Okay. So this is my first one-shot and my first AC fanfic. In fact, it's my first fanfic that's something other than Merlin...Which is good, because it makes me look less obsessed...

It's also my first in something else. I've done all but one of the three adult themes I call the VLS – I've done V (violence), and toyed with L (language), now all that's left is S. I suppose you know what that is. If you don't, maybe you're not old enough and should turn back. Right now.

No, it's not nearly as descriptive as some that I've read *shrugs in exasperation* but it's still...awkward for me. But hey, if I want to write, I need to broaden my horizons a little bit. Oh, and for those who've read my other stories and believe that this will make you think differently of me, negatively so, then I recommend you look at that little button with the arrow on it in the top left corner of your screen.

Alright then. Enjoy The Templar's Daughter.

~ Ʌ ~

They say that the only way to see the end of one's troubles is to find the bottom of an ale tankard – not that it's too difficult to find, especially in the cheapest tavern in Firenze.

Ezio Auditore thought very hard to remember what the name of the tavern was, even as he sat in the raucous turmoil of its belly, slouched over his third flagon and ignoring the chaos around him. The drink was flat and watery, and there was an inscrutable stain on the edge of the tankard, but it mattered little. He didn't even recall ordering it.

As he shifted on the stiff, unyielding stool at the bar, someone bumped into him from behind. His hidden blade flashed out before even instinct told it to, but when he turned around, the offender was already staggering away as though he had no spine, sloshing the remains of his mead all over the floor and laughing like something was funny.

"Figlio di puttana," Ezio grumbled, turning back to his drink. As he did so, he saw a rat scurrying along the back counter, sniff at a stale crumb of bread, and then ignore it. The food wasn't good enough even for the rodents.

What am I doing here? he asked himself. He had the gold and the knowledge to find a decent place with cleaner tankards – and cleaner women – but it was as though he felt he didn't deserve it. He suspected it had something to do with his last mission, an assassination in Venezia. That was nearly a month ago now, yet still it haunted him.

It had been messy, careless. He had been caught, a mistake that he had planned never to let happen again years ago. Mistakes such as being detected were for amateurs. Now, he was stuck with the consequences.

"Spying bitch," he muttered into his mug, earning himself an estranged look from the barkeeper. Ezio ignored him.

The Templar he had hunted was a husband and a father of three. There were two children, no older than ten, but the eldest, a young woman by the name of Rosetta, with luscious, rich, red auburn hair, had burst into her father's study just as Ezio leaped through the window and buried his Hidden Blade in her father's spine, right where it would kill him immediately and soundlessly. Rosetta had shrieked, but more so of fury than terror. To Ezio's astonishment, the woman had then snatched up a fire poker and charged him, screeching like a banshee all the while. The Assassin had no quarrel with her, and didn't like killing more than necessary, so he whirled and grasped the window pane before effortlessly swinging out over the abyss. He heard Rosetta scream once more in frustration as he scaled the wall, higher and higher, until he reached the roof and vanished from sight.

He thought that that was the last he would see of her, but he was wrong. Later that week, he was recuperating in the Thieves Guild when word reached him that there was an insane woman howling from the roof of the Frari – heaven knows how she got up there – calling for him, calling his name like a hound baying for blood. Antonio de Magianis was reduced to tearing laughter, but Ezio merely glowered at him before departing to investigate.

As he'd suspected, it was Rosetta.

"You killed my father, you gutless son of a swine!" she screamed, coming at him with a blade that had clearly spent its whole life as a decoration over the mantlepiece. Ezio, calm as a cucumber, simply raised an arm and grasped her wrist, stopping the downswing at its peak.

"Release me, pig!"

The Assassin sighed in exasperation as the woman struggled fruitlessly against his superior strength. She was strong, yes, for a lady of her status and age, but was still nothing to him. What surprised him, though, was that she wasn't wearing a dress fit for nobility; instead, tight, comfortable trousers hugged her rather beautifully sculpted legs, while a loose blouse beneath a snug vest donned her upper body. She was dressed to fight and run, and Ezio couldn't help but be reminded of Rosa the thief, Antonio's ward.

"What are you doing?" he asked flatly as Rosetta continued to tug at her wrist, still in Ezio's grasp.

