It's been seven weeks? *groans, pushes face along the floor* I'm just gonna post this 'cause screw it.

Recap: In Lyon, Halt and the Special Task Force are searching for clues leading them to the White Liberator, a murder suspect who has so far hit multiple English and French cities. Tensions between Halt and Will continue.


~3~ Leap of Faith

Gilan must be getting a head cold, Halt mused, lips pursed, one eye open to regard the younger man. He was sprawled on the other bed, one arm hanging off and his mouth wide open, emitting the most ghastly of hog sounds Halt had ever heard.

He pulled his pillow over his head to try and muffle the noise, but a hotcake would have been more effective. If he rolled Gilan onto his side, the Ranger would only wake up.

Which wouldn't be so bad. Still, Halt endured another hour or so, until he saw a grey dawn peep through the shutters. Stretching out stiffened joints, he then dressed and armed himself, keeping his longbow unstrung but ensuring his throwing knife and longer saxe knife were honed to cut shadows. He pulled up the hood of his green-grey mottled cloak; it wouldn't conceal him in the city streets as it would in the forest, but he'd seen the bleak weather outside. He then tugged on his boots and left the room.

Gilan's snores did not follow him, for he would have woken up at the soft sounds Halt caused while dressing, but he did not get out of bed either. Halt didn't mind, wanting time alone with his thoughts. Yet when he spotted the door of Will's room, he stopped as though he'd walked into it.

Stone-faced, he revealed nothing of his inner turmoil to the walls around him. He nearly tapped his fingers against the door, hard enough for only the trained ear of a Ranger to hear. But something stopped him, and he let his arm fall, striding down the stairs and out of the inn.

Despite summer's imminence, dawn nipped at his skin, making him draw his cloak tighter about himself. The stench of the Saône was underlined with the metallic promise of rain. Upon reaching the river's shores, Halt looked out to la cathédrale Saint-Jean-Baptiste, squatting on the opposite bank. Up and down the promenade, stalls and shops were opening for business. On the wind drifted the scent of fresh bread, but Halt ignored his grumbling stomach and walked the other way, one with the early risers of Lyon.

Streets of damp cobbles vanished underfoot as the steel of the sky gradually silvered, not permitting the sun to shine through. Yet it warmed, and the air grew humid. Uncomfortable, Halt found a place to sit, on the edge of a water fountain's basin.

No one else was in the courtyard. Even so, Halt looked surreptitiously at shadows, doorways and windows before pulling out the puzzle cube bestowed upon him by Crowley. Like the Ranger commandant, he was befuddled to its purpose. He'd tried to solve it – turning the faces to make the lines etched on the smaller cubes' faces align with each other, without changing the side that had already been solved – but with no luck. He could have sworn those lines changed on their own. But that was impossible. Wasn't it?

A scream. Halt perked, head whipping towards the sound. It was a child's scream, and he quickly evaluated it. High-pitched, short, and young. Probably six or seven, and he couldn't tell if it was male or female. And it was definitely of fear, not happiness or glee. What kind of fear? Was the child being attacked, or had they discovered something?

Halt was already running down the street as these thoughts coursed through his mind. But he was not the first to arrive at the scene. Several people had congealed around something on the ground. He could not see any children, and feared it was a child they were staring at. Halt gently pushed his way through the whispering crowd until he had a clear view.

It was a corpse, thankfully not the child's. But it was still alarming to see, for it wore the robes of a bishop. The murmuring worsened. Halt's French wasn't prime, but he made out most of the words.

"Who would murder a man of the cloth?"

"Did you see anyone?"

"I can't believe this..."

"It was the Libérateur Blanc."

Halt straightened, turning to the familiar voice. "Will?"

The young Ranger was but feet away, staring with hard eyes at the body. Those eyes, he noted, bore dark rings beneath them. He mustn't have slept well.

Will met his gaze. "It was him. Look at the wound."

The older man obeyed, noticing for the first time that where scarlet seeped through the mantle, there was no hole in the fabric. Halt knelt and pulled down the collar, a pale chest gradually being exposed. Tugging further elicited a gasp from the crowd – the cross of the Templar order, gouged into the bishop's flesh. The lack of blood clotting told Halt it had been done postmortem.

