The flutter of an erratic heartbeat was loud in his ears, muffled by the thudding of heavy feet on cobblestone, heard only under the cries of rage and sorrow from the woman just in front of him. His wrist, small but firm under the protective press of her fingers, served as the tether between the two. She ran, her worn flats scraping ungracefully along the stone as she towed her cargo closer and closer to the water. He followed as quickly as he could, being more dragged by the frantic woman than lead by her.
Though he could've easily found his balance and taken control of his own pace to run alongside the woman, he did not, for he did not see her. He saw only shapes and blurry forms as they whipped by, heard only the baritone of the voices yelling behind them but not the words they carried. His mind was dominated by the smell of rope and wind and the lingering sounds of creaking wood in an otherwise silent courtyard.
"Boy!"
He felt warm arms envelop him, their rapid quivering jarring him further. He shut his eyes tightly as the warmth curled around him, a feminine voice shrieking threats and swears he could remember exchanging with his friends on the schoolyard not three hours ago.
"My boy, I want you to run," said the voice in his ear, hushed but nevertheless urgent. "I want you to run from this place as far and as fast as your legs will take you. Fly like I know you can. Fly like a Passerini, passero."
He was released, pushed away from the warmth and into a flurry of colours and sounds. He fell back on his rump, his vision finally clearing to the sound of a single, bloodcurdling shriek.
"Madre?" With horrified wide eyes, the blonde boy watched as his dark-haired mother crumpled to the cobblestone, blood pooling in her hand from a gaping wound in her gut, the dagger she'd been desperately trying to fend off her attackers with still clenched tightly under white knuckles. "Madre!" Forced out of his haze by a red reality, the boy scrambled forward to the prone body of his mother, who still tried desperately to pass words from her lips but lacked sufficient energy to do so. Her eyes, blue as the sky above them, fixed once more on her boy before the light of life was drained from them for good.
Unable to help himself, the boy shrieked.
"Little brat," hissed one of the men who stood about the scene, his sword not the bloody one, but withdrawn nevertheless. "Pick him up, we'll sell him to the traders."
One of the men approached the hysteric boy, unknowingly triggering an instinct the boy wasn't aware he had. In a flurry of motion and nerves, the child wrenched his mother's dagger from her hands and stabbed it forward at the hand that reached for him. The blade pierced parallel to the flesh of the man's hand, right between his ring and middle finger. The howl of pain that burst from his lungs made any nearby flinch in alarm. His little attacker lunged forward and pulled the man's sword from his sheath, holding the heavy weapon awkwardly in both hands but looking driven enough by a terrible hysteria to manage it anyways.
The captain of the small patrol stood back, watching the child with wise eyes.
The less experienced soldiers would not care enough to observe, but it was clear to the captain that the boy was blinded. Not by any physical force, but by the mental trauma of the past few, hectic moments. Here he watched a wild cub, not quite old enough to know the true embrace of independence but not young enough to be entirely reliant on his guardians, fight for the lives he couldn't save. He no longer cared for his own – no, the frantic attack of his guard was proof of that. In his last, hysteric moments, the young boy simply looked to gain some revenge for what he had witnessed.
A father on the gallows.
A mother on the floor.
Both gone.
The boy swung, trying his hardest to properly maneuver a blade far too heavy for him and clearly unable to hit any of the targets he aimed for. It was pathetic. A cub with the will to fight but no claws to brandish. He was a waste of time and an entertaining spectacle no longer.
"Kill him."
The shriek that drove others away was like a beacon to Ezio.
The man turned towards the sound, perched precariously on the corner of a rooftop overlooking the city. He focused his attention in that direction as his body already moved to investigate. He leaped from the roof to catch himself on an under hanging lamp and launch himself to the next roof. A second, masculine shriek put an urgency in his step. He flew across the rooftops, heading towards the waterfront, his robes billowing out behind him from the sheer velocity of his travel. He stopped only to avoid running right off the edge of the roof and into the water.
