Leverett was in luck. Although, it was a mixed blessing.
The next day saw the arrival of his and Armande's escort of Assassins. But instead of arriving by sea, the small group rode into La Rochelle on horses, amid plenty of uneasy stares.
Armande in question was nowhere to be found. Leverett went out to meet the others alone, cursing the damned freelancer and wondering what explanation he would offer as to where his charge might be, when he had already sent word ahead that Armande had agreed to come back with him.
Sure as the brisk sea wind, the first words out of their mouths were as expected.
"Well, where is he?"
Leverett made a gesture of "anywhere" with both hands and shrugged. The Assassins exchanged glances and dismounted.
The senior-most Assassin handed her reins off, and drew Leverett aside.
"He did agree to come back, did he not?"
"Oui, oui. He's here, somewhere, he probably just ran off with some prostitute or went to drown some children or some such thing."
The flat look she gave him in return clearly communicated how poorly his humor was recieved. "Was that supposed to be funny?"
Leverett cringed. "No doubt, he's rubbing off on me."
With a last hard look, shot out from under her hood, she turned and headed towards the entrance to the inn, not bothering to wait to see him follow. "We have orders not to linger. Too many of us have come as it is, but Richellou wanted to be certain."
"Certain of what?"
"That we would safely outnumber him," she replied dryly. She sighed, "We invite our biggest failure in two hundred years to come back into our ranks, to what end, I cannot imagine... But forgive me, I speak too much."
Leverett didn't answer; perhaps she had said too much, but it was no more or less than what was on everyone's mind, of late.
As they swept inside out of the seaside chill, Leverett stayed close to the lead Assassin's side. "What of the ship? Are we not supposed to take the sea route back?"
"No longer," she answered. "The royal navy is out in force, and there is not enough traffic in merchants or traders to hide behind that ruse. We would have stood out on the horizon like a parrot in a flock of seagulls."
"The royal navy? Back from America? But on the journey across the sea, I only spotted one ship, and that close to the continent. Don't tell me they beat us back?"
She stopped and gave him a steady, appraising stare. Under her hood, Leverett thought he saw a wry, humorless smirk. "And you cannot guess the nature of the forces left behind?"
Leverett didn't answer. Doubtless, the sudden chill in his blood showed on his face, and gave her all the reply she required. Templars.
"What news?" Leverett asked instead when the small group, seven in all, had settled inside at a pair of tables in the back of the tavern. "He asks of the state of things, what the politics of France have come to, and for such simple inquiries, I feel most inadequate not having an answer. We are not too late, surely?"
"No," another Assassin answered quietly. "There is still some time, we think. Political uprisings have flared here and there, but nothing serious. Nothing... dangerous."
"Glad to hear it."
As one, four at the table jumped and the remaining three struggled to settle their upset hearts at Armande's sudden reappearance. He stood beside their tables like a great bat, looming on just the far side of ominous. Enough to create the effect of foreboding. Leverett was not impressed.
"Where have you been?"
"About," Armande replied, holding up a winebottle in each hand. "Just out remembering the few reasons I missed France."
"You were out drinking?" Leverett was instantly appalled, and glanced around at the other assassins at the table, wondering what concluding explanation they would come to, since he knew well that none was forthcoming from Armande.
For his part, Armande took a swig from one bottle and offered it around.
"I'll take some," the woman Assassin in charge conceded tiredly.
Within the hour, they were on the road. By some unspoken agreement, it seemed pertinent to get out of La Rochelle with all due haste; even Armande silently agreed. This didn't, however, curb his damned tongue for the hours of daylight remaining that they spent riding. He seemed even more obnoxious than normal, as if he were putting forth a conscious push to completely fray the waning patience of all.
In fact, before the evening was out, Leverett was completely sure of it.
"So, you've got a woman, do you not?"
The Assassin he spoke to had recently ceased to offer any reply. This, naturally, incited Armande to even further efforts to splinter his straight face. Armande thought with exaggerated expression for several moments, and tension visibly seeped into the muscles of his victim's shoulders and back.
"She pretty?"
No response, of course.
"She's a wildebeest, then?"
Still, no response, though the careful lack of emotion on the Assassin's face contorted momentarily. Leverett could have groaned; there was no better fuel for Armande's snide sense of humor than to try to ignore him. Though, this effort was impressive. Even during the long months at sea, Leverett hadn't seen Armande work this hard at infuriating anyone for sheer entertainment.
"Well," Armande finally steered his horse away from the younger man's, with another shrug. "I'll see soon enough, I suspect."
There was a flurry of motion as the Assassin leapt from his horse and attempted to wrest Armande to the ground. Without apparent concern, Armande flipped him over his own shoulders and off the other side, shoving away the hidden blade that had been aimed at his ribcage.
Chaos ensued. Which, Leverett knew, with the sigh of a harassed parent who had no choice but to take their child into the market, was exactly what Armande wanted. Why he was so intent on making life a trial for everyone around himself, that was the real mystery.
"Has he been this way the entire journey?"
The lead Assassin had sidled her mare nearer to Leverett's, and spoke now in an undertone. Leverett shook his head.
"Not this bad, at least."
She didn't reply.
"Well, this is a surprise."
Armande sat away from the others. They lay in the dark, no campfire, two awake whilst the others slept. It was silently agreed that Armande would be excluded from sentry duties; regardless, he sat awake, thinking. And now, he was joined by the senior Assassin of the team, a woman he recognized only when she pullled back her low hood.
