tossing them unceremoniously toward Silvia to wash. The room smelled strongly of the salve he had applied to her cut. Lena gazed at the X’s criss-crossing her flesh.

“There,” Cesare murmured, “now we match.”

Silvia hovered, fretting, hugging the dirtied linens to her chest as she waited for some signal of what was to come next. Michelangelo shooed her away as he left out the back door, wiping his hands on his smock. He paused at the door, glancing at the glass wedged in the wall.

“Defend herself indeed,” he muttered, shaking his head as he disappeared into the night.

Cesare turned his attention to Silvia, saying quietly, “I will stay with her.”

Silvia hesitated.

“Lena?”

Lena nodded, not sure if she was crazy or just desperate for company. The thought of Lucio returning, of him sneaking in through the window and taking his vengeance made her shiver. Part of her hoped he would return to Rome, but the other half of her knew that was no better than if he stayed. Even if Ezio didn’t believe Lucio’s story, he would no doubt become suspicious enough to send another assassin to assess the situation. Or he would come himself. Lena didn’t know what she would say then… She had acted rashly, letting Lucio’s insults spur her to action. They were both drunk. It was an accident. If Lucio had just left when she told him to, then he wouldn’t have had a chance to say those awful things to Cesare.

When she looked up, Silvia was gone. The backdoor was shut. The curtain slid closed.

“I’m sorry,” Lena whispered, unable to look at him. “For those things he said.”

“You only need apologize if they’re true.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Lena said with a shrug. She wanted to sleep and forget. She had no desire to face Cesare and his earnest questions. He choked on his next breath.

“But… you wouldn’t consider it outside the realm of possibility?”

“I didn’t say that."

In Name Alone 50/?

[(Anonymous)]

Cesare shifted, pushing up into a standing position. He hobbled around the room slowly, going to each candelabrum and puffing out the flames. Lena finally felt safe enough to look up, watching the muscles in his bare back slither and bunch as he bent to blow out the candles. It was hard to believe that he had risked injuring himself again to crash through the curtain and come to her rescue. It was a bit juvenile, asinine in that boyish chivalrous way men always believed impressive. Yet he could have stayed in his bed and listened to her struggle against Lucio alone. Her cheeks flamed at the thought of him caring enough to put himself in harm’s way, all to defend a woman that showed him chilly indifference. To say that he was changed or different wasn’t quite right. She still detected that intense Borgia energy in him from time to time. There was no mistaking the serpentine malevolence in his voice when he warned Lucio not to overstay his welcome. What was less expected was the wounded slump to his shoulders as he rejoined her, his eyes a little forlorn and distant.

Lucio had struck something hidden, needling at doubts that lingered in Cesare’s mind.

Lena’s cheeks burned ever brighter as she carefully placed her wounded hand on his wrist.

“If it’s any consolation,” Lena whispered hoarsely, “I’m fairly certain you didn’t have sex with your own mother.”

“That is a consolation, yes. And… my sister?”

“There… were rumors,” Lena sputtered. He winced. This was distasteful. How she would’ve loved to throw this in his face months ago. Now? Now it felt like the harshest betrayal of all. “But I couldn’t say for sure.”

Cesare pulled his wrist away from her, scowling. “Forgive me, but I don’t much feel like having your sympathy right now.”

“You have it all the same.”

“You should rest,” he muttered, passing a trembling hand over his face.

“So should you.”

“If you would… permit me… I’d prefer to stay. That bastardo might return and I won’t have us caught unawares.” Cesare stood, maneuvering over to the chair nestled into the corner, two feet from the bed. He sat down in it, swallowed by the shadows until Lena could see nothing but the pale suggestion of his bare chest and the glimmer of his hair in the moonlight. Lena rolled over onto the bed and then off it again, striding to the window to snap the curtains shut. The last thing she wanted was that creep Lucio peering in at them. She shuddered in revulsion.

“Let me sleep for an hour or two,” Lena said, blowing out the remaining candles. She demurely unlaced her overdress, slipping out of it with her skin growing warm and uncomfortably alive in the darkness. It didn’t matter that there was only shadow between them, she felt his eyes and her flesh exploded with pinpricks of heat.

“Look away,” she said quietly, hesitating with her dress still poised over her bosom. Her chemise lay below, but it was too thin to be modest.

“As you wish, madam.”

