UPDATE TO LOVING HATE: OVER TIME, I WILL BE REDOING CHAPTERS UP TO CHAPTER 9. I'm not happy with the way my writing was at the beginning of the fic to the point where I roll my eyes and vent very loudly about how childish it sounds. And I've been aware from the start that yes, my time frames are way off. There is no way that it only takes about a week to get from England to Syria. My editors and I were aware of this, but we had some fun in writing it like that, even though it probably had whoever noticed it mutter some bad language. What can I say? Apparently The Rose invented a super jet-boat to get from point A to B in a few days. Ah well. That's the only time I'm allowing myself to get away with such a bad schedule like that.
Well. I am currently SNOWED IN and not liking it. I look outside, whaddo I see? WHITE. EVERYWHERE! It's beautiful, but it is COLD. ICE. RAIN. EW. So, being snowed in, I decided to write another chapter since I've nothing better to do. Okay, I lied. I slept in for like 4 extra hours, and then I wrote it XD That, and I'm probably having my fifth cup of hot cocoa. Woe is me.
All original characters belong to Ubisoft. If they belonged to me, I'd put in way more Altair/Maria scenes in the game. That'd be nice, Ubi, just heheheh... consider that. Please. :D
Decided not to put chapter names. 'Cause I'm too lazy to think of a title for each chapter, and Panda has a good point with her review. And Maki-San, I'm sure I butchered my Spanish in here ^^; Sorry!
ENJOY! And tell me what you think, of course.
Maria snarled and smacked the hands away from her person that were trying to run a comb through her tangled hair. The women, looking more than irritated, quickly regrouped and tried again, much to Maria's dismay. The Englishwoman leapt from the floor and bolted to the door, finding the bull-sized Asiya blocking her way once again.
"Out of my way, you hound!" Maria screeched at her when she realized charging through the woman simply wouldn't work. Asiya grunted, then pushed Maria back into the clutches of the Garden girls. Instead of taking her to dinner as she had requested, Asiya brought Maria straight into the garden, explaining to her that she needed to look 'presentable'.
Was a dress and these ridiculous slippers not enough? Apparently so.
Her hair was being pulled in multiple directions as the virgins took whatever opportunity they could to comb the snarls out. They weren't careful about it like their first attempts. The Master wasn't jesting when he had told them that this woman was spirited beyond comparison. Each time they ripped through a knot, Maria felt the roots of her hair burn and prickle from the unpleasant notion.
She didn't impress the women in the least. Well, they noticed she was beautiful in her own way. Fair skin wasn't exactly a common feature in eastern lands, and she had a head of hair most would be jealous of. No, they were almost in awe from seeing her. The Master's woman was very unique.
Especially her attitude.
They didn't appreciate how she would snap and hiss at them, or how she had nearly tackled Asiya out of her way to escape their pampering. Didn't she know that they didn't enjoy this as much as she did? Obviously not, since profanities and foul language spilled from her mouth relentlessly. Allah, they've never even heard some of the phrases she said before!
And then it all came back to the Master. Was he trying to endanger them by sending them this demon of a woman? He must have been! There was no other explanation to the scratch marks on their arms from her struggling or to their pounding eardrums from her curses.
Maria writhed and twisted away from their hands, struggling to her feet once more. She was pulled back down, however, when the Garden girls realized what she was doing.
'Damn that man! Damn him to a donkey's arse! No doubt he's watching from somewhere!' She knew, of course, that that was impossible. They were in a room with four walls and only one window with curtains closed. She drew her elbow back, slamming it into one of the women's shoulder. She heard a gasp, and, using it to her advantage, abruptly flailed her arms and legs to shove the remaining females from her. They took steps backward as Asiya brought herself forward.
The healer didn't look happy at all. Her eyes were two black and blazing sockets of fury as she hauled Maria up by her arm and roughly escorted her out of the room. Maria would have tripped over the cushions and blankets decorating the floor had it not been for the ox's strong grip on her arm. She gnashed her teeth together, sure that the flesh of her upper arm would be bruised. Though the women thought her skin was beautiful, to Maria, fair skin meant it was far easier for the skin to purple and sore.
"You no more than trouble, hurting all you see." Asiya firmly tugged Maria along, leading her to the dining hall. "Women try help, you only scratch and scream like cat."