The smell of blood rose up from below him, but the smell was not nearly as nauseating as the sight of the source.
A woman lay sprawled on the concrete, blood colouring her front a brilliant red. Standing in front of her corpse was a boy who wildly swung a sword too big for him, missing the soldiers that stepped back or out of the way. The captain watched from a safe distance, uttering only two cold words into the chaos.
"Kill him."
As if obeying, Ezio leaped from the rooftop with that very thought in mind. His weight crashed down upon the captain, his hidden blade already buried in his neck. He rushed forward in time to catch a soldier who had lifted his blade to strike by the shoulder, spin him around and drive the same blade into his neck. Ripping it to one side, his effectively flung the corpse in the same direction and cleared his weapon. The other two soldiers quickly shared a similar fate, one sporting a new hole between his collarbones and the other carrying a crossbow bolt in his throat.
As the last body fell to the floor, the dark-clad assassin turned to the child, both surprised and amused to find him still swinging.
"Little warrior," he called with what he imagined to be a sympathetic smile, "you can lay down your arms now, no more danger will-"
Ezio quickly lifted his arm to catch the heavy blade swung downwards at his shoulder. He caught the metal within the palm of his climbing glove. He looked down to the boy, noting that his eyes were closed and his cheeks wet with tears. Red flecks could be seen in his blonde hair, red that could either be traced to his mother or the guard with the bloody hand lying dead on the floor.
He closed his hand completely around the blade and wrenched it from the boy's grip, who opened his eyes in surprise and jerked forward with the motion. He stumbled, caught only by Ezio's swift arm in his path. The blade was tossed aside as the boy backed up, eyes now wide with fear. The assassin knew what he was thinking.
He didn't know who this man was, but he was dangerous to have taken out the guards.
"Easy there," said the man, noting the youth's hostile expression. "I'm not going to hurt you."
The blonde boy glanced down to the body of his mother. His face seized up with pain and he turned to run. Ezio stepped in his path.
"Relax," he said again, more forcefully. The boy turned to run again, stopped when Ezio reached forward and grabbed the back of his shirt, practically throwing him to the ground. It hadn't been an intentional act of violence, but it seemed to only give the boy more motivation to attempt to escape. He scrambled on all fours until he could rise, sprinting away. Ezio overtook him quickly, putting himself in the boy's path once more.
This time, the boy paused only for long enough to bring the toe of his boot right into the assassin's nether regions, missing his armor in the worst possible places. Try as he may, Ezio could not remain completely composed. He stumbled, expression strained as he bit back a hybrid cry of pain and rage. The boy wove around him and continued to run.
Now, he definitely wasn't getting away.
Ezio drew in a long breath between his teeth and turned, managing to find enough composure to run properly after the boy, if not a little slower than he had been moments before.
Honestly, he should've just let the boy go then and there. He'd already expressed a lack of gratitude and an absence of desire to associate with his savior, the assassin should just let the kid carry on his merry ball-kicking way. But no, far more than his pride had been damaged by this encounter, he'd make the kid pay – even if it was only with a goddamned thank you for saving my miserable life.
He'd just begun to catch up to the fleet footed kid when the stranger did something odd. With familiar grace, he hopped up onto two boxes and leaped to an overhanging lamp, scrambling to drag his body atop it and then launching himself towards the roof ledge. Ezio followed as the child pulled himself onto the rooftops and continued to run. Intrigued, Ezio found himself slowing intentionally, now wondering what other surprises the kid was going to pull.
He followed the boy as he raced across the rooftops. He stuck mainly to the small gaps between buildings and only climbed things he could manage easily with his height, and every landing was not without a slight stumble. These things told the assassin that the boy he chased was not formally trained. He was just naturally following the instincts that told him to leap this way or that. Impressive, really, but an understandable talent.
Eventually, the chase came to a halt when the boy reached a gap he was not confident enough to leap. He hesitated on the edge and Ezio slowed. It was likely the boy didn't have the strength to make the jump or catch himself should he miss.