Cesare’s voice, thick and rasping, was just as affecting as the imagined pressure of his gaze. No… not imagined… Lena knew he had been watching her. Now she wasn’t so sure. Either way, her hands trembled as she pushed her skirts down and pulled off her shoes. She slid into the bed, hiding beneath the heavy blankets with her heart thundering in her chest. Protected by a Borgia. She would laugh it wasn’t so completely ludicrous.

“Just an hour or two,” she repeated, amazed by how instantaneously sleepy she became. Lena covered a yawn. “Then wake me, and I will watch through the night. You’re still recovering. I won’t let you stay up and exhaust yourself on my behalf.”

“Two hours,” Cesare said. “No more and no less.”

-~-

A hand. A small, delicate thing, incredibly fragile when one thought about it, just small bones, not big and solid like a leg but vital all the same. Cesare slid his knuckles beneath the pads of Lena’s fingertips, feeling the warm, dry texture of her skin as he idly moved his hand back and forth, forcing himself to stay awake. She had dropped off immediately, mumbling something incoherent before wedging her head deep into the pillows.

In Name Alone 51/?

[(Anonymous)]

Her breathing became one rolling, unbroken sound, a gentle in and out that was almost undetectable above the song of crickets and frogs outside.

He couldn’t explain it. Surely there were prettier women in the world, though he hadn’t been introduced to any since his recovery… yet he felt himself sinking into a thick mire of confusion and yearning. Perhaps it was the way of the injured, the weakling becoming enamored of their savior, but it seemed rather more than that. Lena hadn’t simply healed his wounds, though certainly she had accomplished that - she had stoked the dwindling embers of his spirit until they jumped back to life. Now he was roaring inside, ablaze. He didn’t want to thank her for that. Surely a cold, lifeless existence apart would be more bearable than burning from the inside out?

Sleep crept in from the fringes of his mind, a bone-deep exhaustion carrying him away quickly and quietly. Her hand felt weighty in his, a mass dragging him down into a welcome void. Dreams were maddening and teasing, but they still hurt less than his reality.

At least in dreams his world flipped upside down by his own desire. He could unfold the tiny cottage into a palace of light and color, exploding the grubby walls and foot-worn floors, overlaying vines and flowers heavy with fragrance. Limits vanished, ceding power to him in the twilight limbo between waking and sleep. The roof disappeared, light pouring in, and Lena’s hand became light in his, squeezing back, a quiet confirmation of questions he didn’t have the courage to ask. In waking hours he was a burden, a trap to be tiptoed around lest he spring and maim, but in this world of infinite beauty and wonder he was a prince unequaled.

Gradually, Cesare drifted further into the tantalizing castle he had imagined. Perhaps it was grounded in experience, bits of memory cobbled together to form a dazzling, tumbling whole. There were staircases everywhere, some narrow and winding, others broad, leading down to gardens that extended to an abrupt end. Water flowed under quaint little bridges, lilies carried along to the edge of his vision before dropping off the edge of the universe. Faceless people in bright party clothes stood in clumps, chatting with their backs to him. They populated themselves, appearing from the grass, the stones… And still, he carried Lena along with him. Here, he could hold far more than just her strong, work-callused fingers. He could walk, upright and proud, all traces of pain and disfigurement forgotten, and press her to his body with an urgency that surprised him. Lena was warm and pliant in his arms, all unwinding limbs and lazy sighs, and the sunshine held them both like an invisible embrace. Things he could no longer remember or grasp became second nature – easily, he twined his fingers in the laces of her dress and plucked the strings free without effort or strain. Just as naturally, he guided her to the spongy grass and lay between her legs, exploring the hollow at the base of her long, graceful neck. He knew to tease her, to hint with feathery kisses of promised pleasures to come and she welcomed it, fisting eager hands in his hair.

Cesare lost control of the dream at the most critical point, his vision fading to black just as her bodice fell away, her rosy-tipped breasts thrusting into his mouth. He slept, hard, her little hand cradled in his, a sad, lonely smile playing over his lips.

Re: In Name Alone 51/?

[(Anonymous)]

What a gorgeous dream. Ahh, I love this story.

In Name Alone 52/?