"You murdered him, you bastardo. You murdered my father!"

"It takes one assassin to kill another."

"Liar!" Rosetta's voice split with rage. "My father was a entrepreneur! A harmless old man who—"

"He was a Templar, one of many responsible for the massacre of three small towns in the Apennines."

"Liar!" she screamed again. "You slinking, cowardly charlatan! Death to the Assassins!"

She tried to knee him in the groin, but Ezio was too quick. Lifting a leg, he parried her attack and then twisted her arm behind her. With a gasp, Rosetta dropped the pretty sword and squirmed like an eel. Not wanting to hurt her, Ezio released her, only for her to steal the opportunity and swing a delicate fist at him. The Assassin ducked to the side, barely flicking an eye, and then pushed her. With a small scream, Rosetta staggered back to the edge of the Frari roof, arms pinwheeling for balance.

The church was tall even at its shortest point. It would be a shame to see such a beautiful face spatter all over the cobbles below like a pudding. Ezio took two steps forward and grasped the front of Rosetta's shirt. Whimpering, she snatched at his arm in turn to hold herself up. She was still leaning dangerously over the edge. If Ezio let go, she was gone.

"P-please," she mewled, "please don't..."

Lip curling menacingly, Ezio hauled her towards himself, drilling her with an unforgiving gaze. "Leave me alone," he growled, his face inches from her own.

Now, Ezio swirled the remains of his watery ale disinterestedly. It hadn't ended there. Not that he really expected it to, not with a woman such as Rosetta.

Not four days later, he was slipping amongst the chimneys, abandoning the streets for the haven of the rooftops, when he glanced behind him. It was a natural habit, now, for him to be constantly aware of his surroundings, and so he managed to catch sight of Rosetta dashing for cover on the roof of a house. The woman even managed to find a place where her shadow wasn't cast on the red tiles of the roof, which was a mediocre mistake for anyone.

Ezio rolled his eyes, wiping the sweat from his brow. Venice got so hot that time of year.

"Rosetta, though admirable, your endeavour is fruitless. Come out."

Nothing.

"I saw you, Rosetta. You're wearing the exact same outfit as you did four days ago, but now your hair's in a braided bun, not a horsetail. Come out."

Reluctantly, the Templar's daughter obliged, stepping out into the Venetian sun and not meeting his gaze, which would have been difficult with his hood in place anyway. The light caught her red-brown hair gorgeously, and even sweat didn't mar her youthful features.

"It seems...I cannot best you," she said softly.

Deadpan, Ezio replied, "I guess not." He was ready for anything, though his outward composure seemed slack. He didn't know this woman; she may be ready with throwing knives or a shrapnel bomb or another fire poker. "Why are you following me?"

Looking sheepish, Rosetta nudged a loose roof tile with her booted foot. The hardened red clay clicked satisfyingly as it broke. "I...I saw my father's documents. I found the letters, the contracts, the bribing files..." Her voice shook. "I saw the seals of the Borgias and the Templars...What you said, what you claimed he was..."

Tears fell, and Ezio cursed inwardly. Without intending it, Rosetta had struck his Achilles' Heel. He hated seeing a woman cry.

"Rosetta," he said, even as she began to weep in earnest. He didn't approach her – that would be unwise – though his words were soft and sympathetic. Acknowledging his caution, she didn't dare come closer either, but she leaned against a chimney and buried her face in her hands.

Ezio gritted his teeth. "Rosetta, I am truly sorry for your loss, but it was for the good of the city. Your father played the wrong game and had to pay the price."

"I know!" Rosetta shrieked, throwing her arms down, tears gleaming on her cheeks. "I know what he did was wrong! I know you were doing what you thought was right! I'm not a child."

"I never said you were," said Ezio, finding himself stepping closer. He hesitated, then continued. "I understand your...thirst for revenge. I have been trying to slake mine for fifteen years."

Rosetta wouldn't meet his gaze. "Make me an Assassin," she said.

Ezio blinked. "What?"

"Make me an Assassin."

For a moment, he forgot how to think. Then the hammer came down. A Templar's daughter, an Assassin? That didn't sound right. It was like turning a bear cub into a tiger. It simply didn't happen.

