Assassin's Creed: Alis Aquilae

Seventh

Altair knew that it was critical for him to look around the sheltered area and check for other potential enemies and escape routes, but seeing al Mualim's phantom—for this was doubtlessly what it was—had frozen him, the Assassin unable to tear his gaze from the impassive expression. The face was unchanged from that of the man he remembered, his teacher whom he had often seen immersed in the knowledge of the fortress library, his level expression half-shaded behind his dark hood and his one good eye alight despite his age.

But through his mind's eyes, the gentle face abruptly seemed to harden, a cruel expression crossing the old man's features as hate and anger twisted it, threatened by Altair's attempts to take his life and his precious treasure. The eagle shook his head forcefully and raised his wrist blade again, lowering into a defensive stance as he looked upon the one whom he had once respected and obeyed first above any other. He had killed him, he reminded himself vehemently, trying to calm his confused spirit. This was not real.

"Child, listen to me," al Mualim spoke up evenly, soothingly, looking upon the young Assassin who continued to shift, fighting to hide his unease. "I can hear the questions you are bursting to ask, but hold them for the moment. Allow me to explain."

"No," Altair snarled out suddenly, a bit haltingly, forcing words out past the catch in his throat and rather blatantly forgetting the presence of others nearby. "I will not be taken in by your tricks, not again." The old man's voice was so familiar, once again ringing with the calm tone that he had grown to trust through his years of service. He had not heard his master speak this way since he had been corrupted by the Apple's power. It was maddening.

"Already you are mistaken. They were not my tricks, Altair, but the Piece of Eden's."

"…What? I… I don't…" His voice came out weak, the words feeble, thoroughly infuriating him as he attempted to piece together his failing resolve.

"Listen," the elder repeated firmly, seeming to hold his ground if only to avoid further agitating his once-student. "The one you have been speaking to for the past year, the one who sent you after the nine, was not me, but the artifact through me. Think back, you must have noticed the change."

Altair said nothing, his stance locked, but his determination and the fire of his anger guttering. He so desperately wished for the words to be truth, so yearned to be able to blame the shattering of his Brotherhood on the Templar treasure, that he found himself listening.

"Ah, you do not deny?" al Mualim asked, the ghost of a smile slipping across his countenance. "So you were not blind to it as the others were. I am relieved. You were always my best student."

The words stung. The Assassin felt an unexpected pain in his chest, tensing again from hearing the same remark spoken by the Grand Master he had faced in the fortress garden, the final words he had uttered before turning his blade upon Altair. The ache in his heart and his leg where the false al Mualim had torn him reminded him, and he drew back mistrustfully. "If that is so, how am I seeing you now? Even if the one I killed was the Apple in your stead, your body was destroyed. Your spirit should have still… passed on."

"I would have passed on long ago if I were still able," his master said sadly, pacing a few steps to look out into the harbor, arms folded behind his back in a mannerism that had apparently not been lost. "I can no longer leave here. I have paid a heavy price for my carelessness. The Piece of Eden is much stronger than any man, and its powers extend far beyond simple manipulation of the mind. Those who open themselves to it for even the briefest moments are completely consumed, lost to the world and trapped in an illusion wrought of their own memories and the twisted dreams of the artifact."

"Then… all this is an illusion? All the images and prophecies the treasure showed me, a lie?"

"This Apple, this Forbidden Fruit, can no more tell the future than you or I could," the elder stated firmly, casting a somber gaze in his student's direction. "This Venezia, as I'm sure the locals have told you it is called, does not and will never exist. It is a figment, nothing more."

Altair grappled with the idea, dark eyes clouded with turmoil as he tried to understand. "What of the brothers I have met here then? Are they also simply hallucinations?"

"Yes," he responded assuredly, meeting Altair's eyes at the mention. "However, it is in them where a particular key instance lies."

"A key?"

"It is through these false Assassins that the Piece of Eden manipulates you, toying with your actions and deeper entangling you in this illusive world. It is they who keep you, thus, it is also through them that you might be freed."

The eagle pricked its ears at this, eager, almost desperate for an opportunity to leave this place of confusion and unfamiliarity, of displacement and echoes of loss. He straightened slowly out of his attack stance and retracted his blade, guard decisively dropped. In his mind, he was in al Mualim's study again, standing at attention and awaiting his orders. "…What must I do?"

"Only perform what I have spent my life teaching you, child. You must kill them. Any who have spoken to you of the Brotherhood—they must die."

Altair nodded slowly, unquestioning. "I understand. This must be done in order to dispel the mirage. But… what of you, master? Will you also-?"

"It is the Piece that holds me now, so long have I been captive to its manipulation," al Mualim said gently, solemnly. "I am bound here until the artifact itself is gone."

"Then I will free myself and destroy it," the student vowed quietly, steadfast now that he had an objective to strive for. "I promise, I will end this, master."

