#and he had become alarmingly resentful and vicious

[canisalbus]

forgive me if this has been answered previously, but what were the circumstances around vasco finding out about machete's death? i'm heartbroken but fascinated to think about what his immediate reaction could have been

They don't live together, Vasco was at home in Florence at the time. Either someone who knew of their relationship managed to alert him of the murder, or he showed up in Rome to visit him just like countless of times before, and one time he was just gone. He would've missed the funeral for sure, and since Machete doesn't have family, his belongings would most likely end up escheated and subsequently liguidated by the church. He certainly wasn't remembed fondly, for the most part it was like he had never been there in the first place.

I don't want to get into the details but of course he was devastated. The threat of death was a constant presence in Machete's later years, he survived at least a couple of assassination attempts and his health kept getting worse. I think he tried to keep Vasco in the dark about how bad things were exactly, but Vasco didn't miss how his fear of death ramped up in intensity towards the end. So it wasn't a complete surprise when he found out they had finally gotten him. For a long time he had hard time not blaming himself for it, thinking whether he could've done something to prevent the outcome, whether his presence would've changed how things played out. Over the years he learned to live with the sudden and violent end of their relationship, but the first few years were extremely rough, the whole ordeal broke him in unprecedented ways and he never fully recovered to his previous state.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

The Killing Cure (Part 2)

Kill her.

Isn’t that what he had come to do?

He knows that he should. He wagers that it would be rather easy now, the disorientation of her new size alone puts him at the advantage. Coupled with an inability to use her claws, his odds her even better. He can’t imagine that she has any recollection of the limits of the human body. 

All of that aside, he is rather certain that she wouldn’t fight back if he were to let her. 

 “Just let my daughters be.” She requests. 

He is taken by a sudden sense of rage sense of rage. At first he can’t place where it had come from. He only registers that his hand had snaked out upon hearing the echo of skin on skin. He has never struck a woman before, has never put his hands on anyone at all…

God, what is this village doing to him? What is it shaping him into? Can he go back to his daughter the way he is now? “Let your daughters be!? You’ve stolen mine and you want me to let your daughters be?” 

How can he go back to his daughter if he kills someone else’s? But maybe it would do him well to let Lady Dimitrescu think that she is going to lose them. 

Her eyes, now a soft green-grey, plead and glare at the same time. And at the notion of her daughters’ demises, the grey seems to overtake the green. He presses his lips into a thin line, willing himself not to cave into sympathy. She doesn’t deserve it, only moments before she had been slashing and swiping at him. 

He draws his gun and begins walking away. 

She rises to her feet, wincing as she does so. This time her wounds do not heal. She clutches just above her hip, blood seeps generously between her fingers. She exhales her pain. “Ethan Winters,” she growls. “I won’t let you touch my daughters.”

She speaks as though she is still nearly ten feet tall but when she forces herself to her full height he has to conceal a laugh. He is, admittedly, a short man but she now stands smaller than even he. He almost caves in, he almost tells her that he is simply going to make his way out of the castle. Almost, but he manages to cling to his resentment, “you’ll have no say if they give me any trouble.”

Dimitrescu’s face twists into a snarl and those green-grey eyes flash with rage. Bleeding as heavily as she is, he hadn’t expected her to throw herself on top of him neither was he prepared for her to retain so much force. Ethan winces out an expletive as she pins his arms. 

He brings his knee up and slams it into her already bleeding side. She gives another sharp cry and he throws her off of him. She lands with a sturdy thud and a pained moan. He is on his feet again and looking down at the woman. The crimson is stark against her pale skin. 

She seems to curl in on herself, clutching her bloodied side. He can tell that she is trying to will herself to stand again. Her lip curls back with the pain, her fists clench, and her body shakes but she sits herself up. Her breathing is alarmingly labored but she is on her feet again, just barely. And when she speaks her voice is strained, “you won’t…” she huffs. “You won’t kill my daughters.” She takes a step forward, a stumbling step. She falls again, panting harder still.

He knows that she is going to try to stand again.

And he exhales quite dramatically and holds his hand out. She only stares at it.

“We aren’t all that different from each other are we?” He asks. 

“Excuse me?”

He half chuckles, “here.”  Ethan slips out of his jacket and hands it to her. He knows that he shouldn’t, that he should leave her to her suffering, should let her spend her final moments thinking that her daughters are being slaughtered. But he can’t do it. Can’t do it because she still has some scrap of humanity. Humanity that was there even before the blade pierced her skin. She loves those monstrous little beasts she calls daughter. He is certain that she’d let him run her through several times over or load her head to toe with bullets before she’d fall and let him take her daughters. 

The woman furrows her brows. 

She studies the dirty, rough fabric with a look that says that she’d rather flounce about naked than dress herself in such a hideous rag. 

“Go on, put it on.” Ethan encourages. 

“Why?” 

“Because you don’t have anything else to wear.”

Lady Dimitrescu shakes his head, “why does that matter to you?” In a few minutes time he reckons that  it won’t matter to her either, she is barely holding herself upright. 

“Because I’d also do anything to protect my daughter.” 

She offers him the slightest, saddest smile. “You’ll let them be?”

He inhales deeply, taking in a taste of her absurdly expensive floral perfume. “I’ll leave them alone.” 

Dimitrescu nods. 

And with that nod, Dimitrescu falls. 

And for a moment he is perfectly content with that. For a moment he is ready to leave this God forsaken castle. And then he thinks of her daughters. Of those, nasty little monsters. He thinks of confused, sad eyes. He thinks of Rose ten years on and mourning his untimely demise. 

“Dammit!” He kicks at the ground. “Dammit all!” Why can’t he just leave the woman to die. Why can’t he put aside his humanity like so many other souls in this hellish place? He scoops the woman up, her body--already cold--his heavy and limp in his arms. But he can see the rise and fall of her chest. 

He wanders out of the hallway and lays her down upon the nearest sofa that he can find. He rummages through his pack until he finds a bottle marked with a cross, green liquid swirls within. He groans to himself, it is his last one and he is going to waste it on her. 

He uncorks the lid and lets the liquid spill over the gash. 

“M-mother?” 

Ethan’s head jerks up. He isn’t sure which of the three he is facing. 

“What have you done to mother!?” She screeches. 

He lifts his hands, “I’m fixing it, I swear I’m...!” He doesn’t think that his response could have been any clumsier. Understandably unsatisfied with it, the woman drifts forward. He stumbles back and holds up the empty bottle, “see look.” He points. “Healing.” 

The woman cocks her head. 

“I’m healing her and then I’m leaving.”

“I should string you up and peel the flesh from your bones.” She growls. 

Ethan rubs his hands over his face, “I told her that I wouldn’t hurt the three of you.” He reaches for his gun anyhow. “Let me keep my promise.” 

She edges closer. 

“At least wait for her to wake up to…” he trails off as his mistake becomes transparent. A promise made to a dying woman has no weight if the woman is alive. Alive, rejuvenated, and ready to slay him. His sympathy is going to cost him his life. 

He was a fool to think, even for a second, to promise Lady Dimitrescu that he wouldn’t harm these vicious, vengeful creatures and a bigger fool to think that it was a good idea to stick around and heal her. He withdraws his gun, at first aiming it at the insect woman. And then an idea comes to him, he holds the gun to Lady Dimitrescu’s head.