"Manon," he greeted with a smile. "It has been a long time."
She snorted in response, taking a seat beside him, unconcerned. "It has been a long time since I had to endure your cursed forked tongue. Don't patronize me."
Armande wordlessly turned away to stare into the darkness. Manon doubted he watched anything in particular; as a teenager, it was sometimes possible to catch him staring this way, transfixed like a wolf on his prey of nothing but the distance. Now, it seemed, he didn't care if he was caught or ignored.
"Let me be frank, Armande," she began, gazing off at her own patch of the night. "I don't know why you are being brought back. At least, not the real reason. Hopefully, you haven't grown so foolish or arrogant in these past twenty years to accept whatever flimsy excuses for your return you were offered."
"Pas," Armande argued, "perhaps foolishness and arrogance are why I have been brought back. If not my own foolishness and arrogance, then maybe those of someone else."
"Is that why you have been testing us?" Manon raised an eyebrow. "To gage our sound tempers? I daresay you were less levelheaded than even these upstarts you so easily teased into your little traps."
Armande smirked, and she knew she had touched on truth.
"You needn't bother with further examinations," she continued. "It is your way, I know, to push until something breaks, but perhaps some subtley will do you better in this instance. I won't waste a moment's pity on you, but the way you work, I wouldn't be surprised if you die within the month."
Silence returned, flowing in the space between them while Manon waited for Armande's response.
He chuckled. "You think so little of me. But I admit that I have rarely heard you speak so many words at once; the Manon I recall had little to say to anyone, much less I."
"And you must think little of me, to assume your charade is so undetected."
"Charade?"
Manon looked at him then, evenly, with just a slight edge of warning. "Don't think your real motives are unsuspected. We aren't all the fools you take us for."
Armande met her eyes without difficulty. "And to what do you allude?"
Her reply was curt. "You left for a reason, Armande. And I know you return for one, as well. I wonder if it is the same one?"
His eyes wandered back to the distant fields. "Who is to say?
Manon stood slowly, staring at him, daring him to elaborate, or do anything at all, for that matter. He did not, and she left him watching the darkness in peace.
The remainder of the trip was peaceful, as well. Armande spontaneously decided he had nothing to say to his travelling companions for the following weeks, to the combined relief and unease of all.
The complex of the French Assassin branch was part natural, part architectural wonder. The original builders, centuries ago, had taken sea caves on the western coast of France and dug in, carving and sculpting a massive fortress and city in itself that was only fractionally visible from the sea. From the coast, a weather eye could pick out the massive outer facade, the Balcony, and the doors to the Great Hall that opened onto the beach, but only just. Never in the dark, and not from a great distance. The most an average sailor might happen across by chance would be the sight of a narrow corridor, a canyon of rocky sea cliffs, yawning unknown distances into the earth, but may never guess that not a far way back the canyon widened and pooled into a generous inland bay, hollowed out years ago to be a hive-like center of life and harbor for the assassins, accessible only to their small, pratical ships and by foot- and horsepaths leading in from the land. The Ainsi, it was called. The Well, from which the Assassins of this land poured forth.
Armande de Seville had few fond memories of this place, but said nothing to his travelling companions as they descended down into the harbor, then to the stables. He said nothing, gave no indication at all of his thoughts, only pulled further across his nose the hood of his cloak. There were eyes upon him; Armande could feel from all sides he was watched, like an actor in a great amphitheater to an audience peering from curiously open windows and darting out of sight with stolen glances at the outcast.
"This way," Manon directed him to the back of the stables, past yet more curious stares and shocked expressions. To his disappointment, Armande saw too many faces he recognized. Too many faces that recognized his face. He followed Manon, flanked by unspeaking assassins, to the open stalls at the back. Armande locked his gaze securely on a spot at the back wall, refusing to look down, to meet anyone's eyes.
He dismounted as soon as possible, eager to drop out of visual range. Hidden by the wood walls of his horse's stall, he huffed, stroking the animal's hair. The horse shook out his neck, communicating clearly his wish that Armande remove his saddle and bit, not in the least concerned about anyone else's troubles.
My kind of creature, Armande chuckled to himself, and proceeded to unload the beast's tack.
"Leave it." Manon had appeared at the door to his stall. "A hostler will handle the tack and the horse. You're expected in the Council Room."
A knot twisted in Armande's stomach, part anxiety, part thrill. He ignored Manon, and meticulously unwound the cinch, taking his time to carefully remove every piece of equipment correctly and set it aside. Manon was not amused, nor did his deliberate time-wasting go unnoticed. But, as she as wont to do, she stood with unmatchable patience until he had put away every concievable object and groomed the horse. He even fetched hay and water for it, enjoying the confusion his actions sowed among the lookers-on. Armande, murderous renegade, a horse-lover? Surely, the straight face he maintained could only mangle their opinions further.
"It has long been a tenant of our way of life to care for one's own responsibilities," he reminded Manon with a smirk when he finally picked up his traveling pack and followed her out of the stables. A crowd of assassins had gathered at this point. They followed at a distance, whispering. Not quietly enough, however.
"That's him..."
"...can practically taste the bloodlust..."
"...doesn't look that old..."
"He's the one?"
"The one who raped Dahlia..."
At that, he froze.
The second he realized he had unconsciously reacted, Armande grew furious and spun around.
A few of his watchers openly scattered, dashing for doorways and corners. Most stopped, watching him in return, standing their ground. They knew they had numbers on their side. What they did not realize was that numbers would not save them.
