Through the roads of Tuscany he flew, never registering the pounding of his horse's hooves, over a road of ivory. The wind whipped his hood back, revealing scarred lips pursed into a light frown, eyes flashing with the light of the stars. The moon shone white light onto fields turned purple, and the road stretched before him, endless, until his destination was finally visible on the crest of a far hill. The inn stood, with but one candle lit, in the room where his heart lay. He reached the door and passed it – it would locked and the windows barred – and went straight to the side, a radiant smile breaking across the outlaw's face as he spotted the one face he wanted to see staring out.
"Leonardo," he dared to murmur, standing in his stirrups and reaching for the fair man's hand.
"Ezio, I'm so glad to see you!" he replied, leaning over the window to reach the assassin, hooking his knees into the sill. "I feared the worst when you did not return."
"I will always return, no matter the cost," he replied gently, reaching and kissing the artist, his artist, softly, the man's golden hair cascading around them. "I must go now, there's a target to catch, but I'll return by dawn, and if they harry me through the day, then look for me by the moonlight."
"Promise you'll come back," was the barely murmured reply, torn from them by the wind; and yet the assassin heard.
"I'll come back to you by moonlight, though hell should bar the way," he replied, his hand reaching for Leonardo's as he sat back on the saddle, a brushing touch all he received before he spurred the black horse on, racing away into the windy night.
He did not come by dawn.
He did not return at noon.
And when the artist finally heard the marching of boots, the trotting of horses, as the sun dyed the world orange, it was a troop of guards from the nearest city, barging through the door, drinking any ale they found, taking up arms by each door and window. And they found Leonardo, they tied him, bound and gagged him to a chair by the window. The very same window that Ezio had visited the night before. A gun, the vile thing, was strapped to the chair, the barrel poking his waist.
"Keep good watch," the guards snickered, before two of them – the vicious creatures – took up a place on either side of the window, and four stood by the door. The rest hid within the inn, waiting to spring their fatal trap.
Silent tears stained the gag as the sun vanished behind the hills, and the moon rose, bleaching the world of all but the most vibrant colors, colors like the ones Ezio donned. The mere thought of the assassin brought more tears to his eyes, until the gag silencing him was soaked. 'He can't come, he musn't come. Promise be damned, do not return, my dearest Ezio!' The cries were silent, echoing only through Leonrado's mind. And as the moon rose higher, the clock struck midnight, and the artist clearly heard the hoofbeats.
Tot-a-lot, tot-a-lot, had they heard it? The horse's hooves rang clear. Tot-a-lot, tot-a-lot, over cobbled stones, were they deaf that they did not hear?
But they stood at attention, their crossbows held at the ready. And as the assassin came riding over the hill, the artist desperately shook his head, as if his lover would somehow see and understand.
The guards stood swiftly and spun, firing at a target that they could not miss. Success was a given, hands down. But the horse reared, dancing away from the clattering bolts, saving the assassin's life. The instant its hooves touched earth again, he urged it forward, blind to the desperate shakes of the artist's head.
The horse galloped forward and the assassin leaped, running up the wall, grabbing onto the casement and drawing himself into the room, kicking away the firearm pointed at his artist. The hidden blades were unsheathed, and the guards dropped their crossbows to favor swords.
Moments later, the two at the window were dead on the ground and the four by the door advanced on Ezio. He spun and whirled and countered their wild attacks in such a small room, and a minute later, they too lay dead at his feet.
The thudding of armored boots on stairs alerted the assassin, and he unsheathed his sword, letting the metal ring out as it was drawn from its scabbard. The door was thrown open, and the guards were obviously surprised and shocked to see not a captured assassin, not a dead outlaw, but their own men slaughtered on the floor. The same cold, deadly assassin leaped at them, his sword an extension of his arm, dancing a deadly waltz with the men. Pushing them back into the hallway, he fought them off, one by one they were cut down, until but two were left, and they fled, ne'er to be seen by either side of the law again. They were willing to start anew to avoid the fury of their captains, and to avoid a loss of life.
The assassin turned, striding back into the room, and with one swift, fluid, unnaturally graceful movement, cut the artist free, before sheathing his sword.
Not a heartbeat later, the artist was in Ezio's arms, clinging tightly to his pure white garbs. The assassin pulled Leonardo close, arms wrapped protectively around him; the gag lay discarded on the floor.
"I told you I would return, though hell may bar the way," he murmured into the artist's hair.
"You should not have come back. They could have killed you."
"And if I stayed away, they would have hurt you. I would rather die than let that happen." Leonardo shook his head, burying his face into the assassin's chest. The tears poured free, spattering and dampening Ezio's clothes. "Shh, I promise you, I'll always protect you."
"I know, I know. I'm just so glad you're alive." His arms clung desperately to the assassin, as if he might disappear at any moment. "You're going to leave me now, aren't you?" he whispered softly.
"I'm going after every man responsible for this," Ezio replied, gaze darkening.
"Don't leave me…"
"I'm going to make sure they'll never hurt you again."
"I'll be waiting. You better come back."
"I will. No matter what, I'll come back to you." He gently pulled away, pressing a soft kiss to the artist's lips, before leaping out the window, to land in an easy crouch. The same black horse that saved his life earlier trotted up and nosed his chest almost eagerly. "Thank you, friend, but you need rest," he murmured, patting it softly. The horse seemed to pout, before he lead it to the stables, leading out a white stallion instead, and mounting it. He spurred it forward, skipping the roads and flying over the countryside, an eagle spreading his wings once more.
Hours later, when the inhabitants of the inn finally came to check on Leonardo (he had missed breakfast), they froze in shock at the bloodbath, and yet they instantly saw that it was not he who had caused it. They rushed around him, blind to the fact that his fingers lingered on his lips, as if longing for some touch there, and he stood staring out the window. They tried to pull him away, away from the window, from the room, from where his assassin would return to, and he fought back, pulled away, until they left him alone by the window, saying it was shock and that he would be back to normal soon. He did not move, and stood, watching the outdoors, looking for some sign of a snow-white stallion.
Waiting, always waiting.
A/N: This was originally a kinkfill, but I have been persuaded (read: ordered) to post up all/most of my fics, so here we are. I have de-anoned, if you can actually somehow find me from there AND here, like woah, and yeah |D;