A/N: We're back! And I rewrote this a while ago, but completely forgot I was crossposting it here so bear with me as I replace the Old with the New. I completed this a while ago, too, so I'll ideally be setting this all up to be posted soon.
Reviews are always appreciated, even if they don't change the direction of this particular story they might change the direction of the various sequels I have in mind...
Pretty sure we all know I don't own Assassin's Creed.
I've lost Sean.
I have no idea how much time has passed. Trees stretch out towards the sky above me, and I can feel cold, damp earth under my back. Birds are singing to each other, but they're not the bird songs that I know.
The last thing I remember was the family vault, the goddess Dalia and her warnings. I can remember fighting, unseen forces controlling my movements as I reached for the Timepiece…
Sean tried to help. He tried to pull me back. When I made contact with the Timepiece, his arms were around my waist, his hand wrapped around my arm, trying to pull me back. Then, the light engulfed us, the wind howled around us, and I closed my eyes.
Now, I'm alone.
Slowly, I pull myself up, trying to stretch out aching limbs. A glint of copper-gold catches my eye and I look down to see the Timepiece, laying in the brush. The glow has disappeared from the markings etched into the plates, and the thing looks like an innocent, if unnecessarily elaborate sundial. Three separate plates stacked on top of each other, and the triangular gnomon.
I stare at the thing for a few moments, before picking it up. It doesn't seem special in any way. I wish I had some sort of bag with me, but I'm lucky to even be wearing normal clothing at this rate.
Slowly, stretching everything as I go, I struggle to my feet and look around. This doesn't look like the kind of forestry I'm familiar with; it's close, but… not quite the same. There's no gumtrees or paperbarks, nothing that I recognise.
I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end suddenly, and look around. Several birds take to the sky, crying out in protest, and I turn in their direction to see a stranger. Dark hair hangs to his shoulders, and he's wearing what looks like poorly-made leather armour. My eyes are immediately drawn to the sword, sheathed at his hip, and the dagger tucked into his belt.
"E cosa porta un'adorabile signora così lontano nel bosco tutta sola?"
I don't recognise his words, but the way it rolls off the tip of his tongue, I figure he's speaking either Spanish or Italian. I don't know a whole lot of either language, but I do know the most important phrase of all. I blurt out the first one that comes to mind.
"Parlo Inglese?"
"Non parlo Italiano?" He asks, his tone shifting as he moves closer. I get the feeling that he's stalking prey, and take an involuntary step back, shaking my head.
"Non parlo Italiano," I reply. I don't speak Italian.
"Come mai sei arrivato così lontano in Toscana senza parlare Italiano?"
Toscana. Tuscany. That must be the area where I am. I try to remember where exactly that is on a map of Italy, but the only experience I have with the country is through the bloody Assassin's Creed video games.
He closes the gap between us, smirking as his eyes rake over my figure, reaching out towards my cheek.
"Una donna così bella, sarebbe un piacere accompagnarti in ... sicurezza."
His breath is absolutely putrid, reeking of wine and something that can only be described as rotting meat. His teeth are more than slightly yellowed, some looking like they've rotted through the gums. He smiles at me, his eyes moving over me again as his fingers gently stroke my cheek.
"Sto bene, grazie," I manage to say, gently pushing his hand away. I have no idea what he's saying, but I don't think I need his help. I move to step away, but he grabs my waist, pulling me closer.
"Per favore! Consenti a me e ai miei amici di ... aiutare,"
Please! Let me and my friends… help.
I hear soft snickering from around, and glance into the trees as more people begin to step forward. They're all wearing ill-fitting, mismatched armour, and all seem to be carrying weapons.
I don't like the look of this. I really don't like the look of this.
"Sto bene," I repeat, trying to pull away, but Foul Mouth grabs my other arm, his attention suddenly drawn to the Timepiece.
"Oh guarda, mi hai anche portato un regalo." His hand slides slowly down my arm, fingers curling around the Timepiece as he looks at me again. "Che gentile."
"Non," I tell him, shaking my head to reinforce the message. "This is mine."
"Penso che avrò questo," he purrs, trying to pull it from my grip. His other hand shifts suddenly, slapping me on the arse. "E questo."
"Fuck no," I snap. Instincts kick in, and I jerk my knee up, catching him in the crotch, hard. He grunts, doubling over as I wrench the Timepiece away from his hand, but no sooner have I turned than I find four swords in front of me. His friends have closed in, and one of them pushes past the four with their swords out, snatching the Timepiece from my hands.
"Cazzo di puttana!"
Ah. Finally, some Italian I do understand.
Foul Mouth grabs a fistful of my hair, wrenching my head back as a foot slams into the back of my knee. I go down, but he hauls me up by the hair, slapping me across the face. I try to grab his hand, try to lessen the pain in my scalp, but it isn't helping.
"Riportala al campo!" Foul Mouth barks, "La scoperemo finché non implora la morte!"
