Mnemophobia

An Assassin's Creed fanfiction
by Gloria Patri

Author's Note: I wonder if any of you will see this. If you do, I hope you enjoy, and don't mind too much the variation in stylistic choices from previous chapters.

Chapter Tenth
εξέλιξη

Exélixi, the process by which one thing becomes a higher, elevated version of itself. Going from the stages of childhood into adulthood, whilst amassing a sea of knowledge. What this can do to the mind, when done too young, or too suddenly, may sometimes counteract the very evolution one seeks to achieve in themselves.

Desmond goes on about Ezio. His greatest accomplishments, his defeats. The amusing way he got his scar, the one that Desmond's face perfectly reflects. His voice soothes and lulls me into safety. It, and the sound of my own breathing, are the only things in my head. The flickering blue-white figures stay away. I get the impression Desmond is aware that I am mostly unconscious, but he does not stop speaking.

All the same, the transition comes suddenly, though it takes me a while to realize it.

It dawned on me, after what had probably been a few minutes, that I couldn't hear Desmond anymore. No more low, muffled chuckles and no more snide remarks. My eyes are closed, and I keep them that way. Opening them would confirm that my mind has, once again, wandered very far away.
What confirms my suspicions is the smell of incense thick in the air. There are several other smells, but I can't seem to identify them. I feel like I know them, but the words get lost somewhere between here and there.

The room I'm in is quiet. There are still many pillows beneath me, and my head. Another blanket seems to had been added since last time. Though now, my skin feels... better. Less bruised, but still sore. I flex my toes, my fingers, my hands. My forearms hurt incredibly. I grunt when I try to lift of my arms from my torso. The muscles hurt far to much, still, for me to be able to move comfortably.
I take a few, painful, deep breaths and open my eyes. The room itself is dimly lit. I have two distinct, conflicting thoughts: this room is older than the Constitution, but was built only a few years ago. The dichotomy causes a headache to bloom in my head. This worsens when I realize how viscerally hungry I am. My stomach growls in discontent.

There is a table in the middle of the room, six or seven feet to my right. Whatever I am laying on (bed, couch, mountain of cushions) has been pushed against the far left corner of the room. The door is directly diagonal to me. The floors are a dark wood, the walls seem orange in the glow of multiple candles (no way to tell what they look like without) and the ceiling is, as far as I can tell, pitch black. It's an interesting room. Warm, comfortable, if slightly unsettling.
My stomach growls again, louder. I do my best to sit myself up in my nest. Properly taking in my surroundings, I realize it's more like a lounge chaise than a bed or couch proper. Nevertheless, as comfortable or plush as it may be, it does not prevent my abdomen and back to shake in pain. It feels like an eternity, but eventually I manage to firmly plant my feet onto the floor. I sit on the edge of the would-be chaise and wait for several minutes for the pain in my sides, back and stomach to subside.

Walking towards the table is a nightmare.

It's a small, square thing about four feet across. On it are grapes, green and red, a loaf of bread half sliced, and a jug of water with a glass to pour it in. Bracing myself against the table, I let a hand hover over the loaf. Still warm; someone was here not too long ago. Most likely the same person who found it fit to drape another blanket over me.

I spend a moment simply staring at the door. I have no idea what wait for me behind it. Friend? Foe? So far, they've kept me alive and somewhat hidden away. I wouldn't dare spit on the hospitality of my unknown Samaritan. Once I'm done inspecting what looks to be a rather thick wooden door, I take the empty glass. Rather than pouring the water into it from the jug, which my arms certainly wouldn't be able to handle, I dunk the glass into the jug and take what water I can from it. My first sip is tentative, small. I quickly gulp down the water, finding my throat parched and sore.
After two glasses of water, I slowly begin eating through one of the bread slices. It's soft and warm and easy to chew and swallow. I don't chance the grapes; if the skin got caught in my throat, I'd be extremely loathe to have to lose what little food and drink I've been able to have.

As I finish my fourth glass of water (having finally mustered enough strength and resistance to pour it from the jug) is when someone enters the room. The first thing I notice is how casually he is dressed. Only a loose under-shirt and trousers. Boots halfway laced. Everything looks fairly well made. Not expensive, but comfortable. Whoever this man is seems to be doing well.
The second thing I notice, and the third and fourth, are the scars. They cover most of his hands and crawl up what little of his forearms I can see. His face looks like it was spared whatever his hands had been through. His left brow, however, is divided in three parts by two scars there.

I leave my hands planted on the smooth wood of the table. Clueless as I am, I can still tell that this man knows his way around a blade. Worse, perhaps.

He enters the room quietly and slowly. Every movement is deliberately slowed and exaggerated. It does not take me very long to realize he is doing this strictly for my benefit. My stare and evaluation do not seem to bother him. Instead, he levels my gaze with his own. Once the latch of the door catches, closing behind him, the man slowly raises his hands next to his shoulders.

"It's good to see you've an appetite, my friend," he says jovially, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. This way, he reminds me strangely of my elder brother.

"How-" I sputter a little bit, throat trying, uncomfortably, to mold itself around words. I haven't spoken in some time, then. "How long have I been here?"

He's wary of me. The look in his eyes and the unwavering stare, the complete unwillingness to turn his back to me for a second. The knowledge makes me frown. The man sighs and lets his hands fall by his side. He approaches the tablet just as slowly as he entered the room.

"My name is Vittorio, thank you for asking," he says, and I force myself not to feel embarrassment. "You've been here for four days. Unconscious until now. We don't count the times when you woke up in a fit and punched the good doctor." He stops to stand in front of the table, opposite me. He crosses his arms and though I think the goal is to look disappointed, it feels like he's oddly... proud.

At this, however, I do sheepishly look down. "I apologize," I offer, lightly tapping my fingers on the table. "My name is Sofia-Mari. Thank you for your help, Signore. I would appreciate if you could send my apologies to your doctor."

"No need, no need!," Vittorio replies, just as cheerfully. He waves a hand in dismissal. "The Dottore regularly deals with far worse! I'm sure he was happy to help a fresh young face like yours." Now that I can see him more clearly, Vittorio's face unnerves me. Scars aside, there is little there that betrays his age. He could be one and twenty years old, just as easily as he could be my father's age. He snorts, pleased, perhaps with my thorough investigation of his features, and finally turns his back to me.

This is when I notice that the table was left suspiciously void of any cutlery.

"There is, however, a serious matter to discus, Principina," Vittorio says, and the tone of his voice makes the back of my neck crawl. He joins his hands behind his back. A leather cuff flashes just a little bit of its brown hide from underneath his shirt. I do not have the time to properly look at it before Vittorio turns to face me again. The somber set of his face makes me incredibly apprehensive.

"You've nowhere to go, see, and we're reluctant to let you go now that you've seen several of our faces. Ah ah! I know, you most likely don't remember, but that isn't really the point." He pauses for emphasis. "The point is, we've spent quite a few resources to help you. How do you intend to repay that debt?"