Assassin's Creed: Alis Aquilae
Eighth
Altair just managed to evade unconsciousness this time, clinging stubbornly to awareness as he felt many hands supporting him, carrying him from the rooftops and a good distance along the streets. Ezio apparently had strong connections if such thieves were willing to work so hard to aid him, he thought absently, allowing himself to be pulled along and doing his best to conserve his energy.
He managed to stumble behind in their wake, carrying less than half his own weight and dully tuning out their concerned questions and comments, granted he would not be able to understand the foreign words even had he been able to fully concentrate. He made not a sound as they traveled, an eagle dragging its injured wing, until he felt one of the thieves knotting a cloth about the wound at the back of his shoulder joint, bandaging it efficiently but none too gently. He growled out defensively, jerking away from the pain and casting a dangerous glare at the thief next to him.
However, instead of the other recoiling fearfully, the Assassin was taken aback as he was deftly knocked upside the head, the thief speaking out scolding tones that gave him the impression he was being told to shut up and not be a child about it. He blinked from behind the shade of his hood, quite obediently falling into a startled silence. Not only was the other noticeably shorter than him, he realized belatedly and rather irritably, that though the bandanna obscured some of her features, this brash one was, in fact, a woman.
His annoyance would have to wait however, as he felt a dizzying lurch when they reached a short flight of steps, the men around him slowing upon reaching their destination. The building before them was square and quite large, dominated by a wide courtyard of finery he would have never have expected to find in a Thieves Guild.
Altair lowered his head again as the heat of the sun was blocked by stone pillars and finely tiled roofs, closing his eyes in an attempt to control the sudden lightheadedness. He felt them lower him into a comfortable sitting position on a bench, his back against a cool brick wall. He listened to their rushed movements, lying still and hearing loud calls of 'chiamate un dottore!' and other such orders from the lady thief that the others were quick to obey, the words mixed heavily with choice curses and insults that Ezio also favored.
The Assassin remained motionless throughout this, keeping his head bowed as he felt deft hands cleaning and mending the wound, judging based on the pain that it had not been as serious as he had initially thought. The Florentine Assassin had done little more than nick the edge of his arm, the bullet tearing through a large amount of flesh but avoiding bone, likely out of Ezio's concern that he would hit Leonardo. He was grateful for this, but the memory of the shot ached almost more than the wound it had caused, he unable to shake the nagging guilt of turning his blade on a brother. Mentally, he shook himself and rebuked the weakness.
The atmosphere around him visibly gentled over time, most of the concerned thieves filtering away as his condition stabilized and leaving only the female one to finish his bandages. Altair felt admittedly weak but he knew it would not take him long to recover. He opened his eyes briefly and glanced at the young woman sitting next to him, seeing the harsh determination creasing her brow as she worked, but easily sensing her concern just behind it. He felt a little guilty for deceiving her and wondered what her relationship was with Auditore.
The lady spoke up, tugging at the once-white sleeve of his shirt and perhaps making a comment on how soaked it had grown with blood. He thought nothing of it until she reached suddenly for the clasps of his hidden blade, making to remove it from his arm.
At this, Altair flared abruptly, instinctively, reaching out with his right to grab her wrist and snarling, "Don't touch that."
The thief froze, surprised at his voice or perhaps at the unexpected English, and finally met his dark eyes, her own wide. "You… are not Ezio," she said warily, pulling her hand slowly from his grip. Then, much like a startled bird, she sprang away, eyes narrowing and a hand reaching for a dagger at her belt.
The Assassin made no move to defend himself, calmly turning away from her accusing frown. "No, I am not," he confirmed, hand absently brushing the neat bandage around his arm as he climbed unsteadily to his feet. "I thank you for the treatment, however. I only ask you allow me to leave quietly."
"Not a chance, bastardo," she ground out, glancing behind her and perhaps considering calling for her fellows. Thinking against it though, she instead flicked a rather cross gaze back at him. "At least not before you tell me why you're dressed like him and have the same weapons as he does. Are you some kind of imposter? A spy?"
Altair wavered slightly on his feet, eager to leave the enclosing plaza and find somewhere safe to rest, but also unwilling to incur the wrath of this girl—negligible as it might be, he did not want to waste any more energy than he needed to. "I am not an imposter," he said instead, patiently, though not entirely truthfully. "I am simply another Assassin, just as he is."
She tilted her head at him, unsure whether to believe his words. "You know Ezio then?" she questioned in a clipped tone, not really leaving room for a response. "He was just here this morning—I would think he'd mention another man who looks almost exactly like him running around Venezia. Of course, that is considering he actually knows you."
"He did not mention me?" Altair asked slowly, confused. Illusion or not, by the Florentine Assassin's usual careless personality, he would have expected him to talk at length about finally encountering a fellow Assassin. Unless he had misread his character… but that was impossible. By his eagle's senses, he could always more or less grasp and judge how a person would react.