"Armande."
His glare shot to Leverett, who had appeared at Manon's side. The younger assassin shook his head slightly.
Instantly, Armande was back under control. He couldn't remember the last time he had nearly lost it so badly, and it unnerved him that such a simple, casual mention of... her, could upset him so. Perhaps he had hoped they had forgotten, somewhere in the back of his mind.
He stalked ahead of Manon and Leverett, remembering clearly the way. The Council Room was one of the few halls in the Ainsi whose windows faced the sea, overlooking the Balcony, a spacious stretch of stone veranda that fronted the beach two stories up from sea level. From the stables, it was a long trek through most of the complex to reach it. But Armande had not forgotten; every hall, every floor, every view from every window he remembered, slowly recalling bits and pieces of his life that he had preferred to leave behind.
As he went, Manon and Leverett began to detect a detour from the path that led to the Council Room. Manon called out to stop Armande, at the same time that he stopped of his own accord.
The Library. Armande studied the doors quietly, ignoring the dozen onlookers watching him, some with alarm, some with confusion, but all with interest. His face was unknown here to many, so panic was averted. Not for long.
"Armande, there will be time later," Leverett advised, in as low a tone as possible. "Surely, you can't intend to study now?"
"No, surely not," Armande agreed, ignoring Leverett, staring through the open doors at the floor of the Library. He walked forward slowly. Leverett grew uneasy, having an idea what he was doing, but lost as to what he was looking for.
Armande followed the trail that wound loosely through the bookcases. The Assassins around him glowed blue, varying in intensity, but he ignored them. He knew what he was looking for, for better or worse.
The gold footsteps wound around a corner, and he could see a brilliant gold form through the books, just on the other side of the aisle. He knew Leverett and Manon were close behind, but didn't care. He let his Eagle sense fade and followed the path around the bookshelf, to a girl he hadn't seen in nearly ten years.
She turned, and Armande stifled disappointment. It wasn't her.
Her eyes widened, recognizing him, and suddenly it clicked, and he saw Dahlia Touveilles.
Armande stared, confused. She was a completely different girl. A different woman. He hadn't recognized her at all at first. Dahlia, however, had no such difficulty.
He waited for the fear to flood back. He waited to see the horror, the empty, washed-out, heart-broken horror return to her face as it had that night years prior. Armande didn't know why he needed to see it; but knowing that sooner or later he would have to face her again, he preferred sooner.
When she didn't respond for too long, Armande found himself speaking; he didn't recall deciding to do so.
"Good to see you again," he offered. He meant it to be snarky, as per norm. Somehow, his voice didn't cooperate, and his salutation came out half greeting, half apology. Apology for what? That, also, was indeterminable.
Dahlia stared at him an eerily long time. No fear, no anger, not even tears. Her lips pursed in what Armande clearly identified as annoyance, and she looked around. Confused, Armande did the same.
Faces peeked around corners and through bookshelves everywhere. Fury boiled in Armande's chest, fury at being seen so... unprepared? Or maybe just fury that this meeting had to be spied on.
Dahlia looked back at him, and raised her eyebrows. "I wish I could say the same."
She closed the book she had been browsing and walked away with it without a backward glance.
His arm was suddenly jerked painfully back, but Armande already knew who it was and was more interested in watching Dahlia's retreating figure. He was intrigued; it was as if he had never raped her. It was as if she had forgotten completely, or just didn't care. Was that normal? It seemed bizarre that such a thing would just blow over like a bad storm.
"What are you doing?" Leverett demanded, enraged. Armande appraised him numbly, not really certain why he was so angry.
"Saying hello to an old acquaintence," he replied. He brushed off Leverett's hand pointedly.
"An old-!" Leverett took several deep breaths. He was going red in the face, and had to consciously step away from Armande and regain composure.
"We must go," Manon stated plainly. If she was upset by Armande's behavior, she didn't show it. "The Council has been called, and they await your presence."
Armande nodded, with a final glance in the direction Dahlia had disappeared. One final glance, like a wolf who knew the trail was too cold to follow, at present, at least. "Very well."
"Armande de Seville."
It wasn't precisely a greeting. Armande walked, alone, across the floor of the Council Room. It more resembled a courtroom; a raised bench at the far end, underneath the great, glassless windows that let in the sea air, would normally seat the nine council members. The practice of keeping a council instead of one Grand Master had arisen in the last century or so, as a result that after the death of Ezio Auditore no one could decide on his replacement.
Flanking the council bench along the high walls were rows of seats. It was a testament to the interconnected equality of Assassin life, that any who wished should be allowed to sit in and listen or give their opinion on matters that the Council had brought forth for discussion. Today, the stone practically groaned under the weight of what must have been half the Ainsi, though no meeting had been officially called. Doubtless, no one had a good reason to miss the most curious event of the year. The return of Armande de Seville.
Amused, Armande smirked as he walked.
"Well, well," he replied, walking forward to meet a man he knew too well at the door set into the base of the councillors' bench. "I have been gone a long time, Richellou, if you have ascended to a seat on the Council. High Councillor, no less." If Richellou was surprised that Armande had bothered to gather information on the state of Brotherhood, it didn't show on his aging face. He just glared, grimacing, as if it caused him physical pain to see Armande in this place once again.