[(Anonymous)]

Roma - Vicino al Musei Capitolini

It was raining when Ezio finally arrived at the studio. Gusting winds pushed the sheets of rain diagonally, spattering Ezio’s sodden cloak as he dodged behind a pillar for shelter. The buttery stones of the nearby Musei Capitolini shrank back in the swirling rain, been cast in muted tones of brown and gray, dulled by the ominous canopy of clouds that hadn’t budged since mid-morning. The streets ran slick with sludgy water, gray streams of God only knew what rushing by and splashing passersby whenever a carriage stormed through.

He shook out his cloak, sending one last bitter look toward the heavens as the tall, creaking door to the studio fell open. Ezio half-expected to see his friend awaiting him with a smile and a welcoming mug of warmed wine, but a much larger form appeared. A young, tall man emerged, still fastening a traveling cape over his neck. He pulled up the hood just as Ezio stepped in his way.

The young man was flushed, his hair sticking up in every direction. He sputtered at the sight of Ezio, the blush on his cheeks deepening to a sultry crimson. Ezio knew him and could wager a guess as to the source of the apprentice’s look of shocked embarrassment.

“Count,” Ezio said politely, inclining his head. “I take it the master is inside?”

“He is. Forgive my rush.” The man’s gray eyes lowered demurely. “Good day, signore.”

Count Francesco Melzi plunged out into the pouring rain, hunching his shoulders as he dodged down an alley. Ezio turned at the waist, watching the handsome youth disappear into the shadows before entering the studio and wiping his feet on the thick rope rug. It was cool indoors, the smell of paints and raw stone reminding him of childhood visits to Monteriggione and the pebbly ponds there where he and his brothers swam. The floor, pale speckled granite, was flecked all over with paint. Da Vinci was careless with his brushes, and little trails of indigo and red and sienna led to canvases long-finished and now absent, gracing the galleries of rich nobles. The entrance way broadened into a soaring room, the vaulted ceiling arched high above him, decorated with unfinished frescoes. Francesco’s work. Da Vinci was always indulgent with the young apprentice, letting him practice on the walls themselves if he so desired.

Various easels leaned up against the walls, empty and filled canvases propped there or on the floor. Color everywhere, images flashing like jewels, visions too bright to be hampered by the worm-gray light trickling in from outside. A long, broad table sat in the center of the room, littered with pots of paint and crushed canisters of pigment. Ezio shrugged out of his cloak, slinging it casually over his arm as he circled the table and went to the high window that looked out onto the piazza. The presence of so much creativity and passion usually warmed is soul. Not today. His thoughts were simply too bleak. His body might have been standing in Rome, but this mind lingered in Spain.

“Ezio.”

Leonardo appeared at the top of the stairway that curved down into the main room. The artist’s quarters were housed up there, in a dingy loft that Ezio had never bothered to see. Da Vinci padded down the stairs, barefoot and still doing up the toggles on his shirt. He too was flushed, wearing the same half-dazed expression as his apprentice Melzi.

“Hard at work?” Ezio teased, knowing full-well his friend had been giving the apprentice lessons of another sort.

Leonardo chuckled, clapping Ezio on the back as he descended to the main floor. “Ahh, he’s a beautiful creature, Ezio, with a soul that speaks through his brushstrokes. It is a miracle he gives a relic like me so much of his precious youth.”

“Assurdità,” Ezio replied, “you’ve always had a way with pretty boys.”

“You flatter me.”

Ezio turned again to the window. He ought to shake out his cloak and dry it somewhere, but the grate was empty and cold. Leonardo read his mind, muttering an apology and going to the wide hearth at the eastern side of the room. He lit a light a meager fire. The warmth was welcome, and for a moment Ezio did nothing but listen to the crackling and spitting of the flames.

In Name Alone 53/?

[(Anonymous)]

“You’ve heard from Lena?” Leonardo asked, straightening with a sigh and coming to join Ezio at the window. There would be wine in a moment, when the cursory questions were out of the way.

“No. I write her, frequently, in fact, and receive no reply. I’m beginning to worry, my friend.”

“Truly? Strange. I’ve had word from Michelangelo,” the artist replied brightly, immune to Ezio’s foul mood as he searched the studio for his brocade coat. Ezio had spied it when he came in, the garment hidden under a pile of oilcloth rags. He said nothing to that effect. “Lena is busy, it seems,” Leonardo continued. “The boy cannot remember even how to read. Michelangelo believes it will be sometime before anything of use will be discovered. It must be exhausting, tending to him constantly without giving too much away. He could shut up like a clam if he learned of his… indiscretions.”