"Euh, Rosetta—"

"What, is it because I'm of noble blood?" she demanded, and all at once, her sorrowful eyes became as hard as marble.

"Er, no—"

"Is it because I'm a woman?"

"No—"

"Is it because you think I'm foolish? Stupid? Because I'm a woman of noble blood who's foolish and stupid—?"

"Rosetta!" Ezio thundered, making the woman quail. He steeled himself. "You do not understand," he said, backing away. "You can never be an Assassin."

"Why? Why not, Ezio Auditore da Firenze?" Rosetta stepped after him, brow creased dangerously.

"You do not understand," the Assassin repeated, swinging down over the edge of the roof. He dropped from ledge to ledge, nimble as a monkey, and then blended in the crowd. He never saw her in Venice again.

Ezio dragged his finger along a split in the wood of the bar, lost in thought. Now a month later, he was on his next mission yet still mulling over the last one. Constantly, he was on the watch for Rosetta, fearing that she may be stalking him.

The thought of having someone, even one so beautiful as she, tailing him put him on edge. Perhaps that was why he was in this slum-hole, choking his frustrations in hollow ale and casting calculating looks at the suspicious smudge on the tankard. No one, even a person who barely knew him, would expect finding him there.

As per habit, Ezio casually rubbed his left elbow against his side, where the pouch hidden in the inside of his shirt rubbed against his lower ribs. It was an inconspicuous place, a place where he put the most valuable of objects and documents. Even the slipperiest thief would be challenged in retrieving it from such a location – he would have to cut open Ezio's shirt and then undo the clasps of the pouch to take anything, but by then, he would already be dead for trying.

Now, occupying that special place were the plans for the Assassins' next objective. There was a Templar headquarters in the countryside near Perugia, an influential little town of the trading routes heading for the city. The Templars charge high taxes for "protection" from bandits on the road.

Niccolò Machiavelli had entrusted Ezio with the documents like he would no one else, except perhaps Mario Auditore or his own mother. It had the times, numbers, supplies, tactics, everything. Tomorrow, Ezio was to meet la Volpe in the shadows of the Santa Maria del Fiore, the cathedral of Florence. A public place, which made it all the better to blend with the crowds.

It was only a few moments later that Ezio felt for the pouch again. Then he shook himself. He was being ridiculous! It wasn't going anywhere. Rosetta wasn't following him, the documents couldn't be stolen except from his stone cold dead body, and there was no reason for him to be in the filthy, mangy, rowdy tavern any longer!

His gloved fist banged the bar top in a fit of determination, though the sound was lost in the riot of drunken sots and whores. He stood from the unforgiving stool, only for the tides of fuzzy nausea to sweep him away. With a grunt, he sat back down. He stared at his hand, watching it go in and out of focus.

Whoa.

How drunk was he?

He looked to the three tankards before him. Initially, he had only ordered two, but when the third came, he was so lost in his tangle of thoughts that he accepted it without question. He had friends he didn't know he made; perhaps one sought to ease him in his troubled life?

Even as he watched, however, the three tankards became six, then nine.

"Cazzo..."

He wavered dangerously in his seat. The rambunctious din of the tavern blurred and moulded into a lump of worthless nonsense in his ears. His tongue started to feel like a chunk of leather, fuzzy leather, not to mention his skull. His limbs numbed and his vision darkened.

No, no, no!

He sluggishly clamped his hands on the edge of the bar, fighting to remain upright. His head lolled to the side, his concealing hood slipping back.

"Merda, she found me."

With a crash, Ezio fell from the stool and landed on his side. None but his neighbours paid any heed, and even they just glanced hazily at him before continuing to drown their sorrows in grappa.

It smelled like rancid alcohol and piss on the floor. Ezio tried to raise his head, to prop himself on a shoulder, to lift an arm, but it was as though the air had thickened to the mud of a pigpen.

"She found me..."

His vision darkened with every throb of his fading heart. As he drifted softly into the void of the unconscious, he heard a familiar woman say flirtatiously, "A little too much, I'm afraid. Don't worry, Luigi, I'll take care of him."

~ λ ~

Invisible weights had been tied down to every inch of his body, even his eyelids. He fought to open them, but just a slit took too much effort, and they fell shut again. He had to contend himself with his other senses to determine his predicament.