Halt straightened, impassive, to look at Will. They locked gazes again, but then Halt's eyes caught a flash of white over the other Ranger's shoulder. He saw a hooded man turn and stride away.

"Will." He stepped over the corpse, his former apprentice turning to see what he'd seen. And then they were both shoving people out of the way in pursuit of the figure in white.

For a while, the Rangers were neck and neck, seeing ivory robes snap around corners, barely keeping him in sight. But they could tell their quarry was covering ground much quicker.

"Go, Will!" Halt barked. His lungs were old, but Will's were not, and it would be foolish to hold him back when Halt had faith in his skills.

The younger man did not object, surging ahead of him. Halt would follow as best he could, and he hoped Will would somehow shepherd the White Liberator back his way.


Adrenaline urged him faster, but Will kept his own pace, knowing that exhausting himself for the chance of catching up was folly. He had to wait for the Liberator to tire, or else corner himself.

Endless streets disappeared behind them, making him feel hopelessly lost. People scattered before him and his target, crying out angrily as he shoved them aside or knocked over their wares. Had it been mid-morning or later, the Liberator would have vanished in the thicker crowds. It made Will wonder – why make a kill so early in the day?

And then why remain to be noticed?

He was so stricken by the thought, he almost overshot the alley the Liberator had darted into. Skidding on the cobbles, Will followed despite the narrow darkness, leaping over debris and garbage. To his dismay, the Liberator had gained a few metres on him.

Will was starting to lag. At a slower pace, he could run for miles. But this, coupled with the growing despair that his quarry was simply more fit, cast an anchor behind him to drag along.

No! Must—stop—him!

At a junction, the killer turned left, and Will followed seconds later, only to slide to a halt. A dead end, and the Liberator was gone.

"Where...?" Idiot! He looked up just in time to see his target's robes vanish over the edge of the roof. Of course. The man moved like a spider, like an Assassin.

But Will could not. Not that well, anyway. Cursing, he looked around for another way up, and spotted a fire ladder a short distance back. He darted towards it and leaped as high as he could, skipping the bottom rungs.

It creaked and groaned in protest, and Will grasped for window sills and flaws in the brickwork whenever the rungs seemed they would fail. But eventually he made it to the roof and pulled himself up. His hood shielded his eyes as it began to rain at last, and he quickly spotted the white figure hopping from rooftop to rooftop, far ahead now.

Before his legs could start to relax and bind, Will surged back into a run, reckless in his haste to regain ground. Shingles slid underfoot, and at times he felt he was running on ice rather than rooftops. He climbed onto higher buildings and dropped onto smaller, holding his breath as he passed through streams of chimney smoke. And it was to his elation when he realized he was catching up: the Liberator had cornered himself at a building surrounded by gaps of the streets too far to jump across. He'd then had to retrace his steps to follow the next row of roofs, and that gave Will several metres. He could now make out details of the killer's robes, hear his boots crack over shingles and tiles.

"Only a guilty man runs so fast!" Will called, to no response. He considered stopping, stringing his bow and putting an arrow through the meat of the man's calf. It wouldn't kill him, only end this game.

But then the Liberator jumped.

Will gave a shout as the man vanished over the edge. They were four stories up! He reached where his quarry had disappeared, looking down onto the street and expecting to see him sprawled on the cobbles. Instead he saw him clamber out of a cart of hay and keep running.

Will gaped, struck dumb by the bold daring. Then he shook himself. The cart didn't look far. There was plenty of room to land. But his legs locked. He saw the Liberator getting farther and farther away. If he lost him, he would never find him again.

Closing his eyes, the Ranger took a deep breath – and jumped.

The takeoff was smooth. He spread his arms, a bird opening its wings. His cloak billowed out and up like a green sail to carry him on the wind. He automatically swung his legs forward until he saw only clouds. He weighed nothing, and surely would never touch the ground again.

Then the sound of rushing deafened him to all else. His stomach was left in the sky he plunged from and he could not breathe. He expected the solid cobbles to dash his life away, punishment for his foolhardiness. But then—

Whump.