As Armande remembered, Richellou had been a peon. If there was anyone with any more power, dominance, social standing, or even a louder voice than he, Richellou had always been one to curb his own tongue to the deferment of someone else. Not submissive, exactly. More like, backing down in irritation when he didn't have the balls to stand up. Passive-agressive. Armande had found Richellou tedious and pathetic. Today, it seemed, few shared this opinion.
For himself, Richellou stood impatiently, annoyance clear on his face as he waited. He was obviously about to say something, likely a demand that Armande shut up and show proper respect for the Council. He decided against it, though; Armande could see in his eyes the nervousness at having Armande come so close. Armande stifled a delighted chuckle.
"And so, I have returned," he began theatrically. "I suppose you have some things to discuss with me."
"You have heard correctly." Richellou offered no other explanation as he turned and led Armande into the Council's private meeting chamber. Armande didn't have to glance back to know that Manon, Leverett, and every other Assassin in the place watched him disappear through the annex. The door to the Council Room swung shut after them. Armande knew it was weighed to do so; still, it sent an involuntary shiver up his arms.
The private chamber was unassuming. A round table in the center served as a meeting area and desk, and simple couches and divans settled around the walls offered an alternative if a meeting dragged on too long. Today, half the councillor's were seated on the far side of the table; the others stood behind them or sat on the couches further back. They had visibly, and none too diplomatically, set a boundary between themselves and Armande. This should have been offensive, but Armande somehow was struggling to retain a straight face.
Armande's eyes scanned over the Council. They sat silently, sullenly, unanimously making no secret of their desire that he not be here. Leverett was correct; there were a couple new faces, and a couple that had risen through the ranks of the Ainsi. Half the Council was the same. One face, however, shining with a remarkable caliber of soul-searing hatred, caught Armande's eye.
He smiled warmly, despite the chill in his gut. "Madame Touveilles."
"Don't speak to me, filth," she snapped.
"Armande, you will hold your tongue," Richellou cut in, biting off every word as if each gave him an ulcer.
Armande said nothing, merely meeting Richellou's eyes with a canine grin. He obeyed, but with such a smug, defiant air that he may as well have laughed out loud. Without asking, he pulled out an empty chair and dropped into it.
A twitching vein bulged out of one Councillor's forehead, but he said nothing.
"Armande," an older Councillor began, calmly, without accusation. Her voice didn't waver, and Armande recognized her from the time before he was exiled. "Leverett has explained the situation?"
"To an extent," Armande answered, crossing his legs comfortably and settling into the chair.
"To what extent?" she pressed. "Tell us what you know, so far, and we will go from there."
Armande chewed on the prospect for a minute or two. He didn't like being the first to show his hand. But, after all, he didn't have to tell them everything.
"France flounders," Armande paused, phrasing. "Louis XVI has proven incompetent and let's the people grow angry. He thinks he can withstand them, but you fear otherwise. Your own relations with Louis are weak, perhaps growing weaker every year, and you suspect he no longer has loyalty to whatever agreement he is bound to you by. Moreover, where the government fails, firebrands and rebel-rousers arise, and the people are moving inexorably towards a conflict that you fear will destroy what control you weild in France.
"You have no one else to send," Armande finished slowly, setting his eyes on each of the councillors in turn. "You have no one, but me, assuming that my experiences in America will prove useful in preventing revolution here."
Silent nodding answered him.
Armande sat up, no longer comfortable reclining like a vagrant; few of the councillors showed any anger now, as if resigned. He rested his elbows on the table and rested his lips on his folded hands.
"You are willing to take me back."
The statement hung like smoke in the air. The councillors exchanged one last glance, knowing there was no choice, and nodded.
Eliane's composure cracked then, and she jerked to her feet suddenly. All eyes snapped to her, but she did nothing, merely stood, as if she couldn't abide to sit still any longer. She met no one's eyes; eventually, they all returned to Armande.
"Yes," the woman councillor, Justine, Armande remembered, answered him. She folded her delicate, aged hands in her lap. "The crimes you have committed in the past are not forgotten-"
"I have no intention of serving a sentence of any kind," Armande interrupted softly. His smirk and haughty attitude had vanished; eyes of cold steel flashed across the table, daring any of them to contradict. He was still as a dead winter's night, and none could hold the stare he shot at them. Justine nodded again.
"I think it would be wise for us all to let it go," she agreed.
"Do not think this gives you a free leash," Richellou cut in, stepping forward. He moved around the table until he stood closest to Armande. He leveled a glare into Armande's eyes, and it was quite clear that he was attempting to assert some form of superiority. Amused again, Armande rested an elbow on the table and leaned his head agaisnt it, playing bored. Richellou noted the insolence, and didn't back away.
"You will stay here, in the Ainsi, until we know for certain where you are to go."
"It will be Paris," Armande yawned.
Richellou was unmoved. "Our informants are not so certain."
"It will be Paris." There was no question in his voice, and little aggression. Armande merely repeated the statement.
Richellou ignored him. "We have quarters made up for you. You will be shown them later, after our meeting."
"I will try not to disturb anyone."
This took them all off guard; no longer completely sure of Armande's intention, as the violent rebellion in his eyes had faded to a calm acceptance, Richellou continued warily.
"While you stay-"
"With any... sounds," Armande finished devilishly.
Eliane threw herself back into her chair. It wasn't clear why; she may merely have wanted to put herself in a more difficult position from which to launch herself across the table in an aerial attack. Armande smiled pleasantly; Dahlia's mother refused to look at him, visibly managing her breaths to prevent some form of heart failure.
