Author's Note: Just a quick reply to one of the anonymous reviews—not quite relevant to the storyline, but since you asked, no, Ezio hasn't grown his beard yet. This is set before Ezio gets the Piece of Eden, thus also before the Battle of Forli.

Assassin's Creed: Alis Aquilae

Fifth

His transition from air into water was neither gentle nor quiet, Altair feeling the surface of the ocean shatter around him as he plunged through it quite gracelessly. The almost deafening splash followed by the sudden, confining silence as he was driven under chilled the Master Assassin more than the frigid temperature of the sea itself. He shut his eyes and willed his body to stillness, fighting the overwhelming urge to flail and struggle for his life, knowing that it would do little more than waste his energy and worsen his situation.

Though he was sure Ezio had followed mere seconds behind him, the wait for the other Assassin to break through the water seemed an age, the Masyaf eagle feeling his chest constrict from cold and fear and lack of oxygen. Patience degrading fast, he finally forced his eyes open, peering through the gray-green murk of the seawater and, upon realizing that he could see nothing but an endless, alien landscape of muted color, felt his calm break.

His chest seemed aflame as he thrashed, only succeeding in stirring up bubbles that obscured his vision as his eagle screamed soundlessly in its attempts to reach the sky. In the midst of his panic, he felt a gloved hand suddenly latch onto his collar and saw the tails of Ezio's sash flutter across his vision, the blood red standing out starkly in the clouded green water. Altair faltered, his clouded mind just barely registering the presence, before the other Assassin hauled on the neck of his robes, and he felt his head break the surface as he was pulled to safety.

The Masyaf Assassin dragged in what felt like his first breath in a lifetime, half-choking on seawater as he did so and clutching desperately at the arm keeping him afloat. As he coughed, his entire frame trembling, he attempted to salvage what was left of his pride but heard the Florentine eagle chuckle quietly, either attempting to lighten the mood or simply amused at his fruitless struggles.

"I will seriously need to teach you how to swim, nonno."

Altair grated out a rather incoherent insult in response, still coughing against the salt as the other Assassin swam the few yards to dry land, his brother in tow. Their movement was admittedly slow, the Florentine eagle quite obviously hampered by both his injured arm and his fellow Assassin, but for once he made no comment on it. As they neared the shore, instead of making straight for a nearby dock, Ezio pulled them farther, ducking under the cover of a low set bridge.

As the Master Assassin transferred his grip from the other's sleeve to a brick jutting out underneath the stone structure, he finally managed to somewhat even his breathing; the gentling gasps reverberating oddly loud with the low headroom. At the sound of approaching armored footfalls, both immediately fell quiet, listening attentively to the shouted voices of the more persistent guards as they searched for their escaped quarry. Altair shut his eyes as they waited out the soldier's pursuit, trying not to focus on the cold of the water steadily seeping into his core.

His senses began to grow fogged from exhaustion, thus he was unsure how much time passed until the sound of the crowd overhead finally calmed, the innocents going about their business after weathering the enraged storm of soldiers. Only a prod and a whispered goad from Ezio stirred him, ready as he was to let sleep take him then and there. He blinked at him rather blearily before shaking his head to clear the mist, a little irritated at his own physical weakness. He followed the caped Assassin to a set of steps leading down into the water, moving hand over hand against the stonework wall towards it and wondering at the back of his mind if anyone would notice the two bedraggled eagles climbing from the frigid water.

The Florentine Assassin straightened casually on the neatly cut staircase, wiping a few droplets of seawater from his face but otherwise not seeming to notice the chill of the wind nor the heaviness of his soaked clothes. Altair stood as well, but very nearly lost his balance again as he did so, the wound on his leg rudely demanding attention. Though he managed to catch himself and mask the falter by gripping the low railing built into the wall of the canal, he realized with a little dread that he would not be running again any time soon.

Swallowing a pained gasp, he pushed aside the folds of his white robes to examine the laceration, finding the bandage that he had tied long gone, likely lost in the ocean during his untimely swim. The skin surrounding the half-closed gash had grown red and inflamed, irritated by the salt of the water and by what was likely a setting-in infection. He uttered a quiet oath and fell slowly to a sit, gingerly minding his injured limb. Though he said nothing to the other Assassin, he knew Ezio had doubtlessly noticed the wound, already having seen it back at the Bureau.

