Author's Note: Upon request by LokiPrince.
Assassin's Creed: Legion
The crowd of men and women that filled the Tiber tower that day - and even, as any day - seemed to speak and breathe as one, their laughing conversation and the spark of their training blades reverberating against the stone walls of this, their sanctuary.
Each had donned the white in which they prided, perched upon benches or walls, relaxed but ready, in case they were called. The headquarters was often full and noisy for most of the day, but each being listened subconsciously for the expected tread of their mentor, he who had brought them together. Some were impatient, others nonchalant and busy, but all waited.
Fondness had grown between these fledgling Assassins, both with each other, and with the eagle that guided them. Their time together could no longer be measured in conversations or lessons, but in months now, in lives taken and blood spilled.
To their master, they were no longer thought of as the recruit, or apprentice, or vigilante from the Antico - they were Simoni and Zaccardi now, Abete, Fabiani. To him too, they knew, they were master archer, deceiver, or maker of poisons, roles and specialties equal to their names. Together, they were a unit, flexibly broken or formed by the hands of their master, or by the trusted adviser who they knew just as well.
Today, they guessed at what awaited them, conversation turned to the mission they had worked on the past weeks. Cleansing their city of the Borgia had not been as direct as they had hoped, not with the spines Cesare had left, concealed and buried deep. His many agents remained hidden throughout the city, flitting behind the backs of politicians and clergy, and sheltering from these murderers who were everywhere and nowhere at once. There they hid, and there too, they festered.
They had faced these agents many a time, and could only suppose that the assignment to come would involve them as well. However, equally was there evidence to the contrary, as others were quick to point, bringing up the passing mention of a new group, a new danger, which had been the topic of conversation between their mentor and one of his visitors the previous day.
Little had been divulged to them, the master seeming bemused at their questions, but tightlipped. They had only received spare details, just a hint, from the man he had been speaking to – the artist who frequented their tower, who was neither brother nor soldier, but was ever welcome all the same. He was to be protected as closely as one of the Order, their mentor had once instructed.
However, even with these dropped words, debate was sparked nonetheless, and many of them guessed fervently, bandying at what mission would be set to them next.
The opening and shut of the watchtower door above was ignored at first, as so many of their comrades came and went whenever everyday life called them from this duty. However, a sharp whistle thrown into the tower interior was enough for their speech to die, extinguished as a wisp of smoke. Many eyes turned to the white-robed figure that had just entered, they abruptly attentive and mute.
He spoke their names, just four, and the others promptly turned back to what they had been doing, though with many returning the small smile of greeting upon the scarred lips. Spirited conversation returned again, and even as their master paced towards the street entrance, the summoned group was at his side within a breath; already knowing their usual roles, one pair for the ground, and one pair for the skies.
Their master had already exited into the coming evening, the flutter of the trailed black cape barely a signal to follow, but they had already leapt for their positions. Two followed the eagle on the wing, and two set after him from below. They were mere shadows to him, little more than discarded feathers, or the cast of his wings on the ground, but they would have it no other way.
All knew, but would not say it. They would follow him through fire and water if necessary.
Their mentor gave clipped orders to each of them, passed first to those of the ground, then to their partners of the sky. It only took a moment for they four to understand their individual tasks; affixing them to their minds and seamlessly becoming the unit they knew their master needed -the cover from behind, and those above, the openers of the way. The four could feel separate no longer, thinking not in I, or he, but in a single-bound we, and they.
Admittedly though, nerves leaked between them, tightening the lips of those that had yet to see death, and prompting quiet words of consolation from the senior members, vigilantes who had been there at the castello in the night of storm and usurped power, at the mentor's side even then.
This waver that rustled through them, fleeting as it was, seemed a signal to their master, and he glanced to them abruptly, meeting each of their eyes pointedly in a light-hearted request for strength. Even the newest among them felt heartened, they all knowing that he would protect them as much as they protected him.
The buildings opened up into the Antico, and the two above fell back, balancing upon the edges of the Campidoglio, within knife and bow range, as they were required. The two below were lost to the multitude of passing civilians, flowing away and back from the one they followed, as the crowd was wont.
Only the eagle strode forward purposefully, eyes affixed on the mossed marble and stone. Only he seemed able to both match the crowd, and part it, none of the citizens sparing him a second glance, but none barring his way either. The shroud of a quiet threat was felt by all those who drew near enough for the reach of his blade.
They two of the skies caught up as the eagle circled the foot of their destination, both allowing an opportunity for all of them to survey the area, and for them to gather as one again. They climbed swiftly up the crumbling bricks of the Colosseo's outer walls, and vanished over the lip of the second tier.
Now only the two of the ground remained, hovering at each of their master's shoulders, at different distances behind and ahead, inconspicuous but alert for any advance. They had not been followed, they were sure, but the only danger came in if they were awaited; the sanctuary of the wolves that they sought was far from a closely guarded secret.
Sure enough, the quiet chirrup from above - the clear signal for caution - was sounded as one of them detected the enemy presence. The rest did not shift their positions, only waiting upon their mentor, who they trusted would know how to handle the threat.
He brushed a hand to the pouch at his side, in which sat the item that they had been told to protect, at least until it reached its final resting place here below the arena. However, though the wolves had gone, died out along with the Borgia hands that had fed them, there still remained the newest threat, who were doubtlessly the ones lurking amongst the arched recesses.