Implora la morte: Beg for death.
Foul Mouth must be the leader, and he throws me forwards so that I sprawl on the ground. Before I can recover, though, more rough hands grab me, hauling me up and I'm dragged along with the men, shoved around and jostled roughly. I don't have a choice; I have to go with them.
We reach an area that looks like a camp, and my captors shove me so roughly that I stumble, hitting the ground again. One of them kicks me in the side, shouting something at me, but the only thing I understand is puttana – whore.
Before I can even get to my feet, another man is grabbing at me, pulling roughly at my shirt. He grabs his dagger, slicing through the material, and stops to stare at my sports crop in brief confusion.
Brief confusion is all I need.
My knee works magic again, catching this new guy in the crotch as I snatch the dagger from his hand. Another pair of hands are on me in a second, but the dagger goes into the owner's arm. Someone grabs my throat and I cut their wrist, pulling away. I feel a sharp pain in my side as I whirl around, but the man now in front of me stumbles back as I shove the dagger into his shoulder, and then wrench it sideways. I feel a spray of warm liquid, but shove him aside, and then I'm running.
Trees fly by on either side as I dodge around them, and I almost lose my footing on the slope as I fly down. I can hear the shouts behind me, the thumping of footsteps as they chase, but I'm taking the descent in leaps and bounds—
I spill into some sort of clearing, colliding with something huge and falling. I hear the scream of a horse, swearing, and look up in time to see flailing hooves, falling back down towards me.
I roll sideways just before they hit the ground. I can still feel the cold steel of the dagger in my hand, and the ground underneath presses against my exposed midriff.
"Cazzo! Nipote, stai bene?"
Fuck, more men! I roll to my feet and find myself facing an older man with a scarred face and one blinded eye. He reaches out and I thrust forwards with the dagger, only for him to catch my wrist, halting the dagger a few centimetres from his throat.
"Zio!"
Another man, younger-looking, moves in quickly, wresting the dagger from my hand and shoving me away. I stumble, falling back against the horse that almost flattened me as the younger man moves forward. His eyes flicker over me as he takes in my appearance, holding up his hands.
"Calmati. Non ti faremo del male."
He's lowered his voice and makes no move towards me as he speaks, and my panicked brain somehow manages to understand one of his words: calmati. Calm down.
He still holds the stolen dagger, and as I hear the thundering footsteps approach, he looks up, past the horse, holding the dagger out to me.
I snatch it as I turn around, to see the bandits I escaped from pour onto the roadway. Instinctively, I take a step back, and the younger man moves forward as the bandits form a line across the roadway.
"Così gentile da parte tua," the leader comments, moving forwards and grinning with his disgusting teeth. "Per restituire questa ragazza che ho perso."
The younger man looks back at me as the bandit gestures in my direction. I redouble my grip on the dagger, raising it slightly in warning to Foul Mouth.
"Penso che preferirebbe restare persa," he tells Foul Mouth, turning back to the bandits. Foul Mouth smirks.
"Non è una sua decisione da prendere." Foul Mouth replies. I take a step back and almost jump out of my skin as someone touches me, but I look around to see it's the older of the two men. He pats me gently on the shoulder, trying to reassure me.
"Disperditi e ti lasceremo conservare le tue vite," the younger man says. The bandits laugh, and Foul Mouth turns to them, his arms wide as he gives them an order. I look back again, and over the older man's shoulder I can see two archers moving into positions behind us. The older man seems to see it, to.
"Ezio," he says in warning.
"Li vedo, Zio."
The first of the bandits moves unexpectedly fast, diving towards the younger of my two rescuers with two more copying. I keep my eyes on the archers, one of them nocking an arrow and taking aim at the older man's back as he moves forward. I act without thinking, without weighing the dagger in hand – I just throw it, overhand, at the first archer as I charge forward. The second is fumbling an arrow as I swoop down, wrenching the dagger from the throat of the first archer with one hand, knocking the second archer's bow aside with the other hand, bringing the dagger up and shoving it into his stomach.
Warm liquid flows over my hand as I wrench the blade sideways, tearing through the man's stomach, and he bends double, grabbing my shoulder as he stares at me in horror. I stare back, and for a few moments time seems to slow. His blood is pouring over the dagger, over my hand, my hand, the hand holding the weapon that just bisected his liver. I stare at him, feeling the shock, the disgust, coursing through my own body as his legs give out and he tumbles to the ground, his own weight pulling him free of the dagger.
This isn't the first time I've seen death, but this… this is different. I look down at the dagger, at the blood covering my hand, my wrist, spattered across my own torso, flowing from the man's abdomen as he gasps at my feet. His hands are pressing at the laceration, as if he can cram the blood back into his body, but those hands are flailing weakly, and after a few more gasped breaths, they grow still.
I stare down at this stranger, forgetting the fighting around me as I watch the light fade from his eyes.