Richellou himself was growing somewhat red in the face. Unlike Eliane, however, he kept his calm and plowed forward with his speech.
"While you are here, you are free to do as you like. Within reason." The last was pointedly emphasized, and Armande grinned. If Eliane had a heart attack now, it might be trouble, so he resisted the urge to push her over the edge. "All we have is yours to use, as a member of the Brotherhood. As a," even Richellou's metal determination not to give way to Armande's obnoxious behavior wavered as he spoke; he had to force the next words out, "Master Assassin. The stables, the practice arena, the armory, the Library, which, I'm told, you have already shown some interest in today," his light glare suggested that he knew what had transpired less than an hour ago; Armande wondered if Eliane did, "is open to you. There is one condition and one only."
"Oh?"
"Stay away from Dahlia," Richellou leaned down, resting his hands on the table warningly. "Dahlia Touveilles is to be left alone. If any word reaches me that you have tried to contact her, or harassed her in any way, our deal is off."
Armande's eyes flicked over to Eliane; finally, she was watching him, a tinge of triumph in a face that was doused in hatred. No doubt, this condition was largely her doing. Armande cocked his head to one side slightly.
"I may not see my child? Not even once?" The haughtiness, the ruthless confidence was subdued now, and his tone bordered on the polite. Bordered, but somehow just couldn't cross.
"Unless you can visit the land of the dead," Richellou replied, standing straight again and staring down at Armande, expressionless. "Dahlia rid herself of your bastard before he was even born."
Armande blinked.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
No one breathed.
For a span of time that could have been an hour, he sat perfectly still, one arm resting on the Council table, dark brown eyes boring into Richellou's skull. Searching, scanning. Testing for a lie. Richellou stared back.
Finally, Armande dropped his eyes.
"Very well," he conceded, watching the table. "Dahlia will not see me again."
Unconsciously, the councilllors breathed at once, and the combined sound was embarassingly obvious.
"But as to the matter at hand, I have some things of my own to bring to light," Armande continued; he dug through the rucksack he had carried in with him. "Sit down, Richellou. This will not be short."
Upon the table, Armande spread a sheaf of parchments like playing cards, and waited for the Councillors to grow curious enough to take them. When they did, it was discovered that each contained a detailed report, and was headed with a name, of a place or person. Louis XVI, Versailles, Maximilian Robespierre, and others.
"I considered writing them in code, but why bother," Armande reclined in his chair agian, and folded his hands over his abdomen with a catlike grin.
"Let's talk politics."
It was nearly midnight before Armande returned to his rooms. 'Room' was a more accurate portrayal; there was only one, bedroom, study, all rolled in together. Compared to the other suites in the massive Assassin complex, his was modest. He snorted derisively; just another way that they tried to keep him in his place.
Someone, a maid no doubt, had already been in to light the fire, bring in towels and water for a bath, and close the window against the brisk autumn chill. Armande closed and locked the door, not that it would have made a difference anyway, and moved toward the bed, pulling at the clasps of his cloak as he went.
A shadow shifted on the far side of the bed, behind the curtains. This was far from a shocking. Bored already, Armande readied his hidden blade and took a step towards the hidden intruder; to his surprise, his uninvited guest stepped out from hiding on her own accord.
It was Dahlia.
A flood of thoughts accosted him at once. His eyes shot to the door, to the windows, wondering if this was a set up. Dahlia just stood there, quiet, staring at him. Finally, Armande scoffed and did his best to belittle his apprehension.
"You needn't play such an intricate game if you wish to get me killed for attacking you again. You need only tell the councillors that I have, once again, snuck into your bedchambers and they'll take up arms without question."
Dahlia still didn't reply. Annoyed, Armande studied her, as she seemed to be doing to him. She certainly had grown since 1779. The skinny adolescent limbs he had so easily pinned down had fleshed out to be muscular, sturdy parts of a deadly whole. She had gotten taller, though not by a great deal, and her body... that also had matured nicely. Most striking, however, was her face, her eyes, perfect drops of hazel in a swath of porcelain skin. She was calmer, steadier than she had been back then, even though presently she seemed nervous.
When she went without speaking for an irritatingly long pause, Armande snapped at her.
"What do you want?"
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
A flash of mortification colored her face and she cleared her throat.
"I've come to inquire after your health, of course," she snapped back. "How are you, in your old age?"
Armande's mouth dropped open, both infuriated and wincing from the stab to his ego. In fact, the long sea journey had greatly bothered his back. But damned if he was going to tell her that.
"Just fine," he spat. The inadequacy of his reply frustrated him more than her initial barb, and he resisted the urge to pull out his pistol and shoot her. "What do you want? I've had a long day and don't have the patience to chat up old times."
Dahlia flushed with embarassment this time, and Armande refused to let himself regret the comment. She visibly brought herself under control and glared flatly at him.
"That is exactly why I've come, as a matter of fact; it's damn difficult enough to get a private word in edgewise, in this place, I wouldn't bother if it wasn't important." She stalked closer to him, but seemed unable to cross the last few steps to get in his face. Instead, she kept her distance, chin gracefully high and undaunted. "I've come to discuss the last bit of atonement you owe me."
Armande, serious now, met her eyes. They were steady and direct, and he thought he knew what she wanted.
"You want to kill me, is that it?" he growled. He scoffed again, and shook his head. "You don't have what it takes to kill me. All the youth in the world can't make up for what I can do."
She laughed then. "What makes you think I give a damn whether you live or die? It matters not to me."
