He would not, he could not wait any longer.
"Aetius, I want you to take a team of soldiers and any elites you deem appropriate to the ruins of Skull Island. Take any actions necessary to bring your sister back."
The clockwork assassin simply nodded in confirmation; his hood overshadowing the upper half of his face. A single pale hand wrapped around the hilt of the schiavona sword within its black leather sheath at his side.
"As how you command, father - I will not disappoint you."
Ulysses felt some of the weight being lifted from his chest. Aetius' confirmation seemed to provide a sort of relief for him, for while the clockwork assassin had only been activated recently, he had proved to be a perfect replica of Ulysses himself. Already, seven of the Resistance diehards in Valencia had perished by his hand, and no other had knowledge of this, writing it off as suicide.
The assassin whirled around, striding out of the double doors.
Ulysses' shoulders relaxed.
Why worry about him so, Septimus? He can manage perfectly in these situations, you've made him so, engineered him to be the unified form of the Triumvirate. Your greatest creation, was that not what you called him - ?
Such was true indeed - however, the Emperor of the Valencian Empire still could not shake off the odd feeling that something was dreadfully wrong. Even the whispers were quiet, unnaturally quiet for the last four days, taunting him with their silence - which was, strangely, much more unnerving than their accursed echoes had ever been.
Slender fingers drummed impatiently along the edge of his workdesk, the rhythmic sound echoing in time with the rush of his blood and the beat of his heart.
It was strange to imagine that it was only nine years ago when he had stood oh so triumphantly on the grounds of the Arena, the sole victor of the tournament. Glory was showered upon him on that day, and he had been revered as the next supreme leader of the Assassin Order.
Permitting his scarlet eyes to close, Ulysses found it all replaying before him, as though it was merely a recording.
None of the fights were easy, nor did any of the contestants have mercy upon their opponents. They simply fought with all their might, strength, and ability, the only limit being that they could not actually kill their opponents.
Vivdly, Ulysses recalled what it felt like when he was closed in from all sides by his opponents. Cuts riddled his arms and his torso, dripping blood and stinging like hell. Of course, all of those were nothing when compared to what he had endured while facing his final opponent, Atticus Mercilus himself, a journeyman ranking Assassin at then (while the Order had four official ranks, there were other ranks among the Assassins themselves, journeyman being one of them).
Atticus seemed to lash out with every intent to actually kill him: each of his strikes calculated and aimed directly at a point on the human body that would bring an agonizing death. With Atticus slashing and hacking at every inch he could reach, Ulysses had soon found himself almost pressed against the side of the Arena, reduced to focusing solely on defending himself from the whirlwind of attacks.
The scar on his left side throbbed in ghost pain, prompting one of Ulysses' hands to reach and outline the scar through the fabric of his uniform. How he actually managed to actually defeat the then journeyman assassin, he still did not know -
"Supreme Commander."
His head shot up, the voice having come from just directly beyond the threshold of his office doors. One of his Assassins, judging from the voice: clockwork soldiers had a defined montone, devoid of emotion, a difference which had became so much more prominent over the two years Septimus sat upon the throne of Valencia.
"Enter."
As was expected of a follower of the Assassin's Creed, the assassin placed his right hand over his chest, his upper half bending in a respectful partial bow. Ulysses could only nod - something deep inside him told him this boded only ill of something he will not wish to know - in acknowledgement.
"What brought you here, brother?"
Cassius - the Supreme Commander recalled his name to be - parted his lips as though in reply to his words. Several seconds passed before he at last spoke:
"Supreme Commander, someone has sent you a gift."
It had not taken Ulysses too long to notice how the Assassin had wrapped the word in a ominous tone, one which could only bode ill. He would not deny how much this truly unnerved him deep down below, no matter how much he tried to suppress it.
"Where is this gift that you are talking about?"
Wordlessly, the Assassin bowed, holding one hand toward the door.
His stomach dropped into the depths of his stomach, and, fighting himself every step of the way, Ulysses rose from his chair and followed Cassius out of his office.
Twists and turns down the halls, he knocked three times on the door of Bishop's lab. It creaked once it opened -
To say that the clockwork mage - the Mad Tinkerer to those who were against Septimus' rulership - was horrifying was more of an understatement than anything in the Spiral. Machines filled almost every inch of Bishop's lab, some of them resembling torture instruments more than tools used to create or heal.
The mage himself hunched over one of the tables, staff in one hand: dark voids of his mask - face behind his goggles focusing on Ulysses himself when he entered (leading to the Supreme Commander tensing when he realized he had not worn his mask).
"It is likely not the best idea, Supreme Commander, but it would be a fault to deny you to see this."
Bishop's staff tapped against the box sitting on the table.
Ulysses found himself freezing up at the sight of the box. While it possessed of an appearance that was nothing short of ordinary, drops of blood clung to its polished wooden surface, some of them dried into brown spots and others still fresh and dripping out of whatever gruesome content this vessel bore within it. Clockwork blood was coating its surface, and Ulysses knew, for he had learned to recognize it after so long -
His hands were trembling more than he could ever imagine, and several times his fingers slipped from the lid of the box, unable to grip it properly until he finally wrenched it away.
The Supreme Commander felt his heart drop into his stomach, shattering into one thousand little pieces that pierced directly into his soul. Still, this would not be able to truly sum up the horror and the pain which overcame him in that instant: the pain of a father realizing their child was gone.