He took a step back the way he had come, left hand touching his chest as he bowed in the Assassin's salute. Then he turned back towards the street, slipping out from between the warehouses and rejoining the crowd that had seemed completely oblivious to their exchange.

The raptor had already gone, resolutely taking flight at its falconer's command, thus he did not see the black-cloaked figure behind him suddenly break into fragments of gold light, did not see the man he had trusted vanish and be replaced by another, one also shaded by a dark-cloak, clutching an orb of silver in his right hand. The man watched the eagle fly and smiled.

Altair wove past the throng of people moving through the Arsenal, pulling in a held breath as soon as he had cleared its walls. Once again free, he ran for the nearest building, climbing swiftly hand over hand on its windowsills and pulling himself up with the tail of his sash fluttering behind him. He would look for the artist first, he decided calmly, detached, his eagle in control. Auditore could be dealt with afterwards.

He searched for the division of the city with the finest houses, its people bedecked in colorful silks and feathers—the upper district within which Ezio had claimed Leonardo was working a commission. He took each rooftop at a run, his raptor in a spiraling dive as it searched determinedly, heatedly, for its target, knowing it was near and practically already tasting its blood.

Finally, a glint of gold caught his attention and his eyes narrowed, honing in on the glimpse of his prey he had seen through the entrance of a balcony across the street, half hidden by potted plants and porcelain vases. He slowed to a halt and lazily measured the distance, lowering into a swift crouch and taking the span at a lunge. He latched onto one of the marble pillars and jerked himself up and over, clearing the railing with little more than a flutter of cloth to mark his passing.

He straightened casually and walked into the room, catching the sudden, rather heady smell of paint and dye and linseed oil. A quick, sweeping glance told him the house was quite empty, devoid of occupants aside from his target—too easy. The aforementioned artist had his back to him but turned as he padded closer, the Assassin not bothering to hide his presence nor the rustle of his steps across the protective cloth covering the carpet.

"Ah, Ezio, back so soon?" Leonardo asked cheerfully, glancing back briefly with a bright smile gracing his face, but lowering neither his arm nor his brush from the mural he was painting across one wall.

Altair said nothing, inconspicuously ducking his head to mask most of his features and forcing a return smile, mimicking the Florentine Assassin's usual disposition. As Leonardo returned to his work, the eagle's mouth flattened again to a grim line and he drew up behind the older man, feigning interest in his painting, but in truth only focusing on the back of his target's neck as he released his hidden blade.

However, the brief whirring click of the mechanism as it locked into place alerted the other man, he likely being familiar with the sound after knowing Ezio for so long. Leonardo looked back again in understandable alarm, dropping his brush as Altair rushed forward and coldly seized him about the throat, holding him still and drawing back his left talon for a strike.

"Messere Altair-?" the artist choked out, blue eyes wide with fear and confusion as he stared full into the face of his attacker, finally recognizing him past the clothes. "Wh-what are you doing?"

The Masyaf Assassin met his gaze and, for one of the few times in his life, hesitated to bring down his blade, thoroughly unsettled by the imploring look in Leonardo's eyes, still so open and trusting, pleading with him to explain what was going on.

Growling at his own weakness, Altair shook free of his hampering guilt, his right fist clenching rather agitatedly and cutting off the man's words and breath. Paint-streaked hands desperately fastened around his wrist, his prey struggling for his life as the Assassin leveled his hidden blade to the side of his head.

"E-ezio!"

Odd last words, Altair thought coldly, gathering to bury his knife into his target's flesh. The pain was sudden, intense and flashing as it ripped through his left shoulder, the abrupt agony followed closely by an earsplitting bang. He staggered sideways with a cry, right hand releasing Leonardo and clamping instead around the soaking flow of blood that poured in rivulets from the bullet wound.

His eagle gave an echoing shriek of rage at the affront, a scream that was only answered in kind by another raptor spirit. Altair turned in time to see the Florentine Assassin push his way into the room from the balcony, lip pulled back in a snarl of pure hatred. "I swear I will kill you, you figlio di puttana!"

The Masyaf Assassin simply reacted, one hand flying to the throwing knives at his belt and sending three into the air in quick succession. He dove away from the answering barrage of near-identical daggers, catching himself in a roll and ignoring the red life he spilled onto the floor, thick as the paint already staining it. Ezio dodged the airborne projectiles sent in his direction and pressed after him, a glinting, angular knife in hand.

"We never should have trusted you, traitor!" the Florentine eagle spat out in between enraged, almost wild strikes with the short blade, all of which Altair deflected with his own curved dagger.

"I could say the same about you," the Master Assassin ground out coldly, no longer feeling the pain in his arm but realizing that he needed to compensate for it, as the limb did not seem to be responding to his attempts to move it. He was steadily growing completely detached, unafraid of pain or guilt now that he had firmly affixed in his thoughts that none of this was real, that the man he had just yesterday called brother was only one of the Apple's many apparitions.

