This is originally being published on DeviantArt. Find the entire chapter, and future chapters, in my DeviantArt gallery.
This adventure has been inspired by the upcoming Assassin's Creed: Revelations. It has also been inspired by AvocadoPolymath, who inspired me to learn more about Leonardo da Vinci and Niccolo Machiavelli. Belvender: Translates into "beautiful". A character calls Belvender 'Belle', which is an affectionate nickname-and French for 'Beauty'. SPECIAL NOTE: Religion is featured in this adventure. I am, by NO means, trying to offend ANYONE without religious affiliations and/or those that bear beliefs different from the ones featured. I am only using religious figures/aspects of life to polish this story's message, and the history of featured nations. Religion was an integral part of the old history. Please DO NOT take the featured religious aspects as personal attacks. Just enjoy.
"I was once a believer in silence, but now...now I see differently."
Those words once came from the Brotherhood's Scribe, but they would forever remain engraved in the annals of time.
Niccolo had chosen not to acknowledge anything of the holy sort, but not a single soul could deny a rose's flourishing wings. The most treasured gift in all of Italia had taken flight, born and bred to accept an incredible destiny-and no one, in their right mind, would ever deny his divinity. Italia's gift was so bright, so beautiful and radiant, it was impossible to miss the obvious.
Unfortunately, Ezio had missed the obvious for quite some time.
The Brotherhood's Chieftain ignored the obvious for ages on end. The angels on high laughed as he walked about clueless, missing the task at hand: love their gem with all his might, come what may. It was every man's duty to love and adore him, but the Auditore had a special duty. It was his job to adore the gem in a way no other mortal could. He was meant to cherish and nourish the flourishing creature.
Unfortunately, Il Mentore did exactly the opposite.
They were friends once upon a time, yes, but things changed over the course of time. Italia's purest rose (whom many actually called Rosa) developed the most powerful feelings for the young Assassin, but the brash blade wielder ignored all glimmers of love and its warm light. As time went on, the distance between artist and Assassin grew-and it grew to a heart-breaking point. The Auditore only saw fit to use the rose's skills for profit, not out of adoration and encouragement. He rescued Leonardo from Cesare's cruel hands, right before the Borgia Scourge married him-
But being in Ezio's 'care' wasn't any better than being in Cesare's. And at least Cesare loved him enough to marry him, enforced or otherwise.
At that point, Leonardo would've killed himself a thousand times over for even a glimmer of the past. A glimmer of the light that was once was. The leader of the Assassin army was a cruel, unyielding soul, beating his until there was nothing left. He cared nothing for the trauma Cesare put him through, ignoring even the cries that rang through the night. All Ezio seemed to care for was the blood that trickled down his weaponry.
But as everyone knew, love was a very strange thing.
He had been nothing short of cruel, tearing the petals of Italia's most beautiful rose. He found out about the rose's designated path, and released wrath so tremendous, it would have frightened the demons of the Borgia army.
"So! This is what it has come down to! You tire of me, and now you wish to charm the sovereigns of Ireland! You are nothing more than a filthy, disgusting sewer rat! A rat that's not only responsible for killing my uncle, but for whoring half the sovereigns in all of Italia!"
Of course Leonardo said absolulely nothing, in accordance to his nature.
Niccolo Machiavelli said nothing, much against his nature.
Standing alongside two of the Auditore's students, he accidentally overheard the horrific assault on his way to the Brotherhood's library. The three men were instantly horrified by Ezio's tone; the words that followed piled scorn on top of their screaming hearts. How anyone could possibly torment such a priceless jewel was far beyond their comprehension. Far beyond the comprehension of any mortal in their right mind!
So it began. Niccolo kept out of sight, only conversing with the frequently enraged Ezio whenever he had to. Every other breath he took was spent on pursuing Italia's rose, who had gone off to Ireland in pursuit of destiny's completion. As he toiled away under the shining moon, hoping to catch even a glimpse of Leonardo's restored smile, he gradually uncovered the depth of the artist's fate. By the Priory of Scion, Italia's rose had been ordered to meet with Edward the Sixth, in hopes of quelling the flames that roared within Ireland's precious radiance. A tremendous war was raging between those of Ireland, and those of England. Edward, the son of a beloved patron, wished to exterminate all traces of Ireland's belief in favor of England's majesty.
The details were still entangled. Only one thing was sure: sending Leonardo into a war wasn't any different from sending a black widow to duel a cobra.
Mediator, artist, healer-it didn't matter. Ezio and Cesare had already done their worst damage. Casting a rose into another turbulent battlefield would only end the growth of all rose petals-permanently. Leonardo would be forever trapped in the dead of Winter, never again fated to taste the delicate rush of sunshine. So there was only one thing to do. Disregarding Ezio's obvious fits of sanity, the Brotherhood's Scribe dove into obscurity. He tried to intercept Leonardo's departing vessel, but uncontrollable circumstances prevented him from catching the ship.
Actually, uncontrollable weather and tempers prevented him from catching up.
