xii. written

[heloise]

[ Lucrezia writes in curled letters, more like pictures than text, a little poetry or is it a riddle? ]

πόλυ πάκτιδος ἀδυμελεστέρα χρύσω χρυσοτέρα


[ Meanwhile she is at the laundry room, seated on the floor with her light green gown spread about her. She has both hands on one machine, watching the colors spin through the glass with amazement on her face. Yellows, blues, greens and purples! ]

[ trans.; than the lyre, far sweeter in tone than gold, more golden. ]

Comments

[assassino]

[Ezio is somewhat shocked that she hasn't gotten it yet, despite him having said it numerous times, but he supposes he is speaking to the daughter of the Pope, a girl spoiled on Vatican riches -- and Templar riches. What has a girl like her ever had to apologize for in her damn life, short as it has been?]

An apology! I am not asking you to move mountains, I just want apology so that we can forget about this. If pride forbids you from speaking it in words, then bake it on a damned cake or write me a letter, I just want an apology.

[heloise]

[ The more he demands it, the more she is loath to give it to him, if only out of petulance. And if her family never forgives, then there is never any use to apologize, let alone to the others, the rest of the world.

She looks at him with anger, breath held, before she twirls around to rush out of the room. ]

[assassino]

[He just lets her go.

Maybe, he feels, he shouldn't have trusted a Borgia.]