Incredible, Ezio thought, that even after being abused by the Borgia for years, Leonardo refused to speak too harshly of them. It was his manner, Ezio supposed, gentle and ever mindful of humanity’s frailty.

“Lucio has stopped writing, too,” Ezio said, considering what his friend had just told him. He suspected Lena was, as Leonardo explained, absorbed in her work. Sometimes he regretted setting the young assassin such a monumental task. He wouldn’t have trusted many of his older agents with the same mission. Yet Lena had always been different, uninterested in the more glamorous aspects of the assassin lifestyle. She abstained from brothels, from nights with the others in the Orders… She took her work seriously. It was what made him trust her so deeply. Still, it was unfortunate that he could not be there to monitor Cesare’s progress himself. But so long as the Borgia murderer remembered nothing, Lena would be safe to prod him for information.

“Yes, I see.” Leonardo unearthed his coat, pulling it on, heedless of the paint stains trickling down the front. “With the rains,” he continued, “birds are unreliable. Besides, you might not approve of my sending Michelangelo to help, but he’s a good man, Ezio, strange… but good.”

“And observant?” Ezio asked. It was true, he had flew into a rage upon learning that Leonardo had dispatched the famous painter and sculptor to Spain without asking his permission first. But much had come of the decision. Michelangelo reported meticulously on Cesare’s progress, though his letters seemed oddly absent of personal feelings or concerns.

“What are you not saying, friend?” Leonardo fussed near the fire, emptying a bottle of wine into a shallow cauldron before settling it high over the fire. In a moment, the rich wine would be brought to a cozy, delightful temperature. “Speak your mind, Ezio.”

“I have… fears. Worries.” Ezio sighed, flopping his cape helplessly onto the sill. He rested his elbow against the stone, staring out into the driving rain with a sinking feeling in his chest. “Did Lena tell you of… her father’s fate?”

“I understand he is still sympathetic to the Borgia.” Leonardo poured out the warmed wine, coming to Ezio’s side with two steaming mugs. They drank in companionable silence while Ezio collected his words. He didn’t want to disparage Lena. Without trust, the Order meant nothing, could accomplish nothing. And as Leonardo pointed out, Michelangelo would alert them to any complications. Still…

“You think her father’s mistakes will be repeated?” Leonardo snorted softly, sadly. “For shame, Ezio. We both know her better than that.”

“Do we?” Ezio chewed nervously at his knuckle. “I thought I knew Perotto.”

A chilly silence followed. Even the good wine did nothing to ease the knot of unease in Ezio’s belly. He shouldn’t have mentioned that. Leonardo had been very fond of Perotto Calderon and lobbied for mercy on the assassin’s behalf. Such a thing could not be granted, not in the heat of battle and not in a court of his peers.

In Name Alone 54/?

[(Anonymous)]

“Are you…? Lena?” Leonardo laughed, shaking his graying head vigorously. “She’s far more likely to end his life than to create a new one with him. Come, Ezio, this is madness. If such a thing were even possible, Michelangelo would have mentioned something. He may be uninterested in romance himself, but he is shrewd enough to pick up on such things.”

Leonardo patted Ezio’s shoulder fondly. “You worry too much.”

“Given the circumstances, it seems prudent to do so.”

“If this is what concerns you, then let us hasten Lena’s return.” Leonardo finished his wine, striding back to the hearth for more. “Send her a few of Cesare’s things. You recovered much, did you not? In the days following his death?”

“Near-death,” Ezio corrected. “That could be dangerous… Putting his own possessions back into his hands…”

“Nothing too treacherous,” Leonardo replied with a casual shrug. He sipped at his wine, a pink stain forming at the corners of his lips and the fringes of his beard. “I’m not asking you to arm him, just give her something to help him remember. Clothing… Maps… Trinkets… Surely there would be no harm in that?”

“I do not know…” Ezio glared at his wine, unhappy. He didn’t want to be pressured into a foolish course of action by Leonardo’s perpetual optimism.

“If you want her back, Ezio, then let her finish the job. There could be Borgia safe houses scattered throughout all of Italia. Sympathizers… Weapons. If you want the reward, friend, you must suffer the risk.”