It had been the artist who had learned of them several days ago, this group buried deep in the occult, and bearing the twined snakes and wings of Hermes. Somehow, they had caught word of the silver in the Order's possession, and sought it for themselves – and they too knew of this vault below the earth, which seemed to be the only walls capable of enclosing such poisonous power.
The master turned to look up at the two, his eyes above, and they signaled back the number of enemies. A score at the least, hooded as they, and coiled in wait. They knew they could handle them, but the true danger lay in these enemies taking the treasure sometime during the tangle of the battle.
The decision was made, and the lifted fist was enough of a command for the sky to be filled with loosed arrows, at least five of the enemy falling before they could look up. The master, flanked by the pair of the ground, broke free of the crowd and slipped past the concentric stones towards the central arena.
Dying enemies were finished off as each fell, and they two above did not halt their barrage, only slowing enough to allow their comrades and mentor to weave between the projectiles, they burying blade and fist into any flesh that managed to evade the lethal storm. The dancing white twisted into the sea of brown and orange, leaving the ground they stepped upon stained.
They had cut into a fair number when the gloved hand was raised again, a halt as the three below broke through the other side of the supposed ambush. They stilled, staring back a challenge at the disordered, half-dead crowd they had torn through. There was only silence here, and an offer, they realized, for their enemies to flee.
An offer, and a mistake, they soon found, with the two above noticing the danger a split second after their master's head had turned, the Sense of his eagle warning him first. The call of alarm came only just in time, as the two in the skies realized that they had been outflanked during the lull, Hermeticists with short blades missing them narrowly, and forcing them from their lofty perches.
The two above fled towards the safety of the arena and their comrade's backs, with enemies following them by the dozen, and balancing with equal skill upon the jagged ruins. They poured in seeming waves from the upper stories, flooding the circular pit with bodies and flashing blades.
They were forced together, a white semi-circle behind their master as they fought to turn back the tide of men that seemed to have materialized from nowhere, all of whom seemed willing to throw their lives into the dirt, if only for a chance for their fellow snakes to land a strike.
Their mentor killed three for every one they four managed, yet even with this combined effort, the stream of enemies did not seem to abate. The darkness shrouded their true number, and they only looked to be an unintelligible mass of danger and blood.
Such a miscalculation of the threat seemed to condemn them, and the two of the skies could only fight to redeem their mistake, emptying their ammunition into the enemies from the shelter of the circle their comrades provided. They all held their own resolutely, shakily ignoring the burn of their wounds and tired muscles.
The din of blades impacting armor and weapons and flesh seemed to drown out all else, but their master's sharp order cut through it nevertheless, they so attuned to the spoken signals, as they had been trained. The four drew back without a second thought, abandoning half-finished duels and withdrawing to the shelter of the mentor's wings, and the blinding golden light they had only just noticed he held.
The flash of the Apple shattered the lines of dusk, scattering enemies and causing several of them to recoil in surprise. Men were falling again, only a handful from the crowd, but they screamed as they did, the sound of beasts. The hysteria bled even to those untouched by the artifact's power, but the master was beyond forgiveness now.
Even those that fled were struck down, the golden tendrils seeking backs and faces alike, those hostile or unarmed or begging for mercy; it did not matter. The memory of the Creed whispered, and a little startled, the four turned nervous eyes upon their mentor.
By this point, none of them dared stop him, only staring in wordless shock as the blood pooled and as the writhing bodies clogged the gutters. A great many were allowed to leave, but the choice few caught by the light suffered.
This was not blood lust no, not the fiery rage that stole over a warrior and his dancing blade. This was something else entirely, held only by those who could extinguish a myriad of lives in a blink, who could drop men to their knees - to their graves - with the same effort as a drawn breath. No, perhaps that was not the most terrible of it. This power was controlled, purposeful, its target chosen deliberately, the tearing deaths methodical.
This was the deliberate strength of a vengeful god, a demon, and this terrified them.
Perhaps he did not realize it, was the communal whisper, the fearful voice of these who still felt respect for he who had led them to freedom. But the eagle they had followed was no longer himself, his very countenance seeming warped from the golden light and stains of crimson.
Ah, man would rue the day when the hand of death became as easy to wield as this.
They were not sure which one of them stood first, but it was only a blink before they four realized that one of their numbers had broken away, rushing to the master with questionable intent. None of them moved, except the one, one who grabbed at their master's sleeve and obstinately demanded a stop, waylaying one of the accursed treasure's strikes.
It was a mistake, at a terrible cost, and the thought that it met the desired result was dry succor.
The golden light was gone, disappearing with the one's last breath, and suddenly the Colosseo was so very dark, so very cold. It was in this moment that they realized that the master had been just as captive to the Apple as the enemies who had died. The change as it released him was writ clearly onto his face, usually so carefully masked. He did not move, a rigid phantom only staring upon the crumpled white form at his feet.
It was much too late, the life gone from the eyes. They could only watch him, he whose sudden on-rush of remorse near seemed tangible upon the air.
They did not blame him. How could they? This was war.
They glanced to each other, silent in their melancholy. Again, one of them had been taken, prey to the void, but still the unforgotten name was not spoken. They were equal, they knew it, and the ache would be the same, regardless of who had been lost.
Ending.