"Stop this," called Ezio, startling the boy. "I only want to talk with you."
"I don't want to talk with you, stronzo!"
The child received an unimpressed look for his word choice, a look that simultaneously noticed that the boy was still crying, despite his strong words and stubborn expression.
"Please, I'm just looking for information on the hanging today. Perhaps you could help me with that?"
It was really only a wild guess on Ezio's part, but the boy's reaction told him he'd hit his mark. The blonde narrowed his eyes and turned away, neglecting to remember that those actions did nothing to hide the fact that he was crying if he still went to rub at his eyes.
"Or perhaps it is you who needs to talk?"
"Vaffanculo!"
The boy jumped.
Ezio hid his surprise, but not the urgency of his sudden dash forward, wondering what he could do to prevent the streets of Roma from creating a puddle out of the boy when he hit the stone. He skidded to a halt at the edge, unsure how he felt upon seeing that the boy had landed safely on a balcony on the opposite side of the street and was now leaping from lamp post to lamp post away from him.
Part of him was impressed, the other part annoyed, while a third part wondered whether or not they could call it a day and just go home now.
The assassin followed regardless, crossing the gap in one practiced leap and tailing the boy just above him. Just as Ezio was deciding it was well past time to stop playing with the child, the blonde suddenly leaped into the street from his perch. It was a far less precarious a jump, but to the untrained runner could be a painful landing. He hopped down onto a post and watched at the boy landed headfirst – not into the cobblestone, but into a wagon of hay being quickly pulled along by a lively horse and his rider. The boy swam up to the surface of the hay, poking his blonde head out from the like-coloured straw and directed a sky blue gaze to the assassin who watched from above.
The boy, even with his tear-stained cheeks, still found the nerve to tilt his head back and flick his fingers at the man along his chin, mouthing yet another curse to the man who remained perched above, but was not moving to follow. Ezio did not grant the boy the pleasure of a visual reaction, but he was annoyed at the brat's behaviour. Was he satisfied with letting the pint-sized pain escape from him in a wagon after sacking him? Not at all.
Slowly, he stood up and watched the wagon and the boy within it turn a corner. His eyes narrowed before he turned and stepped back up to the rooftops, readjusting his course as he deemed necessary. He didn't have to follow the boy – he had a feeling he knew where he was going.
It was a while before the boy emerged from his hiding place, unaware that the dark-robed assassin was perched carefully just above where the boy stumbled out of a haystack. It was not the same haystack that had served as his medium to escape his earlier pursuer, as he had transferred to a stack closer to the stables and closer to his end destination. In that smelly pile of horse feed the boy waited for the sun to set.
What he did not take into his calculations was the fact that guards frequently poked at the haystacks, very familiar with the possibility of a criminal hiding within them. The boy met no such problem, however, as the guards who approached the stack were lured away by a nearby commotion or a glimpse of an assassin in the crowd. When the boy stumbled out into the streets once more, the city was dark and quiet.
Under the cover of night but almost oblivious to its embrace, the boy staggered down the street, ignorant to the shadow following him above. His tired feet brought him to the town square, where he hesitated in the darkness and looked out to the moonlit clearing. The boy made a sound like to sobbing and continued forward, each step an immeasurable challenge to the quivering youngster. He stopped when he hit his knees, just before a raised wooden platform which stood ominously in the moonlight. Hanging from a thick, wiry rope was the body of a man who swung with the wind.
Ezio watched from the shadows of an alleyway – watched as the boy sobbed and screamed weakly, only to hush himself desperately and bury his head in his hands, continuing to shake and shiver. The assassin was about to move towards him when the boy suddenly looked up. The moon illuminated a determined look, bathing the child's figure in silver as he pushed himself to his feet and staggered up the stairs to the body.