For within this crude container was nothing short of the remains of his dear, beloved daughter Quintia Presidos.
What was once her beautifully designed, mask - like face was streaked with lines of dried blood streaming from the voids of her eyes. Her lips were still parted, as though still sounding her last scream before her consciousness was finally taken from her in a welcoming relief from the, pain that no doubt flooded her every sense...!
Ulysses could only feel numb.
It felt surreal, far too much so.
Ulysses did not even register when he stumbled into the chair he was currently sitting in, or to when Bishop had called out for several of the lesser clockwork soldiers to take the grisly container away.
He dropped his gaze onto both of his hands.
Pale, slender fingers trembled, even more so when Ulysses interlocked them together. Others may not see it, but he could, Ulysses Septimus could see every drop of blood staining his fingers, his palms, the blood of those whom he valued so much yet failed so miserably to protect from harm.
Mio Dio, what have I done?
Once more, all of this was his fault. Words would not have done justice to the rage and hatred that Ulysses felt in this very moment, against himself, against his archnemesis and those Templars that had so brutally murdered Quintia.
This would not have happened, had I not been such a fool! Had I not sent them to that Templar infested island…
The Supreme Commander of the Armada buried his face in his hands. The guilt bore down on his chest with the weight of a boulder, it crushed what remained of his heart and ripped open each and every one of the scars he bore on his body. There was no part of him that did not wish to scream his agony up to the skies, to tear out the pulsing organ within his chest and so much more to end this horrendous pain.
Ulysses flinched when a hand laid itself on his shoulder.
"Commander."
Servius Decimus' hand was shaking as well, and like any father would, Ulysses Septimus could sense the pain, the fear coursing through every inch of the elite sniper's frame, try as he may to conceal it from the sight of everyone else.
The Supreme Commander of the Armada had to quite literally force himself to stand once more; how he managed to stumble back into his office was quite beyond him.
Vaguely, Ulysses became aware of the form of Servius Decimus standing behind him as he sat limply in his chair behind the great mahogny desk covered with neatly arranged piles of paper.
Perhaps it was just him, perhaps it really was the situation weighing down on him - but nevertheless, the Supreme Commander of the Armada found himself unable to move even a single muscle. So surreal was everything around him, some part of him still firmly believed this was nothing but a bad dream and if he tried, if he tried hard enough, he could wake up -
"What have I done, what have I done, what have I done…?!"
Again and again he repeated those words like a mantra, as though this could possibly bring her back to him. Just as it had been the night that his beloved wife had perished, every memory Ulysses had of his daughter replayed before his eyes, memories of when she stood beside him in the rank indicating armor of the Praetorians.
How he had smiled, even thinly, behind his mask when Quintia Presidos first returned from suppressing the rebellions outside of Valencia; pride swelling within his chest, despite Ulysses being next to certain he no longer possessed a heart, after it had been dashed into thousands of shards from the retributions which made him who he was today.
"There was nothing you could have done to prevent it, Commander."
Servius' hands on his shoulders suddenly tightened - not enough to hurt, of course, but enough to prompt the Emperor of the Valencian Empire to look up into the face of the youngest of the Ulyssean Triumvirate within the chamber.
Albinus Crassus Militus.
Even he looked rather shaken, likely even more so than Ulysses himself. Only then did it strike Ulysses that Albinus had never truly explored his archive of emotions, and within a situation such as this - !
"There is nothing that you could have done to stop it, Commander. It is certainly not your fault our sister had perished in this. It is true you were the one who had assigned her the mission to retrieve the traitor from the ruins of Skull Island, but it was not because of a failure in your calculations that she had been captured - "
"NOT MY MISTAKE?!"
Ulysses shot up straight in his chair, just barely aware of the tears tricking down his face, and a part of his mind remarked how this was almost unnervingly similar to the time when he had fallen into the grasp of despair after the murder of his first family - his mouth twisting into a scowl before the Supreme Commander of the Armada could stop himself.
"HOW IS NONE OF THIS NOT MY FAULT? I WAS THE ONE THAT SENT HER INTO THAT DEATH TRAP, I WAS THE ONE WHO DID NOT CONSIDER IT ALL THOROUGHLY!"
His sobs choked in his throat by the time he had forced the words from his lips.
"Father, please!"
Servius stepped around and stood before him, both of his hands now clasped around Ulysses' shoulders.
Ulysses froze. Never had any of his creations ever called him by that, they all referred to him as either Supreme Commander, Lord, or when they were alone with him, creatore, the Valencian word for "creator".
Slowly, he turned his attention to his eldest creation, only briefly aware of Albinus' gaze on him, despite having only voids for eyes set into his mask - face like any other clockwork of the Valencian Armada.
"Father, we already lost our sister, and you are losing your grip..."
Servius paused, taking in several long draws of air to calm down his breathing pattern; all but hyperventilating.
"While it is indeed true we are all suffering from this pain, Father, I beg of you, please try to calm down yourself first. How can we obtain revenge when you are like this?"
It had taken them several seconds to do so, but Ulysses and Albinus had indeed agreed with Servius' words.
So now we finally see how Ulysses takes learning about the death of his precious "daughter" Quintia Presidos. Poor thing, but then again, which father does not feel complete and utter pain at the death of one of his own children? And poor Albinus, am I right? Being made entirely of intelligence does not prepare anyone for dealing with such intense emotions...
Reviews are much appreciated, and until next time my dear readers :D
-Hades
