Part Twenty-Five: Death of a Sage

"Do you see that?" Arno asked.

"All that commotion?" Giraud asked. "Across the river?"

"Yes. You don't suppose it's another riot, do you?"

"That's all we need. Been four riots in the last two days, and six up by those Cours des Miracles people."

"... I wonder if the Roi des Thunes has anything to do with it."

"Bah. There is no king of rats over there. It's just a legend to make people afraid to go there." Giraud spat. "As if anyone would want to go there except for the whores. Even they are probably as diseased – actually, they're probably more diseased than the rats, filthy whores."

"It's almost like they've been so pushed into a corner as to be unable to find any other means of survival and are forced to take the most diseased clients because they simply can't afford to say no."

"Non, non, we are not having this debate again, Victor. You're reading too many philosophes. Whatever got you turned onto that anyway? None of those writings are practical."

Arno smirked. "After my illness," he said, "I made a promise to myself to be better than I was. I read these," he held up his copy of Principles of Philosophy, "when I was younger. I couldn't understand them then." He read them now, however, and seemed to gain insight after insight. Experience made him a more studious reader, and he marveled that the reading had ever been hard before. The language was dry, certainly, but it was not hard. He could understand now what Cosette had said when they first met, the words carried him away. "Truth be told I used to share your opinion," he confessed. "My mind turned off at the thought of fire being liquid."

"Ah, so you used to be practical."

Arno shrugged his shoulders.

"Beggar on the corner."

"I'll take care of it."

Arno moved to the beggar, in his fifties and the very definition of grizzly. He pulled out five assignats, all he had on him, and crouched down. "Here, citoyen," he said. "Find a warm meal on the other side of the river."

"... Merci, monsieur."

Arno walked back.

"You gave him money, didn't you?" Giraud shook his head. "Victor, I swear to god, you'll be as penniless as those beggars and confused how you got there if you keep that up. You think your wife will appreciate you spending that kind of money, what with you living in a fancy faubourg like this? Antoinette, dearly as I love her, scrimps so many pennies I only get to eat out once a month. Less now that you come over whenever you fight with your woman."

Arno was about to reply when a messenger ran up. "Citoyen Dorian?" he asked.

"Oui?"

A letter was given to him, and Arno cracked open the wax seal.

Arno. There's a riot at the Convention. I need help.

"Diable," Arno cursed. "Bon sang." He turned to Giraud. "Élise, she's in a riot at the Convention, I have to go!"

He took off down the street.

"Victor! Victor! If it's a riot how'd she send a messenger?"

Giraud's calls fell on deaf ears, Arno shoving his way through crowds along the quai and over Pont Royal, crossing the Seine to the right bank and to the Convention hall. He made for the thickest crowd and climbed up a lamppost, summoning a burst from his eagle, begging for fireworks. There, at the corner, her fiery hair bright against the afternoon light. People were shouting left and right, "Death to the enemies of freedom!" "Down with the tyrant Robespierre!", some were shouting and carrying flags, some were breaking into fist fights, everybody was moving, and Arno didn't hear a single word about bread or starvation – just what was this riot about? He moved through the gaps, shrugging off his uniform so he didn't look like a gen d'arme, that was the last thing a riot like this needed.

Élise stood, just at the edge of the riot, cold in the summer heat, watching the mob with dispassionate eyes.

"I got your message," he said, "What's going on? What happened?"

"The fall of Robespierre," she said, turning to him. "He's been arrested."

"What?"

"Yesterday he made some overly vague threats about a purge against 'enemies of the state' and the Committee turned on him. They've arrested him, his brother, his mouthpiece Saint-Juste, and two others. They're going to take him to Luxembourg prison and the others elsewhere to keep them separate. He's scheduled for execution in the morning."

Arno nodded. "We're out of time, then. We'd best get to him first."

Élise leveled a look, and Arno could tell she was still bitter over their fight last night. Arno... he wasn't going to apologize for not being able to grant miracles. Even four months ago he had caved to her requests and – somehow – figured out how to get her in to see Danton, but as time wore on he knew that there were limits to what he was able to do, and Élise needed to understand them. No amount of explaining how far he could jump or how many people he could fight seemed to give her clarity on the subject, however, and for now he let it drop. He had slept at Giraud's place, well, it wouldn't be the first time.

They broke from the crowds, crossing back over to the left bank and moving through the Sorbonne to get to Palais Luxembourg. Élise, at least, had been there several times when she was finishing her schooling at debuts and banquets. Arno knew the palais from the infiltration of the party of Mme Lévesque.

Marce—Pontmercy... He shook his head.

He hadn't meant to hurt him so badly.

No, back to work: he knew the lay out and where the prisons were. He'd sent Pontmercy to free people that night, but he knew what wing to look at, and besides, he better understood how prisons were ran now that—

"We might have a problem," Arno said as they powered their way through a wider boulevard. "The police are filled with Jacobins, no one is going to be comfortable holding their leadership in their own prison, and the Commune has their own soldiers they can call upon if they think the Revolution is threatened."

"That's not a problem," Élise said, "That's an advantage. That means there's a high likelihood of people coming to break him out, and we can just join the crowd and get to him that way."

Arno was about to bring up that starting a riot wasn't the same as working inside a riot, that that needed at least six people to pull off effectively – more if the riot was bigger, but he knew that it would fall on deaf ears. Élise was about big ideas, thinking details would work themselves out, and more often than not Arno had to work out the details. He sighed as they reached the palais. Arno put his jacket back on, having lost his bicorn hat, and took Élise's arm. "Keep your hands behind your back," he said, "act like a prisoner."

"Will you blindfold me again?" she asked, a deceptively light tone her voice.

Arno pulled a few strands of hair from his tail and grabbed some dirt from the street to smear onto his legs. Puffing out air and looking bedraggled as he kept a firm grip on Élise's arm, pulling her along to be ahead of the swell of people and coming from a different street. He made a show of looking at the crowds marching to Luxembourg before entering.

"Law of Suspects," he said, "Said things were better when the Girondists were in charge."

"May Robespierre choke on the blood of Danton!" Élise spat. "The Terror is little more than fearmongering manipulation of the good masses!"

The guard didn't even blink, and Arno turned at the last minute, saying, "I saw the crowd coming in. Do you want an extra hand?"