The child tugged on the man's legs, as if trying to somehow dislodge the rope around his neck. Sobbing quietly, he tried stretching up to reach the rope, tried pulling the man's body down, tried throwing a nearby block of wood at the support from which the rope hung. He tried over and over again, Ezio unable to do anything more than stand and watch, immobilized by sympathy.
Finally, the boy surrendered and crumpled to the platform with another wave of sobs. It was then that Ezio found the will to move.
"Is that your father?" he called into the light, stepping out from the shadows otherwise silently. The boy jumped in surprised, scrambled to the edge of platform as if he intended to run again. Instead, the boy grabbed the loose wooden plank he'd thrown earlier and leaped off the platform, standing protectively in front of it – between Ezio and the man who hung there.
"That's enough," Ezio said firmly, "I do not wish you or your father harm. I only look to help." Holding up his hands to show his peace, the assassin continued to advance, walking right past the boy who stood stone still in hostility and ascending the steps with slow, respectful movements. He curled one arm around the corpse's waist, and with his free hand swiftly launched a throwing knife past the rope that bound him. The rope snapped and the body fell lifelessly into the Italian's arms.
Ezio cast a look back to the boy, who watched with awe from the ground, then moved to approach the youth. He set the body carefully on the ground at the boy's feet. The boy looked from the corpse to the assassin, as if unsure how to proceed.
Equally unsure, the man could do little more than nod, which seemed to give the boy permission to crumble to the floor over the body of his father. He sobbed into the man's cold chest, his cries muffled by the fabric of his shirt. The assassin waited, allowing the boy a few minutes to exude his sorrow, before crouching opposite him and ghosting his fingers over the man's face, closing the eyes that stared blankly ahead.
"Requiescat in pace," he muttered, simultaneously drawing the boy from his sorrow.
"W-what do I do?" The boy asked, his voice shaking and weak. This was a far cry from the stubborn little brat who'd been bounding over the rooftops earlier that day.
"Your mother and father should be put to rest, no?" The boy nodded, swallowing a sob and biting his lip. "Is there somewhere they can be buried?"
"M-my family has a tomb...on the outskirts of the city...th-there." Ezio rose, unsurprised by the young hand that swiped out to grab the bottom of the man's robes. "N-no!" The boy cried, before catching himself outside of his earlier defiant demeanor and lowering his gaze to his father with a frown. He still held tightly to the man's robe, but when he spoke again he was careful to keep the desperation out of his tone. "C-could you help me? I cannot carry the...the bodies across the city on my own..."
The man whistled, the sound drawing at attention of his nearby horse, who came bounding from around the corner at the call. The beast clicked to a halt beside the pair, following which Ezio lifted the body of the man from the ground and put him cautiously on the back of the equine creature.
"Come," said Ezio, "we've not much time before the guards' patrol finds the gallows robbed of their latest spectacle." The man lead the horse away by the reigns, the boy slowly going to follow with a last, loathing glance back to the gallows behind them.
The pair traveled in silence. They retrieved the body of the boy's mother from the street where it had been carelessly shoved out of the way and against a wall. Then, they swiftly crossed the city to the outskirts, where the boy asked the assassin to wait for him at the gate.
"This is something I want to do alone," the boy had said before leading the horse into the graveyard, stubbornly refusing to wipe at the fresh tears that began painting his cheeks and disappearing silently into the haze of early morning. When the sun had at last cleared the horizon, Ezio moved to check on the child, not surprised to find him kneeling between two plots, his head bent and whispering words of prayer to the wind.
"What will you do now?" Asked Ezio, somewhat wary of the answer he would get. "Where is the rest of your family?"
The boy broke his prayer, sat back on his hindquarters and let out a dry, bitter laugh.
"Family?" he growled, left with no more tears to accompany the words. "My parents were all I had." The youth gestured to the plots around them, though he did not look back to the assassin. "This is where the rest of my family is."
"Then you have nothing but opportunity left for you, boy."
Another dry laugh.
"Opportunity, of course."