"Better to be a cat than a dog like some people," Maria retorted viciously. Asiya whirled around, looking as if she would love to beat the smaller woman to a bloody pulp. Maria could see the choices dancing around in her eyes. Hurt the woman and suffer the Master's own whipping, or allow her to continue to rant on and on without being punished. Maria smirked when Asiya decided the latter was the wiser of the two choices.
"You respect Master while eating," Asiya brusquely ordered when they had reached the dining hall. Her fingers finally uncoiled from Maria's flesh, leaving the sleeve wrinkled. Maria shot a glare at the woman before rubbing her abused arm. "And no more of rude talk from you."
With another threatening gaze, Maria pushed the door open into the dining hall, absently running her fingers through her hair and not finding the smallest of knots in it.
She almost fainted in relief with what she saw.
Benjamin and Hildegard were seated at the table as well, along with that despicable man. It was a rather long table, with Altair sitting at the head of it. 'Of course,' Maria thought dully to herself. The design was obviously European, but something else caught her eye. There were only four chairs, the others taken away prior to the meal. Three of them were occupied by those already present, leaving the chair to Altair's right the only one available.
'I will cut you to ribbons when I get the chance,' Maria promised herself as she slowly filed toward her seat. The others looked up at her as if they were surprised to see her. Hildegard looked amazed that she was wearing a dress, Benjamin still had that promising smirk on his face for more humiliation, and Altair...
Without his hood on, his face was clear as day to her. His eyes flicked over her form, and she swore that she saw for the briefest of moments a dark and satisfied look in his eyes. It disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving her to question herself of what she really saw.
He was tongue-tied. She looked positively gorgeous in that simple gown. Her hair was down, thanks to his crafty retrieval of the pin that was still safely hidden from her in his pouch, and her cheeks were tinted with a small blush. No doubt she saw him admiring her. He secretly smiled from this while letting his eyes roam over her exposed neck and collarbones. God, how was it possible for someone to be so heavenly?
He desperately wanted her eyes to lock onto his own, but it was as if she knew what he was trying to do. She didn't turn her head nor glance at him. He felt an almost forgotten warmth settle between his legs as he eyed her twirling her hair around her finger nervously. How did she do that to him? It was her innocence mixed together with her vigorous and otherwise blunt personality. That hungry look shone through his eyes. He was close to whispering her name just for her to look at him and to see the love behind his gaze.
But she would not play by his rules. No, she was quietly tiptoeing into uncharted and dangerous territory and trying to have her own rules govern. Oh, dear, he would not have that.
The pieces on the board were set, he black and she white as the battle began. She saw in his hazel abyss that he approved of her choice of combat and that he quickly accepted the match.
Her back felt stiff as a board as she felt his eyes on her body, and she unconsciously bent away from him. He noted her discomfort effortlessly and took pleasure from seeing her resist squirming. Oh, he wished she would, but knew she'd never, even if Benjamin and Hildegard were not present.
"Good of you to join us, my dear," Benjamin smoothly said, frowning when he noticed the scars on her wrists. "Now we may finally eat since the final guest has arrived."
The smallest of wrinkles formed in Maria's brow as she stared at him. Just as the words left his mouth, servants came in, carrying in trays of food, some she had never seen before.
Hildegard looked over at Altair. "Malik will not be joining us?"
"No, he'll be dining with my Brothers to speak with them of our... circumstances." Altair glanced at Maria. She was eying the plates as if the food on them would attack her, given the chance. "Have you something against kibbeh, Maria?"
The woman's glare settled on him. "I'm debating whether or not I will like the flavor," she announced with a hint of steel beneath her words. Then, she cocked her head to the side, innocently staring at him as she asked, "Perhaps you'd like to taste it for me first?"
Hildegard hid her smile by helping herself to a large gulp of ayran. Benjamin nudged Maria's foot with his own, his expression warning her to mind her matters. She, however, smiled sweetly, acting as if she was unaware of his caution. She gathered the plate in her hands and held it out to Altair. Her eyes met his as he slowly reached over to take one of the oval-shaped balls from the plate, his look unreadable. He sluggishly brought the kibbeh to his mouth, as if he silently loathed its existence.
Maria watched, hiding her smug grin with a blank and sugar-coated smile as he chewed. She knew, judging by how his chin rose the smallest of degrees when he swallowed, that one of his pieces were now hers. "It's satisfactory," he quietly growled.