“Trinkets.” Ezio scowled. “I cannot help but feel as if I’m endangering her further…”

“Lena is a smart woman,” Leonardo replied evenly. “Have a little faith.”

-~-

Bright, milky light. Light. Far too much of it. Lena groaned, rolling onto her back to find the little chamber flooded with silvery brightness. Even the curtains couldn’t contain the sunrise, the edges of the flimsy fabric glowing like a holy shroud. She rubbed at her eyes, trying to remember when exactly she had fallen asleep. Then she turned, gasping softly, finding a man sitting in the chair near her bed, his head thrown back, his hands resting palms up on his knees. He reminded her, instantly, of the Perugino saints that had become popular in recent years – faces always tilted toward the heavens, soft and almost luminescent, their martyrdom depicted as an amusing inconvenience rather than a terrible pain. Yet he lived, the broad bellows of his chest rising and falling as he snored quietly.

Lena remembered then that Cesare was supposed to wake her hours ago. It was no matter. Lucio hadn’t come in the night and murdered them. She was glad for the respite, for the distant scratching of Silvia’s feet as she puttered in the kitchen and the even softer music of Michelangelo sketching next door. Her hand ached, but that was the least of her problems. She would have to wake Cesare eventually, and that was an unpleasant prospect indeed. It seemed cruel to shake him conscious when he looked so utterly at peace.

She settled for leaning out of bed to poke gently at his knee.

Cesare’s head tipped forward, slowly, his eyes opening and blinking rapidly against the invading light.

“Wake up,” Lena said with a grin, “I'm tired of looking up your nose.”

“Mrph.”

It was a small victory and a cheated one, considering he was still too sleepy to retort.

“I fell asleep,” he muttered, yawning.

“That much we agree on.”

“Unfortunate… to wake to a mosquito buzzing in my ear when I was having such pleasant dreams.” Cesare smirked, rising to the challenge quicker than she liked.

Lena wondered if it was pure arrogance that let him sit in that chair like it was a throne, his feet bare and his trousers rumpled and the naked expanse of his chest displayed without the smallest hint of modesty. His smugness was so effortless it was almost endearing. Almost.

“I should dress,” Lena remarked, keeping the covers pulled safely to her chin.

“By all means.”

“Meaning you should get out.”

Cesare shrugged, the yoke of his shoulders rippling in a manner that made Lena huddle deeper under the blanket. “My leg has cramped.”

“Then I’ll wait.”

"On my account?" He chuckled merrily. "I couldn't stand for such a thing."

Re: In Name Alone 54/?

[(Anonymous)]

I love this whole fiction so much, especially all the wonderful dialogue. It's so real and perfect. <3

In Name Alone 55/?

[(Anonymous)]

“Out.”

His smirk didn’t waver for even an instant. He leaned forward, collecting his cane from where it leaned against the bed. It took a moment, but he stood on his own, grunting as he did so. Lena twinkled her fingers at him as he left, happy to have her way. Cesare chuckled, ducking a little as he side-stepped the curtain leading to his room. Michelangelo greeted him in low tones, the scratch of his pencil never ceasing.

Lena stretched, yawned, stretched again. The previous night felt like a nightmare, too strange to be real. Yet the bandage on her hand was a sobering reminder of what had transpired. She didn’t know whether to hate Lucio or pity him. Obsession drove men to strange behaviors and apparently Lucio was no above such unfortunate missteps. But Lena was done trying with him. She had given him a chance to leave with dignity and he ignored it. He had indicated his bad temper and brutish nature on too many occasions. From now on she would avoid him and hope he calmed enough to see the error of his actions.

Meanwhile, she would have to corner Cesare and get him to read more. His mind was quick, adaptable, and it would be only a matter of weeks before he became proficient at reading again. Teaching him to write would take longer, but could be another way to stimulate his memory. Lena was running out of options. Either his past would return to him or it wouldn’t. She shifted out of bed, kicking aside the dress she had worn the day before. A clean frock had been tied with twine and a sprig of dried rosemary to keep the fabric smelling fresh. Lena smiled at the motherly touch. She would miss Silvia dearly when she returned to Rome.