Ezio frowned and lifted his eyes to the family headstone but a few feet away.
Passerini Da Roma
"To find a bird, one only needs to look to the sky," Ezio read the inscription on the stone aloud. Without missing a beat, the boy continued the proverb.
"To find the sky, one only needs to look to a bird."
Slowly, the blonde stood, looking so heavily weighted down by the events of the past few hours. Ezio put a hand on his shoulder, not surprised to find it shrugged off as the child turned away and stalked down the hill.
"So what will you do?" Ezio asked the boy, unmoving atop the slope and staring into the youth's back. "How are you going to find your sky?"
The child clenched his fists at his sides.
"I'm going to learn to fly," he hissed, "and I will drop the Borgia from the height I ascend to."
The man felt himself smile as he followed behind the boy, stopping just behind his unmoving body and speaking down to him, never without that smile.
"You are late, little warrior, the liberation of Roma has already begun." Slowly, the boy turned and lifted his grim expression to the assassin. "...And you are so young."
"My youth will be my weapon," returned the boy. "As you do, they will underestimate me. That will be their undoing."
"I did not say I underestimated you."
"You implied it."
"Perhaps. Or is it you who are inventing such claims?"
The boy scoffed and his gaze hit the ground. He looked about ready to storm off once again. Ezio couldn't help a little chuckle.
"I see myself in you, little warrior." Once more, the man put a hand on the boy's shoulder, pleasantly surprised to see the boy did not brush it away or shrug it off. "You are angry, and wish to avenge the deaths of those you care for. I understand this." The boy stubbornly glared at something off to the right, refusing to answer. "But you lack the skills to survive. I've seen you handle a blade, and I can't say I'm impressed."
"I will learn!"
"How?"
The boy bit his lip and retracted his angry stare.
"Do you intend to practice on the Borgia guards? I must say, I don't think they handle civilian rebellion with kindness and understanding." Ezio bent at the waist to meet the boy at eye level. "However," he continued, "I have seen you fly, and I am impressed."
The boy looked away, but this time out of embarrassment more than annoyance.
"You are young and foolish and could do with an attitude adjustment,"
"Ipocrita," hissed the boy.
"But if you are willing to learn, I am willing to teach you."
"Voi?" the boy scoffed, trying to sound unimpressed – trying to sound as if he didn't need the help. The image of vengeance he'd crafted in his mind did not involve being bossed around by an overconfident, bible-toting old geezer. "What makes you think you are suited to teach me?"
Oh, this one is quite the character.
Instead of falling into the boy's childish debates, the man simply smiled and patted the youth on his shoulder. He stepped to the side and walked right past the boy, whistling for his horse as he headed for the exit of the yard. He could feel the boy's confused stare on his back.
"If you truly believe yourself above my teaching, Passerini, then I wish you the best in your conquest against the Borgia."
Ezio approached his horse and, in a show of talent purely to impress, leaped into the saddle by vaulting over the horse's hindquarters. He seized the reigns in both hands and turned back to the boy a final time.
"If you change your mind and decide you're not above the advice of the likes of myself, visit Tiber Island. You may be surprised at what you find there."
With that, the man flicked the reigns and the horse took off, tearing out of the gates and leaving the youth standing confused in the rider's wake. The boy watched the man and beast vanish into a blurr on the horizon, after which he turned his gaze skyward, his green-eyed stare finding the dark shape of an eagle against the blue. The bird circled above him, crying proudly into the air before it too banked, moving as if to follow the man as it soared for the horizon.
To find the sky, one only needs to look to a bird.
Thoughts would be immensely appreciated. I don't know if I'm going to continue this, I do have a lot on my plate. So thoughts of encouragement/unadulterated rage are appreciated.
WHO ELSE IS STOKED FOR REVELATIONS?
(This is probably how I'm going to kill the time until the release date P:)
This is set probably some time before Cesare's death, dunno exactly when. Was inspired by the little kid on the dock who was crying for his mum