"So it is, so it is," she agreed as she popped one of the ovals into her mouth. It was quite delicious, actually. She glanced at Hildegard, who was helping herself to her third glass of ayran. Benjamin cleared his throat, shooting Maria yet another frown due to her pleased smile curving over her lips. She eyed the trays and bowls of hummus, pita bread, salad, pilaf and lamb. They were lined up on the table like soldiers ready for battle. She wondered which one she could use to her advantage to down the Assassin further.
"Your organization is called 'The Rose', am I correct?" Altair quickly brought the attention away from Maria when he saw her calculating gaze on the plates. Benjamin looked up from his food and nodded politely, wiping his mouth on a napkin before replying.
"Yes," the veteran agreed, "we are The Rose. As you can see, not all of us are present at the time."
Altair nodded, placing a piece of meat on his plate as well as salad. "I understand that there are more of you. Tell me of their whereabouts."
"My brother and sisters, Aden, Olivia, and Zaina, are in Damascus currently, gathering whatever they can about an enemy we both share in common." Benjamin glanced at Hildegard as her back straightened excitedly from the news, including when she heard the Arab man's name. "Clarence Lyon, the Templar who failed at his attempt to be wed to Maria."
Altair addressed Maria, then. "What do you know of this man?"
She took a sip of the ayran, trying to decide if she liked the sour taste as much as Hildegard obviously did. "He's hardly even a man," she said when she had made up her mind. It was a unique drink, but nevertheless satisfying.
Altair smirked openly. "And what, Maria, is your definition of a man?"
The question caught her so off-guard that she slammed her glass back down at the table, gaining both Benjamin and Hildegard's perplexed looks. She cleared her throat, trying to stem away the blush that threatened to creep into her cheeks and neck. She desperately wanted to look anywhere but at Altair, but her pride would not allow her. She met his gaze fiercely, her mouth a thin, angry line, and eyes equally erupting the same amount of loathing.
The only thing that gave away his mirth was his mouth twitching.
Benjamin glimpsed back and forth between the two. "Good Lord," he muttered beneath his breath. He purposely bumped the table with his knee, the bridge between Altair and Maria temporarily shattered as they both turned their heads.
"Clarence is one of the nine Templar's who attempt to flush you out into the open, sir," Benjamin supplied. "He's his own army, and a powerful man. He murdered his own family, thinking them to be Assassin's, when he was just a boy. He's skill in swordsmanship, but can be rash when isn't given his way."
The information was not wasted upon Altair. His mind was already in the midst of forming a plan to strike at the man. Benjamin could practically hear the gears turning.
"And his relationship with the Templar leader?"
Benjamin frowned. "I believe that even the Grandmaster of the Templar's is being led askew. Clarence doesn't exactly see eye to eye with anyone. He's good at deceiving people and oiling their palms with coin and leisure. If you're wondering if the other Templar's will collaborate with him if he is in danger, then I can safely assume 'no'. Even his Brothers think him to be a pest."
Hildegard bit the inside of her mouth.
Altair's brow furrowed. "You are saying that their Order is frail?"
"Frail? No, not in the least bit. Full of mistrust? Oh, yes, indeed," Benjamin assured him. "Already they question why one of their Brothers, Earl of Gloucestershire, lies buried and dead in the grou—"
"Penis."
Everyone at the table's heads swiveled to Maria. The veins in her forehead were showing beneath her skin, her jaw taut and posture even stiffer than before. "Pardon?" Benjamin quietly asked.
"Penis," she repeated. She glowered at Altair. "Men are penises—giant, oversized, walking penises!" The man's eyes went wide, as if he couldn't believe what she had just said. Maria continued, her voice rising and face reddening further, "Penises that don't give a damn about women and their trials!"
She could feel her foolishness almost envelop her completely. She was her own worst enemy, her hurt and words surrounding her, caging her in.
Altair sat back in his chair, doing his best to keep an amused grin from spreading across his mouth. Allah only knew how many soldiers she had left in this game, and there weren't too many at that. This pleased him to no end. She should have known better. She was a warrior traipsing into enemy territory, vaguely remembering the venom he had safely stashed away in case of emergencies. And to him, anything dealing with Maria required that poison.
Her humility was almost tangible. Hildegard resorted to her previous hiding spot: ayran. Benjamin closed his eyes and cradled his forehead in his hand.
"Then, Maria," Altair innocently suggested, "are women only wombs?" Maria's eyes flashed and she balled her hands into fists, clutching the fabric covering her lap. "Giant, oversized, walking wombs?"
