Author's Note: I apologize for any mistakes in my attempts at Italian. Fluent speakers, feel free to correct me at any time.
Assassin's Creed: Alis Aquilae
First
The first thing Altair registered was the wind. Even the minutest changes in it were like beacons to him; so familiar with it as he was after having scaled and leapt countless towers, ever enjoying its warm, rejuvenating touch slip against his face and rustle his feathers as he plummeted in free fall. However, the air he now pulled into his lungs felt heavy and chilling, weighted down by an unusually large amount of moisture.
It was humid, he thought with distaste. Smelling unpleasantly of damp and murk, like a dungeon by the river. This mere suggestion of capture sent a sudden strike of adrenaline through his body, his eagle flaring in panic at the possibility of confinement. Altair's eyes shot open as he pushed against the solid surface he had been collapsed against, right fist tightening compulsively against a familiar metal hilt that he had only just realized still lay against his palm.
The Assassin paused in a tense, crouched stance; his curved blade held stabbing outwards into almost pitch darkness. He let out a shaky breath once he realized he was neither surrounded by enemies nor held by chains, lowering his weapon to his side. As the initial shock drained from his system, he felt a protesting bolt of pain through his left thigh, reminding him rudely of his injury.
Altair scowled against it, reaching impatiently and mechanically to a satchel at his back for dressings while simultaneously surveying his surroundings. Instead of reassuring him, the tall, brickwork buildings encircling him distantly on all sides only added to his tension, throwing upon him the realization that he had no idea where he was.
His laceration forgotten, he stood slowly and cautiously, head swiveling as he fought in vain to find something he could recognize. It was deep night, the heavily veiled moon casting long, hampering shadows across every surface and making gauging his position all the more difficult. Squinting and blanketing his own gaze with his eagle's vision in an attempt to see more clearly, he assessed that he had returned to consciousness in a rather dusty courtyard laid neatly with flagstones, broken through only by a small well and a lush tree, set side by side at its center.
There was not a sound besides that of wind and distant water, likely due to the late hour; barely a whisper coming from the dark, curtained windows of the surrounding houses. Altair took a careful step back, his hold on his dagger not loosening, and kept the sturdy timber behind him in a rather futile attempt to feel less exposed. His eagle was silent, perched low and guarded, aware that it had entered another's territory.
Why had he not awoken at Masyaf? Had the fortress perhaps been overrun by a foreign enemy while he had been unconscious? Had he, by some means, been abducted?
His feeble attempts at an explanation did nothing to ease his pounding heart, the unrest and barely suppressed panic transmitting its throb to the wound across his leg. He glanced at the opposing limb, noticing that the blood had long since dried, but lay clotted and cracked unevenly in the slit cloth. One thing at a time, the Assassin told himself sternly, clamping down on his nerves.
He sheathed his curved blade and returned to a crouch to bind the injury with swift movements, punctuated only by several wary glances around to assure himself that no one was approaching. As he straightened up again, he released a calming breath, testing his left leg and discovering with relief that it would support him.
An Assassin is able to adapt to any situation, Altair recited mentally, flicking his gaze upon the buildings around him for one tall enough for him to climb and gather his bearings. A dark brick one in one corner of the courtyard caught his eye and he loped towards it, pushing the distracting ache in his leg to the back of his mind.
He moved instinctively into a wide shadow cast across the front wall of the two-storey structure, out of sight of non-existent watchers. However, even before he had set a hand against the brickwork, he realized that he had miscalculated somewhat. The wall he faced had been set painstakingly smooth, each brick artistically and infuriatingly aligned with its neighbors—so unlike the half-dilapidated ones he usually scaled. Those who lived in this district evidently had money to waste.
The robed man took a step back, sweeping his attention to the wood rimmed windows on the second floor instead, noting that the intricately decorated sills would be able to support his weight well enough. He began to retreat further away to take the wall at a run; however, a sudden approach of softly padding footsteps across the courtyard broke his concentration. Without a second thought, he flicked into the shelter of the building's arched entryway, leaning against a deeply shadowed door set with skillful wooden carvings of saints and pleated wings.