The gen d'arme didn't say anything, just gave a faint nod as Arno left, eying the mob hard. Arno moved through the palais and to the courtyard, crossing it to where most of the prisons were. He moved through the halls, Élise occasionally saying something appropriately inappropriate. Robespierre was nowhere to be seen, so he tried another floor, but again there was nothing.

"Where is he, Arno?" Élise demanded, voice low and intense.

"I don't know," he answered. "It might be that they respect him too much to put him in a cell. That's an even bigger problem."

Tired of the charade, Élise broke apart from Arno and moved to a window, seeing the riot outside. Men in uniform were coming, the setting sun hidden behind clouds and thick, humid air, giving everything dark, ominous shadows. Quite a few had torches out, a rumble of thunder echoing through the windows. Arno went back to the duty man saw him talking to a guardsman with an embarrassingly weak chin.

"So we're clear?" the guardsman was saying. "Accept no prisoners from the Convention?"

"Agreed."

"Good, you're the last one. I'm off to Tuileries to get Robespierre."

"Bon chance, mon ami."

"Diable," Arno cursed. "Did you hear that?"

"That means he never left the Convention," Élise muttered. "We have to get back there."

Back to Tuileries they had to go, a half hour walk through the humid air. Élise was outright running, Arno hard pressed to keep up since she was always faster than him.

"That was François Hanriot," Élise said as they ran. "One of Robespierre's cronies. He wasn't arrested because he wasn't a deputy; I'm guessing that he's exploiting the loophole to get Robespierre and the others and take them somewhere safe."

"But where would they be safe?" Arno demanded. "You said Robespierre has been decreed an outlaw, he won't even get a trial!"

"Where else would he be safe?" Élise demanded. "The Jacobin Club, of course!"

"That's back on the left bank!" Arno grunted.

"Tais-toi, Arno! I'm not going to lose this chance!"

... Arno couldn't begrudge her that. They finally arrived at the Tuileries. Élise told Arno to wait outside while she swept her hair under a powdered wig, saying she'd see what she could learn. Arno didn't see any signs of the weak-chinned Hanriot, but he walked up to one of the guardsmen. "I was just pulled to come here," he said, "What's happened?"

"I'm losing count of the number of coup d'états we're having in this Revolution," the guard said. "Robespierre's been arrested by those cochons in the Convention, but the prisons are smart enough not to accept him as a prisoner. Hanriot is mustering the guardsmen."

Arno nodded. "I was at Luxembourg," he said. "We didn't want anything to do with Robespierre's arrest. Does that mean he's still here, then?"

"No, Hanriot just came with two carriages and two dozen guardsmen. He's going to secret them off somewhere, we're to keep—wait, you're a gen d'arme, not a guardsman!"

"Doesn't mean I'm not a Jacobin," Arno said quickly. "I've been on patrol all day, had to hand over more Girondists to Luxembourg, and then they pull me here. I go where they say. Where's Robespierre then? Without him the Revolution is doomed!"

"Damned if anyone knows," the guardsman said. "Jacobin Club, maybe; or Hôtel de Ville, he's got some allies there, and honestly that's where the government should be, not in the king's palace, that sends a bad message."

"Then where should I go?" Arno asked.

His answer was a shrug. "Damned if I know."

Arno nodded, disappearing, and waited for Élise to arrive. Her news confirmed his: Hanriot had come with guardsmen from the Commune and taken Robespierre and the other prisoners. Nobody knew where. "What should we do?" Arno asked. "The club or l'Hôtel?"

"We split our forces," Élise said, pulling at her powdered wig. "They've seen me at the Jacobin Club, they think I'm one of them and will answer my questions. You go to Hôtel de Ville and see if they're there. If you find Robespierre, get him to talk no matter what it takes. The Convention said they were going to raise an army, and the guardsmen will fall like wheat if they do."

"I understand."

They separated, Arno powering across Place du Carousel and to a back alley before exiting to a main street, down to the quai where he followed the river upstream, pushing people aside and then deciding instead to take the road parallel to it. It was after sunset now, perhaps nine or ten o'clock, or wherever it was with the new decimal clocks, and with the overcast the night was even darker. The air was thick with humidity, and as Arno started to approach the Grand Châtlet rain started to fall. The crowds were starting to thicken, a sure sign he was on the right track, and he called on his eagle again, asking for a small pulse of insight. Instead he heard three other eagle screeches, the noise seared through his brain as he became oversaturated with information, grunting and realizing there was another complication to this mess. He had to be even more careful now. Diable.

Knowing they would spot him in an instant, he once more shrugged off his uniform coat, pulled his hair out wholesale, tried to look as different as possible. His chemise and surcoat were soaked with sweat, and no sooner had he had that thought that the heavens opened up. Arno silently expressed gratitude, that would reduce noise and visibility.

The Place d'Hôtel de Ville was filled with another crowd, Hanriot's National Guardsmen forming a thin blue line in front of l'Hôtel, pikes mostly, and a few muskets. The rain came down in sheets, Arno moving through the crowds, hair sticking to every part of his face.

"Connards! Murderer! Tyrant!"

"Never again tyranny!"

"The Commune stands for Robespierre!"

"Robespierre! Robespierre!"

"Remember Danton!"

"No, think of Robespierre!"

"Convention soldiers are coming!"

"What!"

"Be it known that the Paris commune," someone said with a voice that carried, "by dint of its actions protecting the criminal Robespierre, is now in open rebellion against the nation. Soldiers under the command of the National Convention have been dispatched to apprehend the traitor Robespierre and his followers. Citoyens are advised to stay in their homes while justice is carried out. Be it further known that Citoyen Robespierre, Citoyen Hanriot, and all their allies are declared outlaw! Any citoyen found to be aiding these criminals will share their fate upon the guillotine. Revolutionary justice shall prevail!"

"... I didn't sign up for this..."

"I don't want to meet the widow maker."

"Robespierre's going to get us all killed..."

"We'll never hold off this place if the Convention attacks..."

Arno reached the edge of l'Hôtel, finding a guardsman separate from the line. With the shadows and the rain he was able to grab the man and enter him into a chokehold, deprive him of his uniform coat and bandoliers. It wouldn't be a perfect pass, but even in the building the candlelight would only go so far. Nodding to himself, he moved to the right side of the building, moving under the massive arch.

There was a scream, so loud Arno jumped and pressed himself along the wall, surprised to hear it through the downpour.