"I knew you wouldn't be able to keep up with me," the Florentine eagle said rather smugly as he looked over at him, but Altair could hear the fatigue in his voice, saw it in his stance as he lowered himself onto the step next to his brother.

"You won't be able to fly with that sprained shoulder either," the Masyaf Assassin reminded him flatly, not looking at the other as he worked at cleaning away the stray cloth sticking to his open wound.

"…Perhaps not," Ezio huffed, falling silent a moment as he watched his fellow Assassin's movements. "Do I need to take you to a doctor? That wound doesn't look good."

"I will be fine," Altair responded dully, reaching for the last of the bandages in his belt. "Besides, is your rafiq not trained in medicine? I can wait until we return to the Bureau." He pulled the bindings from his pack but frowned at the strips of cloth when he realized that they had also been thoroughly soaked by the swim, making them far from usable. He had never considered waterproofing his satchels, as wet bandages would usually be the least of his worries if he ended up in a river.

Noticing this, Ezio handed him some of his own supplies. "My 'rafiq?' Do you mean Leonardo?" he questioned, obviously not recognizing the term.

Altair nodded in thanks and dabbed at the wound before binding it quickly, aware of the attention they were drawing by simply sitting at the edge of the canal. "Yes, your rafiq," he said distractedly, firmly knotting the cloth and tugging his still damp robes over it to mask the already tainting spread of scarlet. "The keeper of your Bureau."

Realizing what he meant, the Florentine Assassin shook his head and climbed to his feet, looking a little amused. "Leonardo is just a painter—an artist, not an Assassin. He is simply one of my closest friends. Besides, didn't I tell you I was the only Assassin here? Why would I need a Bureau?"

"Just a friend? But he knows your identity," Altair said, finally looking up, admittedly surprised. "I would think only a member of the Order would have that knowledge. It is dangerous to reveal to just anyone that you are an Assassin." His eyes narrowed a little at the other as he pulled himself up by the stair's railing and carefully put weight on his left leg. "Unless you go around proclaiming your name after every kill?"

Ezio paused, seeming to remember something, before he allowed a laugh, an honest one, though with the strained note of a painful memory ringing behind it. "That was in the past, and only once. Besides, even if I hadn't, the Templars would have discovered my name on their own eventually."

"You are not denying it?" the Master Assassin asked in disbelief, doing his best to conceal his limp as he followed the other on their slow, tedious way back to Leonardo's workshop. "What reason could you have had to put the enemy on your own tail? You are more than a novice, you fool."

The Florentine Assassin looked over his shoulder at him, quite unruffled. "As if you were once any different. At least I revealed myself after I killed my target and not before."

Altair stopped, a familiar ache of guilt building in his chest as he recalled what seemed like a different life, heard the cries of the brothers he had been separated from by a collapsed Temple wall, helpless to aid them, almost not wishing to. In a flash though, the pain turned to anger and, bristling, he spat out, "What are you implying?"

"I am implying nothing. I simply ask you don't dredge up things that should remained buried," Ezio said, his voice flat as he turned to walk ahead of the white-robed one, not meeting his eyes. The Masyaf Assassin hesitated, a little humbled, before he finally scowled and continued on in silence.

This irritation and tension between the two did not take long to abate however, both eagles well aware and comfortable with the fact that they would never be able to completely come to terms with each other, opposite as they were. Not to mention that the walk was long, and the chill air was quick to cool roiling tempers.

Altair eventually fell into a relaxed, measured pace, conserving his energy and growing accustomed to the weakness in his leg, quite the opposite of the Florentine Assassin beside him who seemed only to be regaining his spirit, rejuvenated by the morning air. The Master Assassin frowned inwardly and wondered how the other could take so well to this accursed cold. If anything, the unfriendly wind at least dried them both quite quickly.

Shaking his head, he decided to turn his attention instead to the city and its occupants milling around them, their daily routines having properly started sometime during his and Ezio's short excursion into the Arsenal. He recognized little difference in them from the faceless, largely anonymous citizens he usually dealt with back in the Holy Land, save for the lilting tones of their language, and the design of their clothes. He supposed though that they were just as easy to hide amongst, just as oblivious to shallowly hidden battles between Templars and Assassins, and just as easy to kill should the need arise.

"Such a serious face," Ezio commented lightly, suddenly, distracting the Master Assassin from his observations. Altair gave him a rather withering look in response to the quirked grin, but the other was nonplussed, continuing on with his own, significantly less important remarks. "You'll never catch the ladies' attention like that. Do you want me to teach you a few tricks?"