The approaching person must have seen the flash of white however, for the quiet footfalls stopped, as if the owner were pausing in confusion. Though Altair hoped the stranger would simply continue on their way and leave the supposed apparition in peace, he readily flexed the fingers on his left hand all the same, wary of any attack. Sure enough, the measured steps shortly resumed, drawing nearer to the lurking Assassin.
"Ezio? Amico mio, che cosa—?"
Altair caught a glimpse of lightly browned hair, capped neatly in red, clearing the edge of the doorway into his line of sight, before he lunged forward. His right hand found a hold in the collar of a gold-fringed cape as he twisted the young man around and forced him against the wall he had been about to climb earlier. There was a distracting shattering of wood that cut the silence like a blade as the man dropped a crate he had been carrying, scattering brushes and paint across the courtyard in a broken wave. Despite this sudden show of aggression, the other did not resist, possibly having thought the Assassin would not lash out despite his approach. A careless man, Altair thought with a tinge of disapproval.
Dangerous, black eyes met startlingly blue ones, and the Master Assassin was somewhat taken aback to see the stranger looking him straight in the face with bored indignity rather than with fear, as if he thought this was just some petty prank. Altair frowned at the lack of response, releasing his hidden blade with a practiced flick of his wrist and placing it warningly against the pinned one's throat.
There was a tight moment of surprise as the man felt the narrow steel graze his skin, his gaze passing over Altair's unmistakably cold expression, visible even through the shadows of his hood and the cover of night. As if suddenly realizing that he was under attack, the stranger shrank back, stammering out apologetic tones. The words fell on deaf ears, for they would have meant little to the Assassin even if he could understand the foreign syllables.
"Where is this?" he demanded evenly, realizing he could get information much more quickly from a townsman rather than from running across such unfamiliar roof tops. However, not a spark of comprehension showed on the man's face, the clipped tones of Altair's own tongue probably meaning as little to the stranger as his own had to the Assassin. Instead, the man even seemed to have gotten distracted, staring at the weapon strapped to his left forearm with great interest and a hint of puzzlement.
Impatient and somewhat frustrated by the fact that his supposed informant was barely even paying him any attention, Altair released his hold on the other's collar with a scowl. This man was no threat, was barely even worth his time. If anything, the only useful information he had gleaned from him was that he was evidently in a town populated with some foreigners, possibly a port near the sea or a great river. He would head towards the water then; a busy dockside would be easy to lose himself in and—
The alarm was instantaneous. Altair tensed instinctively, eyes flicking upwards as a sudden, murderously dangerous aura above flared across his eagle's senses, agitating it enough to scream out a challenge to the attacker. A streak of white and blood-slashed red flashed into view and leaped from the roof in response, thoroughly startling the Assassin as his spirit heard an answering eagle's cry.
He threw himself back a few steps, nimbly dodging the tell-tale glimmer of a knife as the figure from the rooftops landed before him, slashing forward in a wide strike and forcing Altair away from the stranger he had been attempting to interrogate. The shadows obscured most of the enemy as he rushed forward again, the weapon in his left hand a blur of movement as it stabbed towards the white-robed man's chest.
Altair reacted smoothly, turning around the charge and seizing the edge of the man's wing of a cape to jerk him off balance. As the other staggered to the left, the Assassin kicked out viciously, the heel of his boot connecting solidly with the man's back. For any other enemy, this would have been enough for them to go down, but instead, Altair needed to stumble back as the man recovered swiftly, catching himself in a crouch and lunging again within the space of a breath.
He twisted hastily to the right, using his hidden blade to deflect a slash from the oddly light weapon the other man wielded, but the other was ready for him this time, and Altair felt a knee drive into his flank mid-turn. He gave a quiet snarl against the blow, staggering back a further step, but retaliating with no less ferocity.
This furious, bloodless exchange stretched for less than a few seconds, a veritable dance of tangled white and gleaming blades, but to Altair it seemed a heated eternity of dodge, lunge and parry, his eagle proudly refusing to tire as it locked beak and talon against the other raptor. However, it was not long before he began to feel exhaustion tugging at his consciousness, he realizing that it had not been so long ago since he had faced his master, not to mention the others before him, those others captive to the Piece of Eden.