Lena changed into a clean, rose-colored chemise and pulled on the simple country dress Silvia had left for her. It was sturdy but not unattractive, made of reinforced cotton panels, the skirts and bodice a muted saffron color. Even the peasantry here dressed in cheerful colors. In Rome it was all the rage to be seen in long, tight-sleeved gowns in scarlet and gold, the seam waist high and just under the bust. Lena preferred the cut of these dresses, with the middle nipping in at her natural waist. It was a flattering shape, she thought, though doctors and assassins had little use for pretty things. Some of the other female assassins used their sexuality shamelessly, wooing targets, gaining their lust and their confidence before striking. Lena didn’t disapprove of such methods, but knew she would never be able to accomplish that kind of deception. She hardly knew what men liked, but she was fairly confident it didn’t involve hands that smelled of ointment or cropped, no-nonsense hair or a stomach for lancing boils.

She laced herself up, going to the backdoor to sneak into the kitchen for a nibble on whatever Silvia had popped into the oven. Lena stopped after opening the door, finding her path blocked by a strange, lumpy form. White. Red. Dead.

“Dio!” she screamed. She never screamed. But she had nearly stepped right on top of the goat. His throat had been slashed, his limp body left to bleed out on the stoop. He was draped over a small, ornate chest.

Silvia was the first to appear, sticking her head out from the kitchen door. Then Michelangelo was there and then Cesare. The artist must have helped him dress, for Cesare was no longer rumpled and shirtless, but wearing a simple linen shirt and loose, dark trousers tucked into boots. Cesare craned his neck over Lena’s shoulder, swearing under his breath.

“What in God’s name?” Silvia rushed out to kneel next to the dead animal. “Oh no. Oh the poor, sad dear.”

“Move the goat,” Michelangelo instructed in a monotone. When Silvia refused, the artist stepped over the box and corpse and did the deed himself. Lena noticed then what he was looking for. A note had been stabbed into the top of the chest, pinned there by the knife no doubt used to kill the goat.

Lena squinted, the note adorned with one word in black ink.

TRADITORE

Traitor.

“That snake,” Silvia murmured, her lips tightening. “Don’t touch the box, Michelangelo. It could be a trap.”

Re: In Name Alone 55/?

[(Anonymous)]

Is it bad that I'm really torn up over the goat dying? He was almost just as much a character as every one else. How'd you make me care so much about an old goat, writeanon? ;_;

Re: In Name Alone 55/?

[(Anonymous)]

I knows. :( Hard decisions had to be made. I'm sorry I killed the goat. I luffed him too.

Re: In Name Alone 55/?

[(Anonymous)]

Poor goat. But sacrifices must be made in an awesome story like this. I love this more than I loved the goat. I humbly await next update and the brightening of my evening it brings.

(oh, I'm so tired my head feels stuffed with clouds)

(and managed to fail post before I got it here. Tired indeed.)

In Name Alone 56/?

[(Anonymous)]

“Let me see.” Lena crouched next to the artist, plucking the knife out of the chest and tossing it aside. She crumpled up the note, determined not to be frightened by Lucio’s cowardly games, and threw it where the knife had landed. Carefully, she felt along the underside ridge of the chest, where the lid met the base. Nothing caught along her fingertips, no strings or catches, no curious powders or liquids clinging to the surface.

“I think it’s safe,” she said, “but let us use caution all the same.”

Silvia left to fetch a rope to truss up the goat. Her shock over, she refused to waste the perfectly good meat.

“We should check the goat,” Lena said, when Silvia was in the kitchen. “For any signs of poisoning.”

“Indeed. I saw no foam around the muzzle, no discoloration…” Michelangelo nodded judiciously. “But I will look more closely at the eyes and the wound.”

Lena moved the box away from the house, carrying it down the porch steps to the yard. She ignored the blood congealing over the opening mechanism, swallowing a retch of anger as she stood behind the chest, covered her eyes and nose with her sleeve, and pulled the catch on the box. It clicked open harmlessly. Lucio was a brute, but he was smart enough not to tamper with whatever this was. The only conclusion, in Lena’s mind, was that it was something from Ezio. Most assassins regarded the master with an almost religious devotion. Contaminating something of Ezio’s was beyond thinking for most.

“There’s nothing,” Lena said, tipping open the lid with the toe of her shoe to peer inside. “We’re in no danger.”

-~-

He screamed. He screamed because he had no idea what these things meant. He shouted, raged, because they ought to mean something but didn’t. And he was grateful to be alone, to be sequestered in the little room that he had come to know so well. They might hear his screams of exasperated anguish, but they would not see the boiling tears that coursed down his cheeks.