Confused but unwillingly to reveal it, Armande stepped closer to the fire, still watching Dahlia, inviting her to continue. She did, echoing his steps across the room until she stood a pace or two way from him again.
"I've come here to tell you I'm not afraid of you anymore." Her tone had levelled, as had her expression, betraying no ounce of deception, no sway of indecision. Simple fact. "It is the last thing I need from you. The last thing before I can leave it completely and forget."
Shoulder resting against the stonework of the fireplace, Armande could do nothing but stare. Where had this woman come from? Her features were similar, but she was not the same creature he had forced himself upon almost a decade earlier. A few minutes of silence passed, which was spent by each sizing up the other. Finally, Dahlia rested a hand on the mantle and spoke again.
"I thought I was done for, you know." Dahlia went on listlessly, leaning against the other side of the fireplace. "You did what you did and left and didn't care. I could have withered away and let my life fade, but when I realized you had absolutely no thought for what you had done..." she had to pause and collect herself, "when I realized you didn't care at all, I knew I would have to. I would have to step up and drag myself back to my feet. Mother helped... some. My sister was a godsend. She was always there when I didn't know what to do with this baby you had left me with. But she couldn't have saved me. No one could have. No one except me, and I did." She stared up into Armande's eyes; he was so transfixed, he found that even though the direct, accusing stare roused feelings of discomfort in his chest, he couldn't look away.
"So good work, Armande de Seville." She still watched him, unblinkingly, neither anger nor tears polluting her calm. "You've managed nothing. All you did was prove how inconsequential you really are. So easy to forget." She took a deep breath, as if she might not have been breathing properly during her speech. He smirked; how cute.
Dahlia noticed the smirk, and it seemed to frustrate her. But instead of railing her grievances at him any further, she walked past him. As if he really didn't matter she walked towards the door with a quiet salutation of farewell.
"You mentioned the baby I left you with," Armande stopped her.
Dahlia looked back, almost unlocking the bolts that held Armande's room securely shut.
"Yes. He's alive; the Council told me to lie to you, to keep you from coming after him, but I can't say I care to."
He? Armande swallowed and almost fell over. For almost ten years he had wondered at the fate of his child, only to be lied to and told that he was dead, that Dahlia had ridded herself of the fetus before his birth. Armande had never thought of that possibility until after he was in America, and it had worried him. Then to be told it was true... Now, so absently, to tell him that his child, his son, lived... She truly must not understand.
"Is he... is he healthy?"
Dahlia nodded; she could have been speaking with anyone, the man who had raped her and taken her entire life from her or the man who reset the targets in the archery hall. Did she truly not care? "He is. Very strong. He..." she seemed to consider whether she wanted to speak the sentence she had begun; with a shrug, she did so anyway. "He looks like you."
"Is that so." Armande was still faced away from her. He had never pulled down his hood; his face was completely invisible to her. He let a small smile form on his lips, although he didn't know why, with the sudden constriction in his chest. Why smile?
"Why ask?" Dahlia had moved back into the room now, closer to Armande. He carefully reconstructed his game face and turned to her.
"Do you know why I raped you, Dahlia?"
His frank bluntness took her off guard. She glared reprovingly. "You wanted a child. My Assassin blood is strong, and you wouldn't have been able to take my sister or mother so easily as you did me. I was an easy target."
"Is that what they told you?"
"Yes."
"Then they did not lie," Armande tilted his head. "Why did you keep him? My son?"
"MY son," Dahlia corrected firmly. "I kept him... because..." she trailed off, eyes still locked on his. For the first time, he caught a delicate quiver in her jaw, a tremor that echoed across her face, only for an instant. Her steady eyes were suddenly pained.
"I suppose," Dahlia started softly. "I suppose I needed him." This completely confused Armande.
"The woman I am today... the Assassin... was never supposed to survive," her eyes dropped from his to watch the fire. "If you hadn't done what you did, I would be married now, to some foolish old noble, living my foolish little life in the foolish French court and never knowing how much of a damn fool I was. I was never going to be initiated into the secret; Madeleine was the eldest, and her husband is an Assassin, as well. She would carry on the tradition, and I would be left never knowing. They would have let me live my life, never knowing." Her voice had faded, drifting. She was still staring into the fire; Dahlia shook her head and looked back up at Armande.
"You destroyed me, and my life, and took my father from me, and for that I'll never forgive you. But if you hadn't done what you did, I would be dead. The Dahlia I am now would be lost. So, when Eliane and the the others tried to convince me to kill your child, make him dead, as well, I refused. I fought it like it was my life they were trying to end," she chuckled without humor, shook her head, gaze drifting back to the fire. "None of them could understand. All they saw was that you had gotten what you wanted and I wasn't letting them take that from you. They resented it, and me. It wasn't until I gave birth to Leandre-"
"Leandre?" Armande asked quietly.
"After my father," Dahlia answered, again locking eyes with him. "It wasn't until after Leandre was born that I understood myself why I couldn't have discarded him. He reminds me of you. That's why I had to keep him; because even though you shattered me, if I hadn't been broken into pieces I never could have discovered that under the pieces was someone brave, and strong, and vastly different than the girl you ravaged. I hated you then; I've discovered over the years that hatred doesn't suit me. I've loved my son," she hesitated, "our son. As I said, I'm not afraid of you anymore. I haven't run from you in nine years; I've embraced you, watched the part of you that is in Leandre grow. After all this time, it's why I couldn't let Leandre be destroyed, and why my hatred for you was so fast to fade. I knew that if I ran, I could never heal. I wanted to heal. So I faced what you had done."