"What the hell was that!" someone demanded. Arno could just hear it.

"Robespierre's brother. He just jumped out the window!"

"Diable!"

Arno moved into the yard like he belonged there, looking around and seeing the bod—"He's still alive!" he called out, running to Augustin Robespierre. Both of his legs were twisted at unnatural angles, both of them were broken. Arno crouched down. "Someone help me!" he said again, calling back, "He's still alive!"

"How?! Mon dieu, he is! Get him inside, get him inside!"

Arno lifted Robespierre's brother as he cried – "Please, let me die! I'd rather die here than the guillotine! I can't—"

"Tais-toi," Arno hissed. "Men here are going to die defending you!"

"Well said," said a guardsmen, flanked by two others. "Let's get him inside."

They hauled the broken man in, Augustin Robespierre nearly insensate, and flattening him out on a table. Arno looked at a clock. Midnight. He nodded. "Where is Robespierre?" he asked. "He should know about his brother."

"Upstairs, right side," the guardsman said.

Arno nodded. "Bon chance," he said.

Upstairs were more men in uniform, but not many more. The word of the Convention coming had spread like wildfire, those that were left were shaking. Arno, soaked, passed through their ranks without even a second glance, and he moved into the room that held Robespierre. He was just dismissing a man in a wheelchair, and Arno gave the man leave to go before silently closing the door and locking it. Robespierre was at a desk, writing something, oblivious to the world. Arno moved to the other corner of the room, closing that door as well; it didn't have a lock but he propped a chair up against it, his target still unaware.

"... Alone at last," Arno said softly.

Robespierre jolted to his feet, grabbing at a gun before seeing the uniform. "I have no orders," he said, sighing and sagging back to his seat. "I have no orders..."

"Well," Arno said, voice almost light. "I have an order." He moved to the desk and sat across from Robespierre. "Tell me about the conspiracy."

"You wouldn't believe me," Robespierre said, leaning back in his chair. "These days I feel like all I do is rout out corruption and conspiracy. The Virtues that hold this country together are dying as we speak, lost to those who would use our own language of Revolution against us."

"Without any idea whatever that you've become corrupt yourself?" Arno asked. "That in your hope to purge all corruption from government you've started purging anyone who had an idea different than yours?"

Robespierre looked up, more alert now, studied Arno. He withstood the stare, stayed perfectly still, held his gaze and did not change his expression. Robespierre stiffened, bolting to his feet again. "You're one of them," he said, "aren't you? Were you the one who killed Paton after he discovered you?"

He knew about Paton? Actually, no, wait, this confirmed that he knew about the Templars. Perfect, oh, perfect.

"Arno! It's me, let me in!"

Robespierre used the distraction to grab for his pistol, and Arno leveled his own, standing in less than a second and leveling it at Robespierre. "I wouldn't do that," he said quickly. "I'm not interested in killing you, citoyen, and besides, you'll meet that fate whether I intervene or not." He started moving back to the far door, kicked the chair away. "We just want—"

"Where is Germain?" Élise demanded, also lifting a pistol. "We don't have much time. Where is he?"

Robespierre didn't know who to point the gun at, and Arno and Élise moved away from each other, making the decision harder.

"Talk!" Élise shouted.

Robespierre was pale, started to shake with two guns pointed at him. Arno heard a gunshot elsewhere in l'Hôtel, heard shouting and the swell of motion. "We're out of time," he said, eyes locked on Robespierre, silently begging him to talk. "Explain the conspiracy one last time, before you no longer can."

"I... He... Why should I..."

But Élise was tired of waiting. "If you won't talk," Élise said, firing her pistol. "Then write."

Blood exploded from Robespierre's jaw in a horrific splatter, the man twisting with the hit and falling to his knees. Élise stepped forward, headless of the blood and shoved a piece of paper at him. "Where's Germain?" she demanded again, putting a pen in his hand.

He shakily wrote on the paper before collapsing to the rich carpet, blood ruining everything. He was moaning, nearly shrieking, and Arno unlocked the first door, giving the rest access again. He opened the door and saw—Cosette? Marcel? He slammed the door, relocked it. Merde, did they see him? He didn't think so... They would have started slamming the door otherwise...

"We have to go," Arno said, grabbing Élise as she was studying the paper. "We have to get out of here."

He all but ran down the hall, Élise pulling even then shooting ahead, seeing the Convention soldier flooding into l'Hôtel. Arno quickly had to remove his guardsmen uniform before someone decided to fire at him, pulling his hair back and tying it as he ran, disappearing into someone else. Élise took the left stairs, on the north side of the building, and soon they were on the street.

"The Temple," she said after slowing down. "He's at the Temple! Oh, I should have known, he worshipped Jacques de Molay, of course he would hide there. Let's go!"

Arno grabbed her arm, stopped her. "Élise, no," he said. "It's three in the morning, neither of us have slept, nor are we equipped for a full on assault."

"Arno—"

"No, Élise," he said, refusing to let go. "He doesn't know that we know. He's not going to disappear, and we want to kill him, not die trying. We're going home, going to bed, and arming ourselves. He'll be so focused on Robespierre – everyone will be – that the last thing he'll expect is an assault."

Élise glared at him, ready to commit murder, was going to commit murder, but Arno put on his best face, still soaked in rain, thunder rolling overhead. He touched her shoulder with his free hand, stepping in close. "Please," he said softly, "Be at your best when you face him."

"... Alright," she relented.

10 Thermidor, Y2 (July 27, 1794)

It started to be real to her as they reached the apartments. She knew where Germain was. She knew. Victory was in her grasp, he was right there for the taking. She would have her revenge... The numbness was gone, and the rage was nowhere to be seen, the malaise had receded, and she felt... she felt...

She attacked Arno almost as soon as the door was closed, spinning him around and planting her lips on his, overbalancing on her toes and sending them tumbling to the floor. It was dawn, the skies clearing and bits of sunlight filtering in; she banged her elbows landing atop of Arno, and she pulled back to smile at him. "We're there," she said. "We're really there."

Arno smiled at her, reaching up to cup her cheek. "It's good to see you smile," he said softly.