Pulling away from the enemy just enough to dodge the next strike, the Master Assassin leapt unexpectedly backwards, swiftly distancing himself back towards the area the two had first engaged. He landed lightly in a ready attack stance several lengths away, raising his wrist blade defensively as he attempted to even his quietly gasping breath. However, the other seemed to think he had moved to attack the first man again, for he threw himself squarely between the two of them, growling out a warning that Altair could not understand and throwing in some words that could only be insults.
However, just as suddenly as he had attacked, the figure fell silent. Altair shifted back and realized a bit belatedly that he had stepped into a rare patch of moonlight with his retreat, throwing himself into clearer view. He stilled under the scrutiny of the man and his apparent companion, returning their stares impassively as he attempted to see the face of the man who had assaulted him, hidden as it was past the darkly woven shadows of the neighboring buildings and a white beaked hood.
An… an Assassin, Altair realized with a jolt, only now seeing the familiar shape of the teardrop symbol worked in fine metal at the front of the man's sash and across a leather bracer that could only be a hidden blade. Even his battle stance was similar to his, the two men standing almost in mirror images of each other, with left arms pulled back and wrist blades extended.
The Masyaf Assassin well knew that there existed other branches of the Brotherhood across different lands—the home base of Alamut in Persia to say the least—with its uniforms and cultures varying, but the devotion of its men and the facets of its Creed remaining unchanged. This man was doubtlessly from a different faction, but he was a brother all the same. To harm him would be to break one of their essential tenets. Taking a chance, for he was still unsure if this was merely a trap, Altair straightened slowly out of his offensive position, allowing his blade to slide back into its cradle.
There was a pause as he felt the eyes of the foreign eagle boring into his, just as mistrusting as he was. Finally, the silence was broken, not by either of the Assassins, but by the stranger Altair had first engaged. The bearded man touched the sleeve of his friend's blood-striped doublet, murmuring quiet words as if to calm him down. Only at this did the other Assassin hesitantly relax his guard, lowering his arm to his side as well and retracting his own hidden blade.
"Come ti chiami? Di dove sei?" he finally ventured brashly, accented tone ringing with suspicion and, oddly, some familiarity. Altair looked at him steadily, still unable to understand, but guessing that it was some inquiry on how he had gotten there, or perhaps why he had attacked the first man.
"Ezio, non parla italiano," the other said to the foreign Assassin, looking pointedly at Altair's robes which, between the clothes of the other two, stood out quite evidently. The hooded stranger muttered an impatient oath, folding his arms as he studied him for a span, before speaking again.
"Parli… inglese? English, then? Can you speak English?"
Altair cocked his head slightly, recognizing the language of the Crusaders. Though much of his grasp on the tongue had come from eavesdropping on conversations of King Richard's knights or occasionally from their shouted insults as he fled assassinations, there had been enough for him to have a fair knowledge of it.
"Yes, I can speak English," the Master Assassin said tiredly, rather disliking the feel of the syllables, but glad to be able to converse with the two all the same. He hesitated, equally disliking the humble courtesy he would need to show, but it appeared necessary if he was to speak with this apparently short-tempered man peaceably. "I apologize if I attacked a member of our Order, brother, but I was not aware."
"Brother? I am no brother of yours," the caped Assassin cut in hotly, the term appearing to tear at an old wound. Altair blinked at him coolly, reminded somewhat of himself before the trial al Mualim had set to him mere months ago. He would need to even more carefully control his own temper or risk crossing blades again. "Do you not address your fellow Assassins here as 'brother'? I don't think I have misused the word," he commented evenly, unable to keep his eyes from narrowing a little at the insolence.
"So you are an Assassin as well?" the other man spoke up to him at last, taking an eager step towards Altair. "I saw your hidden blade earlier—such a fascinating mechanism."
"Yes," he replied offhandedly, shifting a bit uncomfortably under the man's thoroughly intrigued blue stare. Though this man was infuriatingly open and somehow unable to realize personal space, the Master Assassin found he could not dislike him. "I… I am sorry if I injured you earlier."