She stopped speaking suddenly; it was as if Dahlia had realized all at once everything she had so trustingly revealed to Armande about her life, about herself. She turned back to the door.
"Wait."
She stopped, back to Armande, hand half-extended towards the lock. Dahlia didn't turn around. "Yes?"
"Come here."
Armande could practically see the shiver pass from her shoulders, down her back through her shirt and vest, down the length of her legs through her trousers and boots. She didn't, however, move.
"Whatever you have to say, you can say it from where we are."
"No," Armande insisted. He crossed his arms and waited. "If you are so unafraid of me, come closer."
She glanced over her shoulder. For several heartbeats, Dahlia just looked at him, and he wondered if she would comply. Then, she walked closer, relaxed and unconcerned. Was she acting? Armande couldn't tell for sure. Her feet stopped her partway across the room, still a safe distance.
His mouth opened to demand that she come closer. Armande closed it again with wry grin; he took a step forward instead, meeting her across the floor in slow, measured strides. She didn't move away, but Armande could practically taste her heartbeat in her throat. Fear? Or something else?
He stopped when his feet were inches from hers. Dahlia stood her ground, but that tantalizing thrum of her increasing heart rate grew stronger.
"Are you afraid yet?" he asked.
"No," she replied. The truth of it resounded into the corners of his room and his mind.
Armande reached up slowly, slowly, giving Dahlia what seemed like a lifetime to shy away from his hand as he lifted it to her face and gently stroked her cheek. He let his hand drop to her shoulder; in her eyes, he could see the memory surface. He had touched her this way the night he had raped her. Now, as then, the electric beat of her blood under her skin called to his. She held his eyes defiantly, even as he moved his hand down her arm, until it encircled her wrist. Again, pain and fear flitted across Dahlia's face as that night invaded her thoughts, but her stubborn calm didn't even twitch.
Armande moved his hand down further still, until his fingers were laced through hers. He lifted their hands between them, so he could take her one hand in both of his larger ones, thoughtful.
"I paid little attention to these hands, that night," he admitted, looking down at them. "They're very different today. Harder, tougher, older." He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, again meeting Dahlia's eyes. "Better. Much like the woman they belong to."
Dahlia's eyes were huge, but apart from that she didn't respond. Tension had begun to lace its way into her muscles, and Armande sighed and released her hand, retreating from her to stand beside the fireplace again.
"You and your son have nothing to fear from me," Armande murmured. He turned back to the fire.
He waited to hear her footsteps, hear the locks slide open and the doorknob turn. He heard none of these things, but couldn't stand to watch Dahlia look at him that way. She was still standing where he had left her. Still trying, no doubt, to fight back the images, the feelings, that his presence called back.
When he finally did hear footsteps, they were drawing nearer.
Dahlia's hand caught his arm and pulled him around. For a moment, Armande thought she might have intended to attack him, or yell at him, or accuse him further.
Then her fingers were caressing his jaw, and she was pulling his face down to hers.
She drew him into a kiss, holding him in place with her hands on his jaw and her lips clasped to his. Fire lashed through his blood, which in turn rushed elsewhere; desire crackled through him, but he had no idea what to do. Respond and risk alarming her? Resist and risk offending her?
She pulled away finally, short of breath. The Dahlia from moments before whose composure had been comparable to the ocean itself remained, but like the ocean undercurrents of something less secure ran beneath. Armande realized with a pleasant surge of heat searing across his skin that her anxiety wasn't fear or memory. He saw it in every movement, heard it in every breath, and felt in his gut how much she wanted what he now wanted again.
He leaned forward, resting his lips close to her ear. At first he had intended to say something to her, but words failed him. There was nothing to say. Nothing for him to say, at least.
"The pain... I can still remember it," Dahlia whispered, mouth dry. "I... I don't want to go through that again." Her hands and words seemed to be in disagreement; even as she spoke, her fingers traced his jaw, where a week of stubble remained from his travels, lightly followed the hollow of his throat down to his chest, where they stopped and hovered over his breastbone.
"This time," Armande answered softly. "I promise you, I will not hurt you. Do you believe me?"
She watched his face, as if searching out some betrayal of a lie or some indication of treachery. It seemed she found none; Dahlia nodded. "I do."
Armande didn't have to respond; Dahlia again pulled him down to meet her lips, and though he could feel echoes of that night ten years ago wash through her body at times, she never pulled away, never tried to run.
It had been some time since Armande had been with a woman. And it had been much longer since he had been with a woman that he felt no compulsion to hurt. Not again. Never again.
By the time they lay still in Armande's bed, the fire had burnt down to coals. Armande dragged himself from the warmth of the sheets to add more firewood to the dying hearth, returning as soon as he was certain the fuel would catch.
He returned to the exact same position: him on his back, arms up and fingers laced behind his head, and Dahlia on her side, facing away from him towards the far wall. They weren't touching, didn't talk, and hadn't done either since their lovemaking had ended.
Dahlia hadn't even looked at him in all that time. Growing more uncertain by the minute, Armande forced himself to speak up.
"Dahlia?"
"Hmm?" she replied, still not turning to face him. Armande twisted his upper body to lean on one elbow, nearer to her, but still not touching.
Do you regret it already? "Are you alright?" he asked instead.
She took her time answering, an irritating habit Armande was growing quickly frustrated of. "Yes, I'm fine," she finally answered.