Altair leapt backwards abruptly, throwing the other off balance as he dodged a particularly wide, sweeping slash. As Ezio struggled to right himself, he lunged forward into him, lashing out with his blade and gouging a long wound across the Florentine Assassin's chest, deeply laying open flesh from shoulder to shoulder and just missing the base of his throat.

Ezio barely had time to give a pained gasp, hand flying to the laceration just as the Master Assassin pivoted swiftly in a kick, his boot connecting solidly with the side of his enemy's head. The other eagle hit the ground with a thud, tumbling a few feet and knocking over a stack of painting implements as he did. He rolled to a halt against the far wall, coughing on blood but attempting to rise, to reach for his dagger that had flown from his hand and clattered against the floor in the opposite direction.

The Masyaf eagle swooped, already tasting the kill, when another figure slammed into his left flank, jostling his injured arm and throwing him against one of the finely decorated walls. He had forgotten about Leonardo.

He gave an almost animalistic snarl against the ache as he scrambled to his feet again, shifting his curved blade into a more offensive position and darting a dark gaze between his two targets. The artist was helping the bleeding, disoriented Assassin to his feet, blue eyes slitted dangerously in an expression Altair had not yet seen on him.

"We helped you, Altair," Leonardo snapped, his angered tone betraying hurt as he held his friend's arm to steady him. "How could you just turn on us like this?"

"Don't bother, Leonardo," Ezio cut in flatly, staggering into a ready stance with evident difficulty and wiping blood from a split lip off his chin. "There's no conversing with filth like him."

At first, the Master Assassin was silent, simply watching them, an eagle tensed for a dive, but still waiting on its prey. In the stretched pause, the artist murmured quiet words in Italian to the Florentine Assassin and Altair saw them both glance towards the wound in his shoulder, perhaps assuring themselves he would not be able to attack both of them so easily. The Masyaf eagle scoffed inwardly and itched to show them how wrong they were.

"Just… just tell us why," Leonardo spoke up at last, standing between the Assassin and his injured friend as if he thought doing so would make any difference should Altair decide to attack.

The Masyaf Assassin held his ground as he looked at them, feeling a sudden crack in his resolve, but struggling to ignore it. Even he was unsure of the answer to this question. "All this is nothing more than a delusion," he bit out, speaking the words aloud more to reinforce his determination than to actually explain it to the other two. "I will not allow myself to be manipulated by that accursed Piece of Eden, not as al Mualim said he was."

"Your master? Are you saying you spoke with him?"

He hesitated to answer, but decided to proclaim it, proudly and fearlessly. These two would both die in the end, thus it would make little difference. "Yes. He has told me more truth than either of you have."

Ezio barked out a laugh despite his injury, lips twisting with a mocking smile. "What, you think you have spoken to your master?" he jeered, though not moving from his position. "The supposed master who lived centuries ago, the one you killed with your own hands? Sei pazzo. And you claim to be avoiding being manipulated by the Apple."

Altair's eyes narrowed, disliking the probing statements, though he could not deny the truth in them. "Enough talk," he growled loudly to hide his unease, taking a step forward and tightening his grip on his curved dagger. However, as he did so, he staggered and his vision veered abruptly, he feeling a sudden flush of cold sap through his body. He was losing too much blood, he realized almost frantically, drawing back quickly and only now realizing the weight of the spilled scarlet soaking through his sleeve. They had been stalling, waiting for him to weaken. He had neglected his limitations and was paying for it—such a foolish mistake!

As suddenly as he had come, the Masyaf eagle fled, making for the balcony and leaping from there onto the building's roof with a measure of difficulty. He could not risk dying before he finished the job, or his master's spirit would also remain trapped, he reminded himself, attempting to sate his protesting eagle spirit by assuring it that it was more important to fly and live than to fight fruitlessly and die.

Altair knew that he had wounded the Florentine Assassin enough to assure he wouldn't follow, but he himself was in no better shape. Though he ran far across the tiled roofs, trailing droplets of blood like discarded feathers, he acknowledged that he could barely concentrate, knew that his consciousness was wavering. He had no idea where he was going, and he only vaguely noticed it when he fell.

Collapsed against the platform of an archer lookout and just about to give in to darkness, he blearily saw a small group of men crouched on the rooftops just ahead of him, their clothes scruffy and worn, staring at him in shock. Thieves, he realized, surrendering dully. Curse his luck to fall before a pack of scavengers.

"Ezio-?"

It was the second time he had been referred to as such, mistaken for the resident Assassin. Though this would have annoyed him had he the energy to care, it was this misconception that saved him. How ironic for it to be his nemesis, the eagle whom he now only wished to destroy, who protected him from harm.