There was a faint pulse of noise, probably from the bar down below, which meant that he was in one of the upstairs rooms. He was also lying on something soft – soft being not wood – and that indicated that he was on a bed, face up. That explains where. The tangy smell of tallow candles filled his nostrils, their faint light seeping through his eyelids. His mouth tasted like he had licked a cat.

Ezio tried to groan, but that also took too much energy. It was as though a mule decided to sit on his chest.

"...Uhblag..."

Even he didn't know what he had tried to say.

No matter how much danger he was in, Ezio could not help but surrender himself to sleep. He was sure that when he woke up later, he would be a lot stronger.

He was partially right. It was silent downstairs by the time he tried to open his eyes again, though his limbs were still filled with stones. He could breathe better, at least, and it was easier to raise his eyelids.

Air burst through his nose as he turned his head with considerable effort. To his right was a table, upon which stood a small candelabra with three weeping candles. Everywhere else that he could see was in shadow, not that he could see much anyway. He lifted his head now, and saw the rays of the moon splayed across a chair in the corner. Folded lumps of what may be clothes sat on that chair, and Ezio realized with a start that they were his. All he had on was a baggy, cotton shirt and dark trousers.

Machiavelli's documents! he thought, horror spawning rapidly.

With a groan, he tried to sit up, but he might as well have been pulling a sack of bricks bigger than he was tall up a mountain, and he fell back down to the bed.

His despair was interrupted by a tinkling laugh in the darkness.

"Silly tesoro," giggled Rosetta, stepping into the moonlight like a fallen angel. Ezio flinched, just seeing her upper body, which was clad in a wispy gown.

"Ma certo," Ezio slurred. "Of course." Rosetta's smile broadened wolfishly, and the Assassin scowled. Even her predatory looks made her tantalizingly alluring.

"Poor Ezio. So helpless, so weak, despairing in the knowledge that no one knows where he is—"

"Puttana!" Ezio spat, his tongue still heavy. Rosetta frowned prettily. Templar wench!

"Now, now, lovey," she scolded lightly. Perhaps it was his anger, but the Assassin suddenly had the strength to lift his head and see her completely. She was standing at the foot of the bed in her too-thin, clingy gown, something in her hand, though he couldn't tell what.

"You say I cannot be an Assassin," she said, more darkly, "yet here you are, at my mercy. A master fallen at the hands of an amateur. Perhaps I have...overestimated your order."

Ezio tried to roll over, for from there he could attempt to stand, but the air pushed back; it was too restricting, too heavy. He grunted in the effort, coaxing another smile from the Templar's daughter.

"It was easier than I thought it was going to be," said she, stepping closer. "A simple dabble in a tankard, and you were mine."

"The stain..." Ezio muttered, recalling the unfathomable black smudge on his mug. It had been poison! But then Rosetta shook her head.

"No. I don't know what that was. I simply added a powder to the drink and sent it your way."

Absurdly, Ezio felt disgust rise to the forefront of his roiling emotions. What the hell was on that tankard?

Rosetta moved ever closer, coming to stand at the left side of the bed. Her bedazzling features caught the candle light and glowed like the sun. Damn, she was beautiful. Then Ezio noticed that it was a small knife in her hand, and his heart hammered in his chest. He was sure that she could hear it.

He used up all the strength in his neck, and breath hissed through his nose as his head fell back onto the lumpy pillow. Frustration boiled like a thunderhead within him, and he bared his teeth in a growl. "Vai a farti fottere."

He thought the woman's smile couldn't get any sweeter, or any more like the vixen she was. He was wrong.

"Why would I do that?" she asked. "You're here, after all."

Merda, Ezio thought, eyes unwittingly flashing from hers to the knife and back again, sweat beading his brow. There was a strange tingle between his shoulder blades, a sign that usually meant that he should start running.

"Why can't I be an Assassin, Ezio Auditore?" Rosetta asked, a slight pout jutting her lower lip forward. Ezio focused on that lip, and then flinched as she lunged with the blade, straight for his belly.