She kissed him again, thoroughly, content to burn through this happiness as long as it lasted. She pulled at his waistcoat, tongue plunging into his mouth to taste more happiness. Everything was wet from the rain, making clothes clingy. It was like their first encounter together, wet clothes and Arno's long hair sliding along his back in wet strings. Her entire body tingled, and for several hours she enjoyed every single thing he could come up with to please her, lingering in the pleasure, the feeling, knowing it would soon disappear, desperate to hold on to it for as long as she could. This was why she kept Arno around, infuriating frustrations and all, he could make her feel, and even when those feelings were getting farther and fewer between, he could still pull it off. He sat at her feet and worshiped her womanhood with his mouth, knowing every flick and trick that made her moan and gasp. His debauched face traced kisses up her abdomen, and then her bosom, all tongue and teeth, having already memorized every sensitive place she had and teasing it out and out and out, and for once Élise was not impatient, was happy to languish in the sensations.

He stretched her out slowly – always so gentle – first with his hands and then with himself. Only once he knew he could entreat on her all the way did the rhythm begin, and they rocked back and forth, somehow having found the bed. He kissed everything, eyes, cheeks, the pulse of her neck before capturing her mouth, and the taste of herself that she normally hated on her other lovers she adored with Arno: it was a mark of ownership, that he was so thoroughly hers to do with as she pleased. He had chosen her over everything, even his birthright, and the sense of power over him was staggering. Arno was the perfect size, giving her the friction she always craved, and touching all the right places. Every time he started to slow, to ask how she was doing, she would reply with a buck of her hips, demanding he keep going.

He pushed and pushed and pushed, Élise riding the wave of pleasure as far as it could go, digging her nails into his back until at last she was swept away, and for a brief moment she could see a life without the malaise, where she was happy. Her in her rightful place, Grandmaître of the Order, everyone bowing to her as it was meant to be...

It was...

She woke in the late morning, expecting a smile on her lips, gladness in her heart.

It was gone.

The malaise was back.

Sighing, she sat up, pulling Arno's arm off of her and looking down at him. He was still asleep, dark circles under his eyes, hair spread out everywhere.

Élise reached back to the moment earlier, trying to remember the feeling. She looked down at Arno, slowly realizing that he had not entered into the fantasy.

She remembered last year, the crazy balloon ride, the giddy haze of sex, and Arno saying he loved her. He had said it many, many times since then, soft gentle professions when they had sex, hurt declarations when they were fighting, reassuring support when she was frustrated. He had chosen her over everything, even the Assassins, and she had wondered if the love was returned. That night she had decided she did love him, mistakes and repeated betrayals and all. She convinced herself that the malaise would leave her, she just had to wait it out.

But now, she knew herself better. She had been with Arno for a year, and she had not grown in love for him, nor had the malaise abated. She still remembered that he failed to deliver the letter, his failure to kill Germain at Louis' execution and his abandonment immediately thereafter. Élise would never have gone after him save the fact he had been more successful in garnering leads than she, and desperation was a new facet of the malaise. For the last year he had been an enormous force of frustration, and even now, after they had found Germain through Robespierre, she could not ignore all of that.

He loved her.

But she did not love him.

Maybe in a different life, one where he hadn't hurt her so badly. They were good together, before her father's murder, and she could imagine life together, could imagine them being in love, getting married, having children. But not now, not after everything that happened, and certainly not after her heart had been torn to shreds and her mind lingering with an illness that had lasted years. She could not best the coldness in her, she could sense even now that when Germain had fallen, her illness would not magically disappear. The malaise was a part of her now, never to be shaken off, forcing her to have days where she languished in bed, unable to summon the energy to get up.

"I suppose I'm finally being honest with myself," she murmured.

Arno sighed, reaching out or her warmth, and she left the bed before he found her, unwilling to lie any more. Arno made her feel, but he was not enough, would never be enough, and she wasn't sure what to do with him after Germain was finally dead.

She dressed herself and sat at the desk by the window, looking for a blank piece of paper to write down... she wasn't sure what.

On the desk, however, she saw that Arno had at some point beaten her to it.

Papa, it read.

Diable, he still wrote to his father after all this time? Élise leaned back, jealous that he could do that when her own words died on her hand whenever she had tried. She read the letter.

Papa,

I do not know if there can ever be peace between Templar and Assassin. M. de la Serre sacrificed his life for it, and I wonder what the man named Shay Cormac reasoned when he killed you.

Élise told me his name, last year. I've been afraid to write you for a while now, because of what happened that day, and what I became. But for the last several months I've been trying to better myself. I'm even reading Descartes. I remember how badly I hated reading it before, but now I see insight after insight, and my mind turns back to that question: can there be peace? I do not know, but I do know there can be friendship—and love.

I was raised as M. de la Serre's own son after your murder, and I grew to love his daughter as much more than a sister. She is beautiful, and fiery, and fierce, and has a terrible habit of getting us both into—and out of—trouble. I would give my life for her, but ours has been a troubled story. For years I was never sure if my feelings were returned. You see I broke her very badly. It was my fault M. de la Serre was killed, and I spent several years trying to undo that mistake. That is impossible; I know that now, but in its place, I want to fix the damage, the pain I have caused her. That, too, I would give my life for.

The road has been long. I have made many mistakes, but there have been small successes as well. We have just finished interrogating a man named Robespierre – and as I sit here I wonder what your opinion of him would be. In his early days of politics, he made eloquent speeches protesting the execution of criminals, said that fanaticism was born "of the monstrous union between ignorance and despotism," and yet he is now a fanatic himself of the highest caliber. The guillotine has worked 'round the clock since he and his allies instituted the Terror, and as a gen d'arme I have been forced to arrest so, so many innocent people.

Is this, then, why the Brotherhood exists? So that we can cull those who drift from a path of light into a path of obsession and slaughter? A pity, then, that only Mirabeau ever considered me an Assassin. I have friends there, who even now check on me, care about my welfare and keep me safe by never speaking of their activities, but they are not enough to persuade so many others who see me only as risen as a Templar, too fond of its Grandmaître, and now too tainted to see as anything other than a threat. I despair, and weakness overtakes me when I fear that Élise, too, will reject me as they have. You, M. de la Serre, Mirabeau, the Assassins... if I lose Élise, too, I fear what would become of me.

Even now, when we fight, my own insecurity makes me fall to my weaknesses. Without Élise I have nothing.

Perhaps I'll never be able to hold all her heart; it is too filled with many other dreams and deeds and adventures, but she'll have all of mine. For now, I am content with that.