"I am not interested," the Masyaf Assassin said bluntly, knowing the other was suggesting it more to irritate him than out of any actual sincerity.

"Non? Why? Do your tastes lie elsewhere?"

Altair came to a halt and looked at him incredulously, dark eyes narrowed. "Give me one reason not to throw you back into the canal."

The other Assassin smirked, completely unthreatened by the look that would have sent lesser men cowering. "That wouldn't really be a problem. I actually know how to swim, remember?"

"Perhaps, but that might be a bit difficult for you with my blade in your—"

Here, both men tensed abruptly, their eagles' gazes flicking towards the path ahead and giving twin, agitated hisses at the sudden sense of danger. Altair caught his brother's eye briefly before they turned casually away from each other and walked in different directions, with the Masyaf Assassin heading towards a half-full bench, and the other turning his back on the street and appearing to inspect the merchandise of a small shop.

However, they had not been quick enough to escape the eye of the passing patrol, its heavily armored captain signaling a halt to his men and heading in their direction, the plume on his helmet fluttering as he searched suspiciously about the crowd for the flash of white he had seen. They were much too conspicuous moving together, Altair realized, berating himself silently and sitting rather stiffly on the stone bench next to a nobleman and an elderly lady, ducking his head to avoid the soldier's eye.

He was unsure whether the Venetian guards were simply more persistent than the ones he was used to, or because it had been less than an hour since he and Ezio had fled the Templar port, but the guard captain was unusually thorough as he combed through the crowd, rather threateningly passing his long spear between his hands and staring into passing faces, causing several innocents to detour away from him or hurry on their way anxiously. The Master Assassin frowned as he watched the soldier from behind the shade of his hood, shifting the fingers on his left hand and itching to release his blade, but also knowing the danger in calling attention, as he would be unable to escape should he be seen.

Thus, he hid, wondering absently where Ezio had gone. However, while appearing to casually glance through the crowd, Altair realized that, now that they were far from the port district, the people had grown more uniform, their clothes almost identical now after the presence of foreign merchants and sailors had been depleted. With some dread, he knew that there would be no doubt he would be recognized, identified by the robes of his Brotherhood, should the soldier catch sight of him.

Swiftly, the Masyaf eagle stood, taking the opportunity to slip into an alleyway as the guard captain's attention was drawn to an unfortunate monk who had chosen quite an inopportune time to emerge from one of the buildings. Altair hesitated as the gentle shade of the dark alleyway accepted him, wondering how he could call Ezio's attention—he would likely just become lost without him, unable to return to the safe house, particularly since his injury restricted him from climbing and gathering his bearings.

Before he could decide his next course of action however, his eagle gave a sudden cry, startling him as a red aura abruptly permeated the alley. Altair stilled, knowing the man was behind him, but making no sign that he had noticed. How had he been seen? he wondered irritably, feigning ignorance and glancing up towards the roofs. Perhaps his wound had slowed him a lot more than he had thought.

He eased the weight off his left, ready to spring away on his good leg should the guard captain be foolish enough to attempt an attack. Sure enough, a disturbance of air by his feet signaled a sweeping strike, the enemy aiming to slash at his leg or at least trip him and drive him into the ground. The Master Assassin timed his own counter carefully, waiting for the last moment before lifting his right foot and driving the heel forcefully down into the passing haft, stopping the sweep halfway through its arc. He heard the guard's surprised grunt as he glanced over his shoulder and glowered irritably, an eagle disdainfully eying an impetuous crow.

"Assassino," the man stated carefully, as if confirming it, drawing back and speaking the word in a measured tone instead of the usual, half-hysteric scream of alarm Altair so often heard from enemy soldiers. A little curious, he took a few steps back as well, keeping the man in sight but staying his blade for the moment.

Upon realizing that he was not about to die just yet, the soldier shifted his weapon to his side, a ready, though not offensive stance. "The signore, he summons you to return," he spoke in clipped English, seeming largely unused to the foreign tongue. "Return to L'Arsenale."

"Are you talking about Rodrigo Borgia?" the Assassin asked, eyes narrowing. "I have already told him that I would discuss no terms."