As the bearded man cheerfully waved off his apology, Altair chanced a glance at his fellow Assassin and found him frowning at him, eying him rather surreptitiously with arms still crossed. "You are obviously a foreigner," he said shortly, blunt in every aspect. "What business have you in Venezia? I find it highly doubtful another Assassin just suddenly appears tonight of all nights. The cowl does not make the monk—how can we know you are truly, as you put it, a brother?"
The Masyaf Assassin started to irritably demand he respect his betters, thoroughly disliking the other's arrogant tone, until the context of the caped Assassin's words sank in, leaving in him a sudden chill of foreboding. "What… what do you mean I am the foreigner? Where is this?" Altair asked, his voice rising slightly as the feeling of displacement, of confusion reared once again.
"You do not even know where you are?" the first man said in surprise, glancing at his Assassin companion who simply looked on with an air of complacency, as if he was further assured of his suspicions. The older man shook his head a bit before stating, "This is Venezia, or perhaps you know it as Venice, Italy."
Italy? A sudden rush of memory raised unbidden to the forefront of Altair's mind, he suddenly remembering a map etched with a series of uneven landmasses clustered protectively around an inland sea, the Mediterranean. Abruptly dizzied, he touched a hand to his head and realized that what he was seeing was a memory remnant from the Piece of Eden, marked by hazy golden outlines distinct to his previous, supposed hallucinations. Perhaps the knowledge of the artifact had its uses, considering of course that it could be trusted.
Taking a glance across the image in his mind's eye, he found he could recognize the distinct form of Cyprus, the island wherein it had recently been rumored that the Templars were attempting to establish a base. From this reference, he saw that Italy, the place the man claimed them to be, was a staggering distance from his home, a perilous travel by ship that he would have never dared take, only short of al Mualim ordering him to go.
This realization completely stunned him, setting his eagle spirit into a clamor. He had crossed an ocean while he was unconscious? The mere thought was far too absurd, his mind already objecting the idea before he could completely comprehend it. The man had to be lying.
He raised his head to pose this accusation, but was slightly surprised to find the other Assassin had drawn near him in his distraction, stance threatening once again. Altair frowned, left hand closing in a fist instinctively as the other man beat him to throwing out suspicions. "What, can you not explain yourself?" he asked venomously, apparently still waiting for the answer to his previous question. "Don't tell me that you are lost, and have no idea how you got here. That is much too convenient."
The Master Assassin could not hold back a small snarl at the affront, holding his ground against the approach. "If I did say that, it would be the truth," he said tightly, staring fearlessly into dark brown eyes now visible with the proximity.
The tension and the threat of the impending fight must have been evident, for the other quickly spoke up. "Gentlemen, this is not the time," the first man said hastily, rather bravely getting between the two Assassins and placing a hand against both their shoulders to keep them apart. "We will call the attention of the guards if we continue to talk out here. Please, both of you, let's move this inside." He indicated the dark brickwork building Altair had attempted to scale earlier—the local Assassin's Bureau perhaps.
"That's not such a good idea, Leonardo," the foreign Assassin snapped, not moving from where he stood. "What if this man is a Templar? It would be dangerous to let a criminal into your home, I would not allow it—"
"Ezio, if I might remind you, the first time you came to me all those years ago, you were a convicted felon," the man, the one the other had called Leonardo, pointed out calmly, stepping back to gather the supplies he had dropped upon first encountering Altair. "The murderer of the gonfaloniere, remember? What would you have done if I had not taken the chance to trust you then?"
The other eagle frowned, thoroughly silenced. He muttered a quiet, impatient sound, giving Altair a last sidelong look before turning and following his friend to the house. The Master Assassin tailed after him, still seething quietly, but honestly grateful for the shelter they were offering. As they filed towards the small rectangular doorway, he attempted to convince himself that these people were allies; but his eagle still ruffled its feather mistrustfully, keening a warning each time one of them drew close enough for an attack.
His instincts had never been wrong before, however, despite his paranoia, no blade descended upon him. This did nothing to placate him though, for only time would tell if he could truly trust these people or not.