Later today we assault Germain. Killing him will free Élise of the malaise, and then I'm certain that she can be put back together. My greatest fear is her desperation. The day I learned I could never undo my carelessness that caused M. de la Serre's murder, I also learned how far Élise would go to get Germain.

But I will be there, and I will not let her fall.

Arno

Élise learned back processing what she had read.

"Oh, Arno," she said, "You were always a fool."

She closed her eyes, looking forward, seeing Germain, and knowing how it would end. That was when she knew, knew he wouldn't be able to go through with it. The coldness in her heart froze over to a new temperature. She could not rely on him, he did not prioritize Germain. She had thought him cured of that askew priority in Versailles when he agreed to come with her. Now she knew nothing had changed. Bon sang. She should have left him in Versailles. Damn him.

He still thought he could save her.

Damned fool. Imbécile. As if he had any say in her choices.

That meant she was in this alone. As she always was.

She nodded, accepting the truth, and woke Arno. "It's time," she said.

She began arming herself, knowing only she had the will to do what was necessary.

Élise was already outside, waiting for him – no doubt impatiently.

Arno looked through his arsenal one last time: gun, sword issued from the station, that was it. He was pitifully armed, didn't even have a cherry bomb to distract any guards who might be at the Temple. He had no idea what he was going up against, he needed everything he could get.

He looked at Charlotte's hidden blade. The weapon of a person he never was.

"Je suis désolé," he said quietly, "Et merci. For everything."

He put on the hidden blade, tightened the straps, tested the release for both it and the phantom blade. He had ten darts, two poison and two berserk. Everything was in perfect working order, to be expected from the lady of Café Théâtre. He pulled his cuffs over the bracer, practiced again, but his muscles remembered the movements, and he breathed a sigh of relief, feeling even slightly better prepared.

It was afternoon, the sun hot but the air dry after the rainstorm. They crossed over to the right bank, into the Marais, and to the Temple. Élise took the lead as she always did, back straight and red curls bounding behind her. Arno followed, seeing a stiffness in her gate. Her mood had been dark when he woke, probably in anticipation of the coming fight. He let her have that space, let her mentally prepare as he did the same.

The last time he had seen Germain, Louis had been executed. Gloating in his victory, articulating how life without titles was somehow a return to form, that having money was the secret to being invisible. What would he say now, he wondered. Wax more poetic about symbols and their inevitable fall, or praise de Molay for... whatever reason?

No, those thoughts were immaterial. This was about fixing Élise: avenging M. de la Serre, proving to Élise he was a better person, showing that he loved her in every way that counted. They would kill Germain, and Arno would put her back together again, and maybe they could settle down somewhere in the country, herding goats or some such. Their children would be beautiful, and Arno would make sure they were loved as he was loved – more than, if possible.

... But Élise would not want such a simple life.

... Or perhaps she would, after she had been cured of the malaise. He had no idea of her ambitions after killing Germain – she had been raised a Templar, and he had no idea what her goals might be. Actually no, he corrected himself, he knew exactly what she would do, grab every Templar she could get her hands on and make them do her bidding, restructure her Order to her vision. But what would be her vision? Would she honor the truce her father and Mirabeau had enacted? Arno privately hoped so; so many people had died in the last few years, hell in the last few months to the guillotine, and more blood would not fix the changes as France tried to make itself into something new.

And what would Arno be? After everything was over? His promise to himself to be a better person was one thing, but he could be anything, dead to the world as he was. Would he continue to be a policeman with Giraud, or would he make himself into something new?

Well, he would be whatever Élise needed him to be. That was all that mattered.

The resolution settled his mind as they entered the Marais, and they walked around the Temple surreptitiously, seeing the high walls and locked gates. Had the Temple ever been open to the people? The royal family had been prisoners there after their disastrous attempt at escape to Varennes. He stiffened, realizing Germain probably had unhindered access to the family, the queen, the woman who was so scared by the citoyens of France. What did the man do to her, to them, alone in that massive structure?

"... We should split up," Élise said, staring at the Temple.

Arno looked to her, saw her black mood. "I'm not sure that's—"

"Less chance we both get caught that way," she said, voice empty and cold. She was under the malaise again, and Arno knew when to back down.

"I supposed that's true," he conceded.

"We'll rendezvous inside." Then she turned, eyes hard, even intense. "If you get a shot at Germain," she said, voice low, "You take it."

She held his gaze, and Arno knew what she was really saying: Germain comes first, before either of our own lives. Arno opened his mouth to answer, but she turned before he could, walking away. He sighed and climbed to a roof.

"Haven't done this in a while..." he muttered, crouching down and closing his eyes. He was above the world, above the people, above the problems. He called on his eagle, drawing focus, and snapping his eyes open to look for pops of color. He didn't see anything, but he heard fireworks, mixed with a rumble of thunder, up and up, at the top of the Temple.

Arno nodded, knowing where he had to go.

He glided down to street level and moved to the shadow of the fortress, beginning to climb the vertical surface of its barrier walls. He held to a narrow crevice as he heard two sets of boots approaching, the guards talking as they went.

"I don't like it. Between Rouille, Lévesque... and now I'm hearing rumors someone killed la Touche. It takes a while to replace people like that."

"You worry too much. The Grandmaître has everything under control."

"That Jacobin Robespierre thought the same thing. Heard he's facing the widow maker in a few hours." Arno lifted himself to the walkway, crouching low and ducking to a barrel and it's shadow. He could see inside the grounds now, saw that a veritable maze of smaller buildings, a church, a cemetery, and the Temple itself, rising from the earth and breaking up to the sky. Built by the Templars in the middle of the thirteenth century, Grosse Tour was not the only keep, the Tour de César also rose up from the ground. Inside was everything needed to run the fortifications, apparently even to this day, as Arno saw the grounds infested with people, all with red in their hats, all armed in some way. This had been where Louis had been held until his execution, Marie Antoinette, Louis' sister Mme Élisabeth, the Dauphin Louis XVII, and Princess Marie-Thérèse before she was exiled.