"No. Not him, another," the guard captain said quite cryptically, either due to the language barrier or simply by an unwillingness to divulge too much information. "He said to tell you…" There was a pause as the man attempted to remember the words, seeming a little agitated as he watched Altair's patience visibly wane. Then finally, "La shaiq' waqee mutlak… bl kollin mumkin."

The white-robed one took a slight step back in confusion, hearing the words not only of his mother tongue, but also of his Creed. The phrase had been the last he had expected to hear from a foreign enemy of a distant time, and he felt his eagle bristling from hearing them spoken in such blasphemy.

"Enough," Altair snapped, covering his unsettlement with anger and flicking his wrist blade from its cradle. "Either leave now or fight. I've heard enough."

The guard captain regarded him steadily before turning on his heel and exiting the side street, the man's calm further perplexing the Assassin. The soldier acted nothing like a middle-rank servant of the Templars, one of many only serving them for coin. Instead, he seemed to hold the assured air of a true believer in their cause, quite a rare case. Altair sheathed his hidden blade and watched him leave, deciding not to attempt to comprehend the questions that had reared, or at least wait for them to reach the safety of Leonardo's home.

He waited a moment before following the man, keeping his back to the wall and his form in the shadows as he watched the captain gather his men and continue on routinely as if nothing had occurred. The Masyaf Assassin slipped out of the alleyway and back into the crowd, allowing his eagle's eyes to shift over his vision as he searched for Ezio.

It took only a moment to locate the gentle blue aura of his fellow Assassin, just visible in the passing stream of generic white. He had been about to blink and return his normal sight, however, he paused in slight puzzlement when he noticed a flicker. The Florentine Assassin's tell tale aura had shifted for the briefest moments to an aggressive red before returning, an uncertainty of color similar to what he had seen when he had first met him and Leonardo in the courtyard.

Altair watched him approach, trying to understand. Perhaps it was due to the man simply being a difficult character to read, thus confusing his eagle, or perhaps the annoyance and rivalry Ezio felt towards him was enough to affect his imprint on his senses. Though he tried to explain away the hostility, he could not help but wonder if his instincts held true, as they always had, and the other Assassin somehow meant him ill.

"Is something wrong? Come on, let's keep moving," Ezio prompted him, cheerful as ever, the passed threat not seeming to have bothered him in the slightest. The Masyaf Assassin tailed after him obediently, though said nothing to him until they had reached the now familiar workshop in the center of the city. Here, the caped Assassin paused briefly by the finely carved door into the shop, evidently listening if there were any other people inside aside from the artist, before knocking twice on the door and entering.

"Ezio, messere Altair," Leonardo greeted them quite seriously, his usually bright eyes clouded with worry as he took in their injuries with a glance. "Did you have any luck?"

"I'm afraid not, amico mio," Ezio sighed as he sat on the couch by the door, rather tiredly pushing his hood back. "The Spaniard was waiting for us—he escaped while we fought off the ambush."

Altair sat on the other end of the embroidered sofa, gratefully taking the strain off his injury, and watching as the bearded one came over with a medical kit. Though the other Assassin had said this was not a Bureau, based on the practiced way Leonardo handled their injuries, it was evidently a common tradition for the Florentine eagle to come to him after missions.

"Do you want me to suture this for you?" the artist asked Altair as he carefully applied antibiotics across the laceration on his thigh, the stained bandages now laid neatly to one side. "It should help stop the bleeding."

"Please," the Master Assassin said a little distantly, giving a short nod. He was utterly exhausted, practically asleep on his feet, but he was still quite hesitant to drop his guard around these two. Not to mention their attempt to retrieve the Apple had only brought up more questions than answers.

"I'm sorry Leonardo, but could we stay the night?" Ezio spoke up with a half glance at Altair, rubbing absently at his newly bandaged shoulder.

"Of course, I wouldn't have it any other way," Leonardo assured him as he quickly finished stitching the Masyaf Assassin's injury, his deft movements closing it skillfully. Even in his distracted state, Altair had to admit he was impressed.

Guarded as he attempted to be, Altair could just barely remember being led to one of the back rooms, a guest room the artist evidently kept vacant for Ezio's use. The cot offered to him was narrow and simply adorned, quite unlike the many trappings of the workshop, but he took no notice. Only pausing to carefully set his bared short blade on the floor in easy reach, he lay down to rest, the stubborn eagle finally called to roost.

Author's Note: As Altair mentions in the story, I really found it strange that Ezio announced his own name after killing Uberto—not exactly discrete.