No! He shut his eyes, braced for inescapable pain...then felt a tug on his clothes. He frowned, and glanced cautiously down himself. Rosetta was sliding the knife up his shirt, slicing the cotton like butter. Before he knew it, the material was parted, baring his chest to the air. She smiled like a mother to her child, and then sat on the edge of the bed. Her smile became less motherly and more marauding as she ran a soothing hand up his abdomen, tracing the lines of the muscles tenderly, inquisitively. Ezio shivered, but not of cold. It was as though she had warmed her hands in heated water.

"Il bel ragazzo," she whispered, feeling his battle-hardened pectoral. By the hungry flicker in her emerald gaze, she was impressed, if not reluctantly so. "Bello, tanto bello." She played with his nipple for a while, him being too helpless to shove her hand away. He didn't want her filthy Templar claws on him!

Rosetta must have felt the anger in his aura, for she grinned like a fox again, merciless and cunning. Ezio was so unprepared for what she did next, that he merely stared at the ceiling in shock – she crawled on top of him, draping her delicate body over his muscular one, and mouthed at his neck.

"I don't have to be your Assassin," she cooed softly, now nibbling his ear. "I can be so much more..."

"Rosetta..." He still couldn't move, not enough to shrug her off. Part of him, however, didn't want to. She was so soft, so warm, so supple, a woman that should not be the daughter of a Templar. "Rosetta, don't." He moaned as she ran her hands through his thick dark hair, nose brushing against his ear. She smelled like jasmine. "Please don't..."

"So much more..." Her lips ventured dangerously close to his, her warm breath teasing his skin. A shudder rippled down his immobile spine, and then he inhaled stiffly as her hand wandered down, into the front of his trousers. He felt himself harden.

Oh, of course, he thought in annoyed disgust: everything else was weighed by stones, but his little friend worked just fine!

Rosetta giggled, releasing his coglioni and sitting up, straddling him. He didn't think that there was anything under that wispy gown of hers. She smiled down at him, then reached up and undid the lace at her bosom just as as the first of the three candles sputtered from existence. In the slight darkness, Ezio's eyes widened as Rosetta leaned forward again, her sweet-smelling, auburn hair cascading over his face, tickling his nose. She pushed her body against him, her hands exploring and massaging his powerful shoulders. She was nosing his ear again, and it took a while for him to realize that his hands were clenching. He was getting control again!

Perhaps it was the euphoria of that last realization, for when Rosetta's lips finally met his, he opened his mouth and coaxed her in. At first, she was equally surprised, but then she entered with a will, tasting his tongue as though it were sweet honey. She moaned in longing, her hand rising from his shoulder to run through his hair, to bring his head up and closer to hers.

Ezio was regaining control of his body, not control of his lust.

It was after several passionate moments that he felt his arms raise, albeit sluggishly, to feel along her slender back. She sighed into his mouth, using one of her hands to encourage his in its exploring. He found himself trying to pull her gown off, but the efforts were thick, clumsy, and finally Rosetta withdrew, giggling, from the kiss and sat up. She pulled the dress from around her waist and over her head before casting it away impatiently. Ezio was right – there was nothing underneath it.

Peculiar tingles commandeered his body as Rosetta played with the strings on his trousers. Ezio grumbled, his own patience waning, and he helped her undo the strings and drag the leggings down before pulling her down beside him. With every moment, he was reacquiring lost control and strength. His body was alive with fervour, and he felt himself shiver with anticipation as he rolled on top of her, muzzling her throat affectionately.

"Oh, Ezio..."

Her jasmine-scented hair toyed with his senses teasingly, alluringly.

"Be gentle with me, Ezio," she whispered, her arms wrapping around his chest in preparation. "One must always be gentle when entering a field of flowers not yet tainted."

Almost immediately, the Assassin realized what she meant. Caro Dio.

Ezio was gentle, but not entirely merciful. Rosetta moaned as he impaled her, his motions smooth and sure. He was a dance teacher showing her how to dance; she learned quickly and eagerly, a natural. He was the stallion, determined to prove himself to his chosen mare. She was a untarnished virgin, but she moved like a veteran.

At one point, Rosetta gasped, and he stopped, fearing that he had hurt her.

"No," she said, embracing him desperately. Her heart beat in sync with a hummingbird's wings. "Don't stop."