He followed the rampart, ghosting behind the two guards who were still talking about the thunder last night, about how the Temple had been glowing under the storm. The rampart was butt up against one of the buildings, possibly the church, Arno wouldn't know until he scaled it, and he leapt up to a window sill as soon as he was able, working his way up and up until he got to the steep slant of the roof. He poked his head over the lip, saw no one, and scrambled up. A bell tower signifying the church was on the other side of the complex, and Arno stepped carefully as he moved to the other side of the roof. Shadows disappeared, a cloud passing across the sun's path, and Arno looked out over the edge to see what the complex looked like.

The church had something next to it, an abbey perhaps, that connected it to the Grosse Tour, the perfect way up. He dropped to a lower roof of the building he was on, trying to determine how he could get there without signaling some kind of alarm. He asked for another pulse from his eagle, he saw at least half a dozen guards below. That would be difficult...

Arno snapped open his phantom blade, edging as close to the edge of the roof as he dared without getting spotted and took careful aim. There was one brute, thick and in leather armor, bicorn hat and a lance half-again as tall as he was. Wait for it... wait for it...

"It seem like the Grandmaître spends a lot of time in the catacombs to you?"

"You haven't heard? He thinks he's Jacques de Molay reborn or some such."

"... You're joking."

"Not even a little. He's probably down there trying to commune with his past life or something equally ridiculous. Mad as a hatter."

"I don't think... No, I don't think de Molay is even buried down there."

"Like I said, mad as a hatter."

There! He was finally turned away! Arno fired and scrambled back up the roof, blood racing through his veins as he turned to see if he hit the target. He only had one other berserk dart left...

He waited, four breaths, then six, then eight. The biggest brute spun his pike around, slamming it into the skull of a sans-culotte with a fitted jacket. Perfect! Arno gave the brawl about ten minutes to grab every guard in the vicinity before slowly lowering himself to ground level and skirting around the fight. This was the hard part, don't be seen...! He all but flew up to the roof of the abbey and waited, but the brawl continued to do its job, and Arno had free reign to climb the tower. Excellent! He couldn't believe his luck.

There were but two riflemen, both of whom the phantom blade eliminated. Arno began his climb, seeing the clouds thicken as he did so. He saw a dark figure in the center of the tower roof, back to him, and Arno climbed over the lip of the safety rail on silent boots. No sign of Élise.

"If you get a shot at Germain, take it."

Arno extended his hidden blade.

Only Germain turned, sword in hand, and lifted it, light glowing from it, and Arno ducked behind the column of the central belfry and then lightning erupted from the sword.

What the hell was that?

"So the prodigal Assassin returns," Germain said. "I suspected as much when la Touche stopped sending his tax revenues. I assume my pawn Robespierre was you're doing as well - or did he finally realize who was giving him conspiracies?"

La Touche was dead? Since when? And Robespierre... was the Incorruptible a Templar?

"No matter. His Reign of Terror served its purpose. So many enemies were slain thanks to him, so many Assassins, we've all the time in the world to build our New World."

The air was beginning to charge, Arno could feel his hair standing on end, and he skulked around the corner of the pillar giving him cover. He could just see Germain moving across the small space of the belfry, the sword was glowing again, and Arno had the time to actually watch as the lightning burst from the sword, stretching out hundreds of feet over the edge of the tower, branching in a flash of light that Arno was temporarily blinded. He blinked rapidly, utterly terrified.

"Why so persistent, Arno? Is it revenge? Did Bellec indoctrinate you so thoroughly that you do his bidding even now? The blind hatred of the Brotherhood? Or is it love? Has de la Serre's daughter turned your head? You two were always together as children as I recall."

Germain turned again, Arno quickly moving back the way he came, around the corner. How did he know about Bellec? All that time above ground? He asked for a pulse from his eagle for help, felt the sensation of unifying with another eag—Germain had and eagle? Someone who wasn't an Assassin had an eagle? The eagle was so strong! The strongest Arno had ever encountered, full and supple and granting no headache to Arno at all, it was awake and searching, such a loud pure call that consumed everything. Arno held his breath, heart threatening to beat out of his own chest, certain with an eagle like that Germain would see him through stone and kill him, but Germain kept his back to Arno, and taking a risk he moved in to strike.

He managed to get a hand on Germain's shoulder, blade surging forward to plunge into the murderer's back, but then there was light, and Arno flew backwards, his entire body shaking and even his very soul flickering. He lost all motor functions, he could not move his limbs as he wished, could not even think, and when he finally regained himself, everything still shaky, Germain was nowhere to be seen.

"How... what?"

Where did he go?

Arno dithered, still trying to feel his extremities, fumbling to get to his feet.

The catacombs. Someone said something about the catacombs.

Arno didn't dare climb, knew he would fall to his death if he tried to use his arms when they shook so badly. He found a door and was – somehow – able to open it, stumbling down the stairs. Several guards were about, but they were all glued to the window, wondering if another thunderstorm was coming. Arno moved passed them, down a circular staircase, more in control now, able to flex his fingers and roll his shoulders. He came out on a lower balcony of some kind, saw two riflemen looking out over the compound. He used his phantom blade on one and quickly ran up to the other and felled him. The shaking was almost gone now, and rational thought was starting to realize what had happened.

That sword.

It had the power of lighting.

What the hell was going on?

Merde...

He rubbed his hands together, gauged the distance, and leapt across the gap to the church roof, his hands finding something to grab onto at the last second. He grunted, blood still pounding, and he wondered where Élise was. Arno stuck to the roofs, afraid of fighting through guards if anyone else had a sword that shot out lightning. Catacombs. He had to get to the catacombs. He moved to the graveyard, saw another dozen guards, and loaded a second berserk dart. He took aim and... no, he needed the fight to be further away.

He skirted around, ducking from log pile to grave marker to fence, moving along to the other side and finding a suitable target. He kept low, afraid of who could see him even on an overcast day, and took aim a second time. He fired, leaned back behind his fence, and waited for the sounds of fighting. Then it was back the way he came, glancing back as he did and... there, the entrance was empty. He breathed a sigh of relief.

A full speed sprint cut him across the open ground and down the steps and underground.

Candlelight was a rarity, Arno's eyes slowly dilating as he kept his eagle awake, following Germain's clear eagle-shriek like a beacon. Right, left, left, and then right again. Élise was running up to him and they met at a juncture.

"What happened?" Élise said. "What were those lights at the tower?"

"Germain's got some kind of weapon," Arno explained, "I've never seen anything like it. It controlled lightning and..." he looked down at his hands, better but still visibly shaking. Élise looked on curiously, lips pressed into a thin line. She knew something, and she looked up at him.