But even as he thought this, he remembered the flicker of the Florentine Assassin's aura, the ambiguity of color he had never seen on any other before. He reasoned at first that it was due to the Apple's mirage, but second-guessed himself, doubting if even the artifact could cause such a strange impression on his Vision.
There were too many questions, too many uncertainties. Had he been wrong to judge the other Assassin so quickly? He took an unsteady step away from the lady thief, shaking his head. "…Please, excuse me."
"Ehi! You can't just-!"
Altair brushed past her without another word, running for the tall entrance of the building and dodging a small group of men who looked at him quizzically as he appeared to recover so quickly from his injury. Crossing over a short bridge over the canal, he gave a quiet, irritated grunt as he felt the protesting weakness in his legs, the throb in his still raw shoulder, but he pushed on nevertheless, threading through the thinning crowd as evening began to call them off the streets. He heard hurried steps in pursuit behind him and thus slipped behind a merchant stand, turning two swift corners before coming to an abrupt halt in the shade of an archway beside a red brick church, his back to the wall.
The girl's footsteps stopped briefly, as if she were looking around for any signs of him, before they faded, disappearing in quite the wrong direction. The Assassin let out a short sigh of relief, sinking to a sit in the narrow alleyway and shutting his eyes. He gripped the torn and streaked cloth of his left sleeve distractedly, evening his breath and trying to organize his thoughts.
Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. He had thought the meeting with his master had solved everything, laying for him a clear path to escape this nightmare and return to the fortress, to his brothers. But the words Ezio had spoken to him a few hours ago, the ones the lady thief had only seemed to confirm, had thrown doubt into his resolve and reminded him of the persistent guilt that refused to abate. He had always managed to kill without feeling, or at least rested assured of its greater purpose, but his attempts to end the two local brothers only gave him a flutter of protest, of misgiving.
What would he do if he killed Leonardo and Ezio, the only ones who had offered him sanctuary since he had arrived here, and nothing changed? He wondered agitatedly, staring at the thickly shaded wall across from him. What if the supposed illusion remained?
We place faith in ourselves. The world is an illusion, one which we can either submit to, as most do, or transcend.
The exchange he had shared with his master just before he sought de Sable rose to the forefront of his mind, unbidden but not unwanted. How odd it was to remember his words and yet have them sound so unfamiliar, so distant. Altair lifted his eyes upwards, examining the red of the sunset just visible in the narrow opening overhead and realizing rather somberly that he did not even recognize the sky, the subtle shades of scarlet not matching those he was used to seeing painted over the desert or the mountains.
Our Creed does not command us to be free. It commands us to be wise.
…He could not rely on al Mualim. The decision to dispel the illusion, the action he took to rise above it, was his to make. His eagle told him not to trust Auditore, thus he would not. But neither did it tell him to kill him, he realizing that the desire to seek the Florentine Assassin's blood had only stemmed from the orders of his master, and not out of instinct or will. The 'old man' had spoken truth in saying that the supposed false Assassins in this city were not to be believed—in this, al Mualim had spoken of himself.
He was not sure whom he could trust in this deceptive world, this mirage that spoke to him in both truths and lies. It was because of this uncertainty that he would not dare believe in anyone aside from himself, aside from his eagle spirit. Those he decided to rely on would not be dictated to him. If he thought that Ezio and Leonardo were the ones who could help him, so be it. If they in turn believed they could not trust him, which would be far from a surprise, only then would he discover if he was wrong.
Altair rose to his feet, tugging the brown cape dangling behind him across his shoulder and over his sleeve to conceal the old blood, for once not finding it an unnecessary hindrance. He would return to the workshop, he decided, setting off towards the center of the city, towards the bleeding red of the sunset. They would doubtlessly be expecting him to return there if only to retrieve his clothes and the spare equipment he had left behind.
His arm pained him, distracting him as he hurried through the final trickles of innocents on their way home, his body unused to the nagging ache and extensive damage caused by a bullet. Repressing it, the Assassin flicked his left arm experimentally and found he could still activate his wrist blade's release mechanism, though with some difficulty. Even so, he was unsure if he would be able to wield it, doubting the fact he could put enough force behind a strike with his arm still refusing to respond efficiently. He would pose little threat to Ezio this way, particularly if he were prepared for him, he thought dully, unsure if this was a point for or against him.
The neatly paved courtyard in which he had first regained consciousness finally came into view, his eagle resigning itself to the fact he could be killed upon sight. Altair approached the doorway and, much like Ezio had done the previous day, paused long enough to listen for movement within. He could hear nothing, quite as expected, but his spirit could just barely sense the trace of a carefully masked aura. The Florentine Assassin was hiding, waiting for him. He took a breath and entered.