Having trained hard for years for the gruelling, demanding life of the Assassin, Ezio had the stamina to run the a horse's legs from under it, but his enthusiasm soon drained him, and he paused, gasping, poring what energy remained into his arms so that he did not crush Rosetta beneath his weight. The Templar's daughter, too, breathed heavily from the exertion, and she shuddered against him, needing rest but wanting more.

Finally, begrudgingly, Ezio pulled himself out of her and rolled onto his back, sweat gleaming faintly on his tested body from the single candle on the table. She acknowledged his need for respite and did not pursue him, but instead remained beside him, closing her eyes.

Gradually, the Assassin's heart eased, its frantic, excited pace soothed by his urging. It never returned to its regular, steady rhythm, but at least his chest loosened a bit.

He didn't realize that he had fallen asleep until he opened his eyes and found that he had cuddled up to Rosetta's back, arms around her, her own body curled on its side and breathing evenly. The captivating scent of jasmine, now tangled with sweet perspiration, played in his nose as Ezio kissed her shoulder, squeezing her gently with his arms. She shifted, sighing in relaxation, reassured by protective embrace of a male.

"You've 'overestimated' us, eh, Madonna?" he teased, nosing her ear. She shivered, expectant, as his hands slithered under her upper arms to gently fondle her breasts.

"Ezio..." She slowly rolled over and placed a delicate hand on his shoulder. The Assassin let her push him onto his back and straddle him. The last candle had gone out, and so the only light came from the window, from whence a trickle of dawn spied through the shutters like a Peeping Tom.

Ezio moaned gently as Rosetta impaled herself on him, sating him in the only way a man could be sated. Her hips swayed like a ship at sea, gently, but in anticipation for a storm. He whispered her name coarsely, timidly, but he was silent when the moment came, leaving her cries of passion to fill the room in solitude. Then he pulled her down for a kiss, which she returned without hesitation, her tongue entering his mouth and exploring eagerly. She tasted so sweet, that when she tried to draw away to breathe, Ezio followed her, allowing no room for respite. Eventually she was trapped beneath him again, but she did not resist.

"You Florentine," she murmured softly as his lips crept down to nibble at her throat seductively. Her hands traced the lines of his back muscles, and he shuddered against her. "You Assassin..."

~ λ ~

Ezio pulled the ivory hood of his order over his head, and checked his vambraces one last time. He took up Altaïr's sword leaning against the far wall and slipped it silently into its sheath at his side. Finally, he cast one last longing look at the beautiful Rosetta Talento da Venezia, lying asleep and oblivious in the rumpled bed. His throat closed as he turned his heart away and built up a wall around it. He had to. If he didn't, he wouldn't leave.

Gently, cautiously, the Assassin pushed open the shutters and window, emitting the morning sounds of the city. He glanced back once more.

"Addio, la mia cara," he whispered, kissing his fingers and then climbing out the window.

~ λ ~

An advantage about the Santa Maria del Fiore is that it was impossible to lose. Ezio located her massive dome in moments after reaching the rooftops, and with casual leaps and bounds, he gracefully overcame cavernous abysses that were the streets of Florence, and startled pigeons from the eaves as he flashed past, a swift white ghost of the city.

Near a half hour later, the Piazza del Duomo at the foot of the cathedral splayed out before him in all its glory. Scores of people crossed all at once, all the time, the normally blindingly white stone pavement glowing a warm yellow in the rising sun. Ezio wasted no time in crossing the square and slipping into the space between the nave and the Campanile di Giotto. He scaled the cathedral wall with practised ease.

The sun was warm on his face as he strolled casually along the roof to Brunelleschi's dome. He embraced the coming dawn with a sense of satisfaction as he climbed yet further before setting himself down on the lip of the coppery dome, over fifty metres above the pavement below. Such a height was nothing now. He remembered peaking the Campanile di San Marco in Venice...

He marked the sun. There were still about two hours until he was meant to meet up with la Volpe. Content to wait, Ezio reached into his shirt and felt for the special pouch nestled near his left side. As he suspected, when he opened the clasps, it was empty. Machiavelli's documents had been stolen.

"Oh, Rosetta..."

Ezio chuckled, then took his hidden blade and split the seam along one edge of the pouch. The threads split, and he reached inside to retrieve the rather rumpled sheets of parchment. The real documents.

"Templar wench," he grunted, grinning to himself.

ȦϾ