With a pang of misery, Niccolo realized just how difficult it must've been for Il Mentore to handle so many students. He only had two accompanying him, and they were pains in his behind most of the time. They were the sweetest dears, bless them, but one loathed thunderstorms just as Ezio obviously despised Leonardo. The other must've had a thousand meals in a single day, needing to eat something everything hour. The Scribe marveled at how Alesio managed to stay as trim as a mountain stream.
Of course he was thrilled to have invaluable, kind souls at his side. And he had to take at least two representatives of sanity. If he had taken everyone that despised Il Mentore's assault on Italia's rose, the entire Brotherhood would have been left completely empty.
Aided by the good wishes of their comrades, Niccolo and his two assistants stole off in the thick of night. The Scribe endured endless rounds of chatter from his two friends, who blossomed into the best of friends over the course of their journey. Whenever the librarian caught Alesio and Belvender together, he couldn't help but wonder:
Heavenly Father, will my attendance at their wedding atone for past sins?
Every hour it was: "Might I take a bite of that?" "That looks nice. I'd like some!" "Will it EVER stop raining? Mio dio! I'm surprised we haven't drowned!" "Why don't you try some of this, Belle. It'll put a smile on that pretty face of yours!" "Grazie, mio amico, but it'll get all wet and I won't want any! Niccolo, do you think it'll ever stop raining?" "What a nice change this is. We should arrange a vacation, the three of us!" "Pastries are my life!" "Rain, rain, RAIN!" And of course Niccolo imagined himself shouting 'shut up' in every possible language, but...
Chose only to smile, in the end.
_
Eventually, Belle caught wind of the obvious. It was only raining so much because Heaven's precious gift to mankind had shed so many tears.
If Edward VI or anyone else laid even a single fingernail on Leonardo, Niccolo repeatedly swore to unleash Hell in all of its rapturous fury.
The way he placed his vows not only caused Alesio and Belle to silence themselves, but to fear the Scribe much more than they feared Ezio. It was every man's duty to adore a certain treasure, but if one surrendered their heart and soul to Italia's rose, then the deal was done. They surrendered themself to God's overflowing, enriching strength; the strength to move mountains, strike down the stars and dominate even the most intimidating of beasts.
Too bad he didn't want to take down Cesare.
_
As their journey went on, chatter about rain and pastries came to a gradual halt. Assassins and Scribe became restless, edging closer and closer to fate's dangerous threshold. None of them could deny the fear, the anxiety that grew in their hearts, all of which erupted from their entrance into a new world. New people, sights and sounds should have excited them, but they weren't anything short of apprehensive. They could only take comfort in their ability to roam freely, unhindered by the marks of Italia's Assassin Order. But that comfort was ephemeral, for many officials caught sight of their markings and fled. Niccolo quickly came to believe that another Assassin Order must've been built, somewhere in Ireland or perhaps England. It would only make painful sense, considering the unfathomable war between two vast nations.
Belle had been quite chatty at journey's beginning, but eventually fell silent. He only spoke when necessary, keep firm track of the air and their surroundings. When relaxed, the eighteen year old redhead spoke freely and happily-but when danger was afoot, he focused solely on the heat of danger. Like his counterparts, he couldn't stop worrying over Italia's rose-who was probably well on his way to becoming one of Edward the Sixth's baubles.
And of course Leonardo wouldn't say or do anything to stop any process. He never even defended himself against Ezio, who had been a firm old friend.
Time eventually carried all three of them to the steps of Dublin's greatest cathedral-Saint Patrick's Cathedral. What must've been the tenth thousandth thunderstorm graced their heads, but Belle paid no attention to it. Alesio kept him and Niccolo close, blade at the ready, wondering just where their journey would lead them next. And as the cathedral's grace roared above their heads, plummeting into the hearts, Alesio found his heart gasping for air. Truly the cathedral was a sight to behold, created to honor mankind's most precious figures: God, the Lady Mary, Saint Patrick, and ultimately-
A certain rose.
Niccolo couldn't help but stiffen, walking betwixt images he never could have imagined. The glorious gift to man's eyes staggered the senses, forcing man to rethink what he previously thought possible. "He might have been born in our age, but he's been guiding others for what seems like a thousand ages," the blue-eyed Alesio said, referring to the stained glass images of bygone memories. Portraits of religious pillars had been engraved onto the holy cathedrals walls, forever trapped in momentous events, but then there were other images. Images of many religious pillars honoring an angel's image.
An angel that was the spitting image of Leonardo da Vinci.
Niccolo hadn't spoken in hours, and remained adamant about keeping his silence. Slowly he walked through the cathedral's towering majesty, betwixt two friends who wouldn't think twice about risking their lives on his behalf. Able to take comfort in unbreakable security, the Brotherhood's Scribe angrily acknowledged everything with a ferocious lump in his throat. Yes, the angels meant Leonardo to walk a divine path. Yes, the artist was God's Most Beloved Rose. But-
Men were easily prone to destruction.