What did it mean?

Two cloaks, one bloodied and one still pristine and soft; a ring, ornate, worn and embellished that fit the middle finger on his left hand as if it had been forged around his very flesh; a seal; a coin with its face rubbed off from the wearing press of a thumb.

His head pounded. He pressed his palms to his temples, shrieking. His brain throbbed, burned, as if his skull were shrinking rapidly. That was happening more. Why wouldn’t it stop? Was he losing his mind?

Think. Think! You must recognize some of it...

And what cruel mastermind had sent these possessions to torment him? He picked up the tattered cloak, the one stained with char and blood, its edges eaten away and holes, suspiciously the size and shape of bullets, peppered across the center. Had he worn his? Had he waged conquest in it? He pulled it on. Nothing. Wearing it only made his anger grow. He picked up the other cloak, the whole one, and rubbed the wool between his fingertips. Scarlet. A richer red than any he had seen worn by the peasantry here or his companions… It should mean something. It should all mean something. When Lena handed him the chest and told him, solemnly, to take his time, he had expected each item to emerge as a piece of the puzzle. By the end of the afternoon he would have the clear picture.

In Name Alone 57/?

[(Anonymous)]

But no. These things were his and yet… if he did not recognize them, were they really his at all? Furious, he wiped at the humiliating tears on his face. What a piteous creature he had become, all feeling with no anchor, no past, no memories to give his existence meaning. Sometimes he felt… but no, that was wrong. Dangerous. The pounding in his head was only a manifestation of his frustration. But if it was… No. He would contain it. He would hold back whatever monster that was rattling the bars of its cage.

Cesare shoved everything back into the box and latched it shut. He had no intention of opening it again.

Later, when he had regained his composure, he sat in the yard with Lena. She had arranged a table in the meadow, conspicuously in the open, with a shading awning of breezy linen tied to two stakes. She sat with her hands tented on the table, her gaze fixed on the distance. A pitcher and two mugs waited on the table and the scent of roasting mutton wafted from the kitchen windows.

Lena said nothing as he approached but her expression was plain enough. ‘Well,’ her big eyes seemed to say, ‘do you know who you are now?’

Cesare sat across from her, reaching wordlessly for the pitcher. He poured himself a drink, lifting the mug to his lips and inhaling. God but he was parched. Water flavored with lemon and honey. He drank deeply before lowering the cup to the table and fiddling with it, passing it idly across the table from hand to hand.

“I have questions,” he said. It wasn’t a tone he used often and it wasn’t a question.

“I thought you might.”

“Are we quite safe here? Should we not go inside?” Cesare glanced around. In the event of Lucio’s return, he would have a clear shot with a bow from almost any conceivable angle.

“Men like Lucio…” She paused, opened her mouth and then stopped again. Cesare refused to dwell on the adorable way her nose wrinkled when she thought. A shadow of frustration flickered over her face. “If he intends to harm us, he will do so silently, when nobody is around. We are safer here, out in the open, than we would be in the house.”

“I see things,” Cesare said simply and without preamble. “You may not think so, but I do.”

Lena waited for him to continue, the breeze ruffling her unruly mop of flax.

He touched his cup. Spun it. “What would Lucio, a delivery boy, be doing with a box of my things? How is it that you fear him and yet know how he will act? And say what you will, but I know you are no simple doctor. The way you moved last night… your speed… your skill. There is something more here. Something I don’t yet understand…”

Her cheeks paled, her pretty lips falling open in dismay.

“Cesare… If I trust you… If I… reveal certain things, it will anger dangerous people. It will make us both vulnerable.”

“Oh? Silvia insists you mean not to kill me. Am I a fool to believe her?”

Lena shook her head, chewing nervously on her lower lip. “Lucio and I work for the same people. He was bringing me medical supplies to help you. Our goal is the same, but we disagree on the method.”

Now Cesare did her the kindness of waiting, letting her arrive at her words whenever they might come.

“He believes you will become a liability. You were our enemy, as I’m sure you know by now. My first task was to revive you…”

“And the second?” His breath caught, blocking up his throat.

“To evaluate your health, your state of mind… And if you proved to be the tyrant you were in the past…”

“Eliminate me.”