He bounced a little on his rear, hay pricking his hands, his nostrils filled with its musky scent. His breath returned at last, and he gasped for it greedily, heart racing, exhilaration nearly bringing him to laughter.

That was amazing! Charging at Death only to duck beneath its skeletal hands and dodge its black wings before darting away. Will's legs shook as he clambered out of the hay cart, golden straws sticking out of his hair and catching in his clothes. The thrill lent him strength, and the chase resumed. The fall had seemed an eternity, and yet the White Liberator was still within his sights. Will was the falcon chasing the dove through the birches. He would not escape.

Back in the alleyways, the Liberator began to slow. Perhaps he thought he'd evaded his pursuer? Perhaps he'd hurt himself. Either way, Will had him – he'd cornered himself again, and this time, there were no hand- or footholds to carry him up and way.

Will blocked the exit, breathing heavily, tugging his unstrung longbow from the retaining straps on his back. He set the bottom tip on the top of his boot and bent the bow until he could slip the loop of the drawstring into the cradle. The sun broke through the clouds at last, throwing his shadow before him and casting the rain in gold. He set an arrow and aimed it at his quarry.

"It is over!" he panted. "By order of his majesty the king of England, lay down your arms."

The White Liberator turned to him, head lowered so Will could not see his eyes beneath the cowl. An ivory bandana concealed his face from the nose down. He had steel spaulders, greaves and vambraces, and no doubt something protected his chest beneath his robes. But he would know the power of a longbow, and wouldn't like his chances.

Slowly, he unbuckled the belt bearing his sword and pistol, leaving only a black sash about his waist, and dropped it on the ground. His right arm reached around to his left side, behind his back, and a knife was pulled from a hidden sheath there. From both boots emerged two more knives, which joined the other weapons on the ground. And then the Liberator stood still.

Will did not lower his bow, even though his palms dampened and a bead of sweat came perilously close to kissing his eye. His mouth was dry. Not from exertion, but from fear.

The Liberator began to approach, footfalls silent. "You do not understand."

"Stop!" Will barked, aiming at the man's chest and drawing fully. He kept coming.

"You do not see."

"I said stop!"

"You are blind." The Liberator was much taller than Will, and so he was able to see that he had a patch on his right eye. His voice was silky and spiced with Spanish.

The Ranger aimed at his heart. "Stop or I will shoot!"

"What will make you see?"

He was now but feet away. Will would have no proof this man was the murderer if he killed him. Witnesses were not enough, and neither he nor Halt had actually seen him commit the crime. The Liberator would have to confess in court.

"Blind."

Several things happened at once. A cracking sound behind Will made him jump, shattering his focus. A hidden blade flashed at the Liberator's wrist and he lunged forward as a blinding cloud engulfed them both. Will saw a shadow plunge from above just before he was flattened on his front by a heavy weight, air driven from his lungs and pain flaring through his back and shoulders. Dazed, he could do nothing, see nothing, only hear the sound of struggle through the smoke screen. He tried to inhale, but the fumes made him cough, his eyes watering as he rolled onto his side.

He heard fists contacting flesh. Grunts of pain and effort. Breaking skin and bruising bones. No words or shouts, just a struggle that ended with the hissing of a blade and a bloody gargle. A body collapsed. Footsteps rushed down the alley, swiftly lost to hearing.

Will waited for the smoke to dissipate, taking small sips of air and wiping his eyes. When he could breathe without coughing, he sat up and looked around.

The Liberator was gone. His sword, knives and pistol were gone too. All that remained was a corpse. The corpse of an Assassin.

The white robes were unmistakable, clearly a template for the Liberator's own. Now they were splashed with scarlet, a wound in the man's throat oozing. He was slumped against a stack of crates, head back, hood slipping off to expose the slack jaw and eyes that were still open.

He looked young. Not much older than Will. Now but another victim notched into the White Liberator's blade.

Will crawled over to him, checking for a pulse even though he knew it was hopeless. Sitting back on his heels, he looked him over. This was the closest he'd ever been to a member of the Brotherhood. It was not how he'd imagined his first encounter.

He closed the man's eyes. "Be at peace," he said softly.