"Did you get him?" she asked.

"... He got away from me," Arno confessed.

She didn't reply, didn't frown, didn't do anything but turn down the juncture they were standing in. "Here," she said instead. "This is a Greek cross, not Latin, Templars used that when they were first hiding themselves. If Germain has been in hiding here, this would be the best place for it." She gripped the cross and twisted it, the ancient sound of pullies working as the stone edifice rolled away. The noise was damning, Germain would know they were coming...

Élise didn't even think, just ran through the portal, sword drawn. Germain in front her as her only goal.

"Élise," Arno hissed, crouched down and following her. She didn't know what that sword could do—it was glowing! He straightened and lifted his phantom blade, watching as Élise ran and... and... now! He fired, and could just hear Germain grunt as the bolt of lightning went wild. Arno ducked behind a stone wall, Élise scrambling to the side as she realized just how dangerous that damn sword was. She looked at Arno, face incredulous.

"And Mademoiselle de la Serre as well. This is quite the reunion, both of you! I assume the loss of d'Églantine and all my investments in the East India Company was your doing, that was almost clever."

Oh, this was just like Place de la Révolution. Germain wanted to talk. Arno looked at Élise, tried to grab her gaze. "Stay hidden," he said, tightly controlling his voice. "Keep him talking." Time, he needed time.

Élise nodded, crawling away on all fours, looking for a new place to hide.

"Did you think this day would never come?" she demanded. "That because François de la Serre had no sons to avenge him, that your crime would go unanswered?"

"Revenge is it? Your vision is as narrow as your father's."

Arno called his eagle again, feeling the headache coming on but needing all the information he could get. Natural light was beaming down from above, but there were pots of fire hanging from ropes – there was a word for it, Arno couldn't think of it – and that meant there was a second floor somewhere. If this was architecture from the middle ages, then stairs would be...

"You're one to talk about narrow vision. How wide of vision was your grab for power?" Élise demanded.

"Power? No, no, no, no, you're smarter than that!" Germain called back, a sneer in his voice as Arno traced his way around. "This was never about power. It's always been about control. Did your père teach you nothing? The Order has grown complacent, rotted from within! We've abandoned purpose for base pleasures! For centuries we've focused our attentions on the trappings of power: the titles of nobility, the offices of Church and State. So obsessed with clinging to the trappings of power we abandoned our purpose: caught in the very lie we crafted to shepherd the masses."

"I will kill you," Élise hissed. "That is no trapping of power!"

"Have you heard nothing I've said?" Germain demanded. Arno found the staircase, at last, and moved up, seeing light above him. "Killing me won't stop anything. My design is larger than my own life. When our brother Templars see the old institutions crumble, they will adapt. Shay Cormac is already working in England to great success, and in the wake of this new revolution, a new order will be born, one that chains men with gold and silver instead of worthless titles who's value rots over time. Our brothers will retreat to the shadows and we will, at last, be the Secret Masters we were meant to be. So come! Kill me if you can, I've already won! It changes nothing!"

Arno finally was above it all, his eyes taking in everything. The Gothic architecture provided a veritable plethora of places to leap across and land on, and he could immediately trace a path almost directly above Germain. He extended his hidden blade in preparation, licking his lips and taking a deep breath. He needed Germain to turn...

"You're mad!" Élise shouted. "I remember your expulsion, your heresy over Jacques de Molay!"

"I am Jacques de Molay!" Germain shouted, turning around, "He speaks through me! How can you prevail?"

Arno leapt, from one buttress to a thin iron beam, and jumped, blade high and hoping gravity would be fast enough.

But Germain turned, his dual-colored eyes smiling as he lifted the sword. Merde...!

"The darkness cannot protect you boy. You'll have to do better than that."

Arno landed, blade sinking into Germain's shoulder just as the Templar fired. The lightning erupted, a second, direct strike – point blank, and Arno flew back, hitting something and falling to his side, sliding to the ground as his entire body jerked and jolted, fire spidering through his entire body, through every blood cell. He moaned, trying to turn over, head banging on the stone, his body was so out of control. He didn't know how long he flapped about, slowly became aware of a hand on his cheek.

"Arno! Arno!"

"... Élise..." he was able to gasp. His limbs were shaking less, he couldn't flex his fingers but he could move his legs and arms.

She smiled to see his reply, turned to survey the damage. Arno managed to turn his head, blurry vision seeing Germain struggling to his feet, holding his wounded shoulder. He fumbled for the damn sword.

"He's getting away!"

"Wwaait," Arno slurred, flopping to get an arm under him. "I need a few more seconds..."

"I can take him!"

"No you can't," Arno said. "Nnot alone. Wait for me!"

Élise looked at Arno, looked at Germain, looked at Arno again.

And she turned and ran after the target, sword drawn and aggressively pushing him back.

No, no, wait! Arno stumbled to his feet, seeing Germain fall back under Élise's assault, saw her jerky, half thought out motions, realized she was unintentionally cornering him where the sword was. Wait... "Wait!" Arno shouted, finally getting moving. "ÉLISE!"

But Germain wrapped his fist around the sword, lighting building up in it, and Arno ran as fast as his shaky limbs could manage, across the dais, over the lit candles, towards the explosion he knew was coming.

Light flooded his eyes, blinded him, and the crack of thunder was so sudden and violent, Arno flew back again, stumbling and rolling over, and he heard something falling, felt a spray of dust.

He wasn't sure how long he lay there, senses returned to him slowly, but his mind was not quiet. When he could hear, all that sounded was silence. When he could see, all he saw was the far side of the dais, he was not looking in the right direction. When he could feel, the stone underneath pressed against myriad bruises and nerves of fire. When he could move, he staggered to his feet, turning around.

And there she was.

Prone.

Still.

Lifele—

"Élise," he said. "ÉLISE!"

He ran towards her, all but falling to his knees. He took her head in his hands, turned it gently to face him, and he knew the horrible truth. The burst of lightning had been so great as to shatter stone, black scorch marks not feet from where he was kneeling, and so close to the lightning strike there was no hope. Her body was limp, and half of her face was burned from the electricity, mangled. Her head lolled to the side, and Arno leaned back on his haunches, realizing the terrible truth.

She was dead.

Élise de la Serre was dead.