“Not necessarily,” Lena replied with telling quickness. She poured herself some water but did not drink, staring into the cup as if it might spare her this ordeal and speak in her stead. “Lucio brought that chest for one reason, Cesare.”

She looked up at him, her huge, wet eyes begging something of him. The weak part of him, the part that wasn’t consumed with confusion, ached to respond. There was the inconvenient that she had not, in fact, hurt him and that she had defended them both against Lucio.

“He thought it would revive my memories,” Cesare said, nodding. “And give you an excuse to destroy me.”

In Name Alone 58/?

[(Anonymous)]

“That’s what I think, yes. I want to understand him. I should understand him. I don’t.” Lena smiled, sadly, a bee skipping around the rim of her mug before being shooed thoughtlessly away. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, her smile deepening. “Silvia told me a story about a young boy who teased her in girlhood. She hated him. Then one day he was killed by a horse and she realized… Well, I’m not sure what she realized. But she missed him. He was a fly in her ear, certainly, but at least he cared enough to buzz.”

“More riddles?” Cesare asked, completely without malice.

“No,” she said. She shook her head at that insistent piece of hair swung out from behind her ear. She reached to tuck it back and Cesare couldn’t help but fixate on the wounded hand he had held for hours. “If this is a second chance, who am I to steal it away from a good man?”

“I’m not a good man.” It came out instantly and Cesare regretted it just as readily. He winced. Tell her. It was impossible. If she had the power and will to kill him, then it was best he not give her more reasons… And tell her what? That I feel as if two souls are living in my one body? That my head throbs as if something stuffed in there is banging on the door to get out?

“Cesare?”

“I… No.” He flexed his hand on the table, stared at it, debating whether to risk the truth, as she had. Perhaps she had not told him everything, but at least she was beginning to truly trust him. And those eyes… lovely, encompassing… the no longer looked at him with fear and hatred. “Sometimes, when I feel a memory returning, my mind begins to burn. My head… seethes. It’s agony. It is best, I think, to simply stop trying to remember.”

“That’s not true.” Lena frowned, pressing her lips together tightly. “It’s not… fair of me, to expect you to abandon your past. You have a right to it, even if it’s painful.”

“Yes,” he laughed, bitterly, “and then after a time I will be my old self again and you will stick a dagger in my breast and I will deserve it.”

“It’s… precarious. You’re right. I don’t have an answer.”

“How long?” he asked, dreading the response. “How long are you to wait before… before I am considered a waste of resources?”

“That was never decided.” Lena glanced away, absently running her fingertip around the edge of the cup. “I haven’t received a message from my master in sometime. I think Lucio has been keeping them. I could already be expected back in Rome…”

Cesare sighed, fitting his forehead into a sweat-slicked palm. What a mess. He, a task, an assignment, and she the unwilling instrument of his redemption or his doom… And now Lucio against them…

“We should decide,” Lena said slowly, cautiously, “what to do.”

“We?” Cesare lifted his head, the weariness pinching the muscles in his neck easing but a little.

“Yes,” she said. “It can be a temporary alliance, if that pleases you better.”

“Your people…” Cesare began, not knowing exactly how to finish his question.

Re: In Name Alone 48/?

[(Anonymous)]

I've been commenting all along and for some reason, it struck me that this is fanfic and not something...beyond that. It made me stop for a moment, utterly in awe. I love this fic so much I can't even tell you, anon. Edge of my seat, here.

Re: In Name Alone 48/?

[(Anonymous)]

Thank you, that means a lot, and I'm so glad people are hanging around to read despite the delays. I'm embarrassed to think about how much is still left to go in this monstrosity.

I'll try to have more up tonight - Cesare is being an insistent little brain bug today. =D

Re: In Name Alone 48/?

[(Anonymous)]

God, I want want want to talk writing craft with you so much, it HURTS. I will de-anon in a HEARTBEAT.

I am working on my own monstrosity right now so each chapter you post is a welcome distraction. :D Stupid fic of mine is not behaving and I don't know WHY. *kicks it*

Re: In Name Alone 48/?

[(Anonymous)]

I know the whole point of this meme is anonymity, but...this is simply TOO GOOD to remain anonymous. Not that I'm pressuring you out of anonymity or anything like that, but such talent is amazing...I literally check back every day, sometimes multiple times a day to see if its been updated. Anyway, please don't abandon this! :-)