"Lies," Armande accused instantly.
Finally, Dahlia turned to look at him, obviously annoyed. A flash of relief sped down Armande's spine; he had been worried that she may have been crying.
"Vraiment, forgive me for not being completely honest with you," she was still glowering, but lacked ferocity. Her head flopped back to the pillow and she was suddenly staring at the wall, away from him, again. "I confess a little bit of indecision. I had no intention of... this... when I came here tonight."
Armande remained leaning on his elbow; he wanted to reach out and pull her back to face him, but had a very clear feeling that this would be a bad move. In fact, he found that most of his options had resolved into very bad moves. It was as if he were surrounded by broken glass. Armande swallowed, thinking momentarily how much easier it had been to just snap women's necks when he was done with them.
The thought filled him with unexpected disdain, and he smothered it.
"To what does your indecision pertain?" he asked eventually.
"Why," she replied, the one word filled with so much confusion, so much disbelief, that it needed no further explanation. Again Armande wondered, did she regret already?
Dahlia spun about finally, mirroring Armande's pose of resting her head on her hand, propped up off the mattress. "Believe it or not, I have been courted since coming here. I've had sex with others besides yourself."
A flash of something-jealousy?-seared through Armande, but he kept his face placid.
"You are the one man I knew I would never do this with again," she continued. "Yet, less than twenty minutes in the same room alone with you, and that's exactly what I found myself doing."
She fell silent for a few moments, studying him, then, "Will you tell me the truth if I ask it?"
Armande couldn't think of anything in particular that he wanted to keep from her, so he nodded. "Yes."
"What did you do in America? What was it like? And where did you get this?" She traced her fingertips lightly over the tattoo of a wolf's paw that he wore over his heart. Pleasant sparks of arousal trailed across his skin after her fingers, and Armande wondered fleetingly if Dahlia would agree to any further sexual activty before the night was out. Probably not. "Or this..." she added, moving her fingers lower, to an ugly scar that wrapped partially around Armande's waist. "Or this," she continued wth a shrug, indicating another patch of scar tissue over his right shoulder.
"There are more further down, if you care to look," Armande commented dryly.
"Not tonight, peut-etre," Dahlia sighed.
"Well," Armande began, "This scar on my waist I recieved while attempting to assassinate one of the American rebels. He was better prepared that I anticipated. Not to mention flanked by two dozen guards that were not quite as asleep as I thought," the last was added in an undertone, an annoying afterthought. Dahlia smiled.
"It looks like it must have been painful."
"It was," Armande agreed. "It probably would have killed me. But, my target turned out to be a stranger man than I thought. He let me live, gave me medical attention." Armande thought about it. Finally he shook his head, "I confess absolute confusion at his motives, but I decided to return the favor."
"And the tattoo?" she pressed.
He seemed to ponder for a time, meandering between answering her query and avoiding the subject. "I happened across a tribe of Natives. I was allowed to roam with them, for a time. They taught me some of their ways. Gave me this," he gestured to the wolf's paw.
Dahlia fell silent, thinking.
Eventually, she adjusted herself onto her stomach, resting her head on the pillow. Eager to avoid the silence that was approaching, Armande spoke up.
"Why the sudden interest?" he asked.
"I can't just ask?" she countered.
"No." Armande watched her, waiting, knowing that if it came down to a contest of patience he was going to lose. Thankfully, she broke first.
"I'm trying to imagine what could have possibly happened to change you so. You are not the same man who snuck into my bedroom all those years ago."
Armande rolled onto his back and folded his hands over his stomach. "Neither are you the same girl. I..." the thoughts were clear in his head, but Armande had difficulty forming them into coherency. "You have... I have to admit, you've earned my respect, Dahlia."
She laughed, to Armande's surprise. It was an antique sound, dusty and rough, as if rarely used. "I have never earned a man's respect with my bedroom performance. Other things, perhaps, but respect is a new conquest."
Mortified and battered by that strange discomfort, hearing her speak of these 'other men', Armande was momentarily silenced. He looked over at her. Her voice was silent, but her eyes were laughing at him. He turned back to the bed's canopy, having no other response.
"You don't like hearing that I haven't spent these past years quivering in my bedsheets, dreading your return?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.
That must be it. Armande shrugged. "A man does like to see his work appreciated," he snipped, watching her out of the corner of his eye. Dahlia stilled; offended? Hurt?
She scoffed. "A woman likes to keep a man seeing what she wants him to."
"You little minx, you," Armande accused lightly. Her tone and words made him uneasy; was he walking into a trap? Was Richellou plotting something? Was Dahlia elaborate bait?
Armande rolled over onto his side, facing her. She didn't move, but her great dark eyes followed him steadily. Testing, Armande stroked a line from her shoulder to her elbow, waiting and watching. And wondering. His fingers trailed onward, over her muscled forearm to the inside of her wrist.
Dahlia sat up suddenly; she slipped from bed swiftly, dressing without offering a word of explanation. Armande sat up as well, not wanting her to go, but refusing to ask her to stay.
"Will I see you again before I depart?"
"You will be here some months, I imagine you might," Dahlia replied shortly.
Armande threw his legs over the side of the bed. "Will I see you again... here?"
"In your bedroom?" Dahlia asked. She seemed reluctant to answer, and delayed doing so. As she pulled on her vest and vambraces, she finally sighed in what sounded delightfully like defeat to Armande. "We shall see." She strode to the door and through it before he could ask anything further.