The workshop was well lit by the last streams of sunlight through its high windows, but he could see not a soul. He paced a few steps towards the center of the room, hearing a creak of wood overhead but not looking up. The other eagle was apparently above him, in the rafters.
"I did not return to fight," he spoke out evenly, his voice echoing in the wide, seemingly vacant room.
"No?" Ezio inquired coldly, his own voice reverberating as well and making pinpointing his exact position difficult. "Ah, I see, you came to talk. Just like you came to talk to Leonardo earlier."
"I was… misled," the Master Assassin said carefully, spreading his arms slightly to show the other he had drawn no weapon. "The Apple led me to believe killing you two was necessary to free myself, but instinct tells me otherwise. I… apologize."
"That's it? You're sorry? Yes, I'm sure that makes it all much better," the other Assassin laughed humorlessly, his voice coming from a different direction now. He was circling, Altair realized. Searching for the best angle of attack.
"I do not wish you ill," he said instead, resisting his eagle's urge to fly and rally a defense, to strike before he himself was struck. "Use your Vision, Ezio, even I cannot lie to that."
A pregnant silence followed this statement, and Altair could almost feel the Florentine eagle's eyes boring into him. He heard a short intake of breath as the other began to speak but faltered, unsure of how to proceed. Suddenly curious, he wondered if his own aura was just as unreadable to Ezio as the other's was to him.
"How… how are you doing that?" the Florentine Assassin demanded tightly, his tone unsteady and more than clarifying Altair's suspicions. "I have always been able to read my opponents, differentiate friend from foe, but you…"
"You cannot tell, can you? To my senses, you are the same; only your most brash of intentions are visible to me."
"Is that supposed to reassure me?" Ezio snapped, also seeming to compensate with anger. "We are the same, so I should not kill you? I should forget that twice now you have almost murdered the closest person I have to a brother?"
"I am not asking you to forget. I am only saying that you should use your energy for more pressing matters," he said as calmly as he was able, sensing, practically feeling the other tensed to strike.
"I couldn't agree more, stronzo."
Altair said nothing in response, forcing himself to stillness despite his eagle and all his senses screaming at him to fight, to fly and evade the flash of red and white descending upon him from behind.
A second later though, he could not have dodged had he wanted to, only managing to breathe out a low curse as a hand fell heavily upon the wound in his shoulder, gripping it mercilessly to keep him from moving or using his hidden blade. Despite this, Altair did not shift, even as he heard the other Assassin land lightly behind him and felt the bite of the rapier, the edge pressing under his chin but stopping against his throat.
There was a pause as Ezio gave a quiet, derisive snort at his back. "What, you really will not defend yourself? Have you given up?"
"I told you, I did not come to fight," the Master Assassin insisted stiffly, hands fisted at his sides as he fought to keep the lace of pain from his tone. "My attack on both you and Leonardo was unjustified, but there are other things that require your attention. You know this. Otherwise, if you are truly so set on killing me, why do you hesitate? Why did you not simply shoot me again when I came in here?"
Silence was his only response, Altair feeling the blade at his neck waver slightly, much like its wielder, inadvertently drawing a thread of blood. "I am not your brother," he pressed calmly, glancing over his shoulder at him. "But neither am I your enemy."
Abruptly, he felt a jerk on his sleeve, Ezio forcefully throwing the other from him by the bandage on his arm. The Masyaf eagle staggered, stumbling a few steps, but managed to steady his stance before he collided with anything. He turned slowly to look at the other, rather startled that there had been no follow up attack.
"I cannot kill you," the Florentine Assassin bit out almost angrily, frustration written in his very stance. "Call it weakness or cowardice if you must, but I simply cannot. I don't understand it."
Altair straightened, glancing briefly at the bandage across Ezio's chest visible behind his half-open doublet, and saw that the wound, like his, had also stopped bleeding even if it had been dealt barely an hour before. The wound he himself had delivered was not serious, he realized with quiet surprise, noticing that had he raised his aim by a few inches, he could have killed the other Assassin on the spot. Yet he had not, despite being determined to end him at the time. Somehow, involuntarily, he had held back.
"It is not our fate to die by each other's blades," the Master Assassin spoke simply, watching as the other eagle blatantly turned his back on him, sheathing his long sword and pacing the room with a measure of unease. "We need not be allies, but we must acknowledge that we at least share a common enemy. I have no desire to possess the Apple, but I must face it. That is the true key to my freedom. Will you aid me?"
Ezio glanced at him, the answer hidden behind an agitated brown glare. Then finally, "…Yes."
Author's Note: I apologize if the middle portion of this chapter was overly reflective or dramatic, but I felt like emphasizing how lonely and unsettling it must be to be apparently lost in a different country and a different time. Anyway, I feel the end is approaching, there should only be a few chapters left before this is finished.