A low, pained cry was pulled out of his throat, pain expanding and all consuming. She was gone, she was gone, she didn't wait for him, had rushed ahead, had done what she said and sacrificed everything to kill Germ—He turned, heard a low, masculine groan, saw Germain swaying into a sitting position, just as burned as Élise but somehow still alive.

... No. Not for long.

Arno stood, flexed his fingers, still slightly shaking, and was able to extend his hidden blade. He stepped over the lightning strike, knelt down to Germain, and held the other man's gaze. Arno was numb as he slowly, methodically, pushed the blade into Germain's neck.

Arno was mute, said utterly nothing.

Germain, however, was not mute. "No questions? Fine, I'll speak for myself. I did not understand the visions that haunted my mind, you see. Great towers of gold, cities shining white as silver. I thought I was going mad. Then I found this place, found Codex Pater Intellectus: the words of Jacques de Molay. I understood then, that somehow, through the centuries, I was connected to Grandmaître de Molay. That I had been chosen to purge the Order of decadence and corruption that had set in like rot, and to wash the world clean, and restore the truth the Father of Understanding intended."

"That seems to have gone over well," Arno sneered, wanting the man to die already. He twisted the blade, trying to get him to shut up.

"Well," Germain was still saying, "Prophets are seldom appreciated in their own time. Exile and abasement forced me to reevaluate my strategy, find new avenues for realization of my purpose. Isn't that the whole selling point of this Revolution? 'No matter the cost'? New order never comes without destruction of the old, and this is perfect grounds to cull the old and breed the new. Nobody could plan for a Revolution, but anybody can see opportunity and take advantage of it."

Germain turned, or seemed to. "It appears we part ways here..."

And, at last, there was silence.

Arno pulled his hidden blade out of the neck, leaving the body and no longer caring. He went back to Élise, turned her burned face aside, choosing instead to look at the side unmarred by her death. He caressed the face. Oh, Élise... Élise...

Élise...

"Any sign of rain?"

"No, Antoinette," Giraud said. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

"I don't understand," his wife said, opening the lid of a Dutch oven to check the stew. "I've never heard of a thunderstorm without rain. Even last night, we had more rain than thunder."

"Well, it's been hours," Giraud said, "Long enough for me to come home – without a partner I might add – and listen to you nag about the weather."

"Don't be like that, mon amour," Antoinette said lightly, "Or you won't be satisfied later."

"You wouldn't dare..."

"Papa! Papa!" his daughter Anne said, running from upstairs. "The man is here!"

"The man, petite? What man?"

"The one you walk with. He's carrying someone!"

Frowning Giraud stepped out of the house, looking first one way and then anoth—"Nom de dieu!" he cursed. "Antoinette! It's Victor, and his wife!"

Victor was shuffling down the street, his redhead wife in his arms, sagging like a sack of potatoes. Giraud ran down the street. "Victor! Victor, what's happened?"

His partner didn't seem to hear him, kept shuffling along, headless of the body in his arms. Giraud moved to grab the wife, felt Victor's arms shaking from the weight, and on looking he saw the horrible bun marks. Diable, and she had been such a looker! "What happened?" he asked, trying to pull the weight away from his partner.

Victor turned, not quite looking at Giraud, and Giraud knew his friend was going to lose himself in a bottle for this, he looked so lost, and he didn't know what to do.

"Père?"

"Antoine, go to the station, tell them what's happened, get someone over here, tell them we'll need a grave digger. Come on, Victor, let's get you inside."

He didn't know how long it took, but he was able to get Victor in his home and – after a herculean effort – got the poor man's wife out of his arms and stretched out on the floor, tablecloth covering her for respect. Antoinette grabbed all the children and ushered them upstairs to look after his sickly mother, and put a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Bon chance," she said softly.

But Victor was as dead to the world as his wife was, silent like a child, unable to speak as friends at the station came to get the story. The man was numb, unable to talk, just stared at nothing. Giraud and his friends did the best they could, but all they could conclude was the poor woman had been struck by lightning – they didn't even know where to bury her.

"Versailles..."

Giraud snapped his eyes to his partner. "Victor?"

"... Her home was Versailles..." his words were barely a whisper, Giraud needed several seconds to hear the words.

It was the only thing he said.

Giraud got Arno to bed as best he could, but the next morning he was gone, and Giraud knew he would never see him again.

Author's Notes: Whew, what a chapter!

Small stuff first: We played to history as much as we could - i.e. how Robespierre was ousted, Augustin's attempted suicide etc. Robespierre himself, well, he couldn't talk the previous day because the conspiracy he'd uncovered was the one where he was tricked into gutting French citizenry over imagined conspiracies. How's that for irony? No one would believe him, Germain gets to orchestrate a bloodletting of his enemies both Templar and Assassin, and Robespierre is the one they all blame. It's not perfect, but it's a better twist than the game in our opinion.

We also get some small signs at how much Arno has grown again. He's reading Descartes! Good job, Arno! He's even learning from it - though he ins't perfect yet. Given the choice between the Assassins and Élise he still (literally) slams the door on the Assassins. (Metaphor. We couldn't resist :P). Like he says in the chapter, he thinks he can fix Élise. Like a lot of other abuse victims, he feels responsible for her wellbeing - he knows she's ill, and is dong everything he can to make things easier for her because she's suffered so much. Exactly like we did for our abuser.

Élise by contrast has a very, very small moment of honest self reflection: she realizes she doesn't love Arno. And then her NPD delusion quickly rewrites that to thinking that she has the right not to love Arno because he's betrayed her and that he will never kill Germain over keeping her alive - and that keeping her alive is him exerting control over her when NO ONE is supposed to control a Templar. And like she has with so many others, she cuts him out. It remains to be seen if she would go back to him after Germain, our abuser cut us out over and over but needed us to validate their... their everything, so at least we think she would totally drag Arno back.

Astute readers will notice Arno's letter to his father has what is essentially Arno stating why the Assassins exists and even being a proponent of it. Oh Arno, you're doing everything right, you just get in your own way.

The memory itself we played pretty straight - not a lot needed to be changed. Hm. Wonder whatever happened to La Touche... didn't someone have an assignment in Versailles...?

But the inevitable happens: the person closest to Arno is lost and, like when he was a child, he retreats into himself and his silence.

Next chapter: St. Denis and Franciade.