The woman took in a slow breath, trying to control her emotions. She fought to keep her voice level, and her struggle was audible as she dangerously seethed the words, "Penises that force their happy levers into women without second thoughts."
The corners of Altair's mouth straightened and his eyes hardened. "Perhaps that is the case with some women." Hildegard felt a warning tingle travel up her spine, and Benjamin opened his eyes to plead with Maria to back down gracefully.
"But then again," Altair mused quietly, looking intently at his plate, then fixing a strong hold onto Maria's own eyes, "maybe both man and woman wanted the intimacy, the beauty of adjoined flesh."
Maria slowly rose from her seat, her pieces defeated and captured, all save for her king. Her blood boiled from his sharp words. An Assassin he truly was, never directly and openly charging through an enemy. He simply sat back, watched as she weakened herself and opened a wound, then applied his skills to pour salt into her.
She swallowed as he followed suit and stood from his place at the table. She knew him to be half a foot taller than herself, yet the way he squared his shoulders and pointedly looked down upon her made that distance seem much greater.
Without letting her eyes leave his, her hand found the small pitcher of salt on the table. She fingered the pewter vessel before collapsing it with her index finger. The white granular contents spilled out onto the table. The symbol had Altair's shoulders eventually loosen, recognizing her surrender.
He, however, forgot how sly and fickle his battle maiden could prove to be. With her resignation, her king was saved, and she intended to use her precious last man standing to her liking.
"Are you familiar with the weather in England, Altair?" Her voice was soft, yet the tone was as lethal as a mother protecting her young.
He blinked, not expecting such a response from her. Quickly regaining himself, he answered, "No, I haven't had the pleasure to visit your country, Maria."
"Then you are not familiar with how soft the soil is due to all the rain we get. The earth is so soft, so tender..."
"What are you trying to say, Mar—"
"Perhaps you should go there, then, and discover how loose the soil is there when you dig your son up from his grave to tell me the beauty of that."
Hildegard's and Benjamin's jaws dropped from Maria's bold statement, watching in horror how the woman didn't give Altair any time to absorb what she had just said before she stormed out of the dining room.
Altair stood, stoic and still, for long moments, the weight of her words boring down unto him. His heart pounded inside his chest as he felt a part of it tighten and nearly choke him. He had won the battle, yet she had nearly won the war with those cold, lifeless words.
He could feel something inside of him die and replaced by something cold and sharp. It prodded in his chest until it found the cavity, then dug its spikes into his heart. He stayed his hand when it tried to feel his heartbeat.
Her face is what killed him the most. The wounds beneath her flesh peeked from her skin, showing him that they were still open and far from healing. So many, many gashes and cuts... and she blamed it all on him. Was it just for her convenience, or was it true? He glanced back at the table, realizing that Benjamin and Hildegard were giving him uneasy looks, as if they expected him to strike them down.
He cleared his throat, his voice heavy and baritone, "Please, excuse me." He briskly walked out of the dining hall, intent to settle things once and for all between himself and his warrior.
"Oh dear," Benjamin mumbled, lacking better words to describe the situation. "Oh dear, oh dear oh dear..."
Hildegard blew out of her mouth, poking her food with her fork. It looked unappetizing and absolutely disgusting right at that moment. She glanced up at Benjamin as he covered her hand with his own.
"Come," he whispered as he pulled his chair back, "we should talk sense into her."
Maria hurried her pace through the fortress, tears bristling in her eyes and threatening to fall. The fact that she was so weakened to cry upset her further, but all the more reason to get away from it all—to be free of him, his words, his sins, everything. She could only imagine him following close behind, just as bitter as she was, if not more. Her mission to avoid him sped her up as she stepped lightly through each hallway, nearly walking into one of the Assassin's.
She barely spared a glance at him, only seeing his grey hood. The boy looked stunned to see her, and almost overjoyed when he saw her current state. She brushed past him, too absorbed and shamed to care for him or his smirk.
Air. She needed air and some time. Time free of things, time for her and only for her. No man bent on taming her, no more cruel words, no more games. Just time.
Altair turned a corner, his black robes flying behind him as he walked faster than ever. He was a man full of purpose and pride, both of which were critically beaten by a woman—his woman.
"Er, M-Master?"
He stopped dead in his tracks and snapped his head to the figure standing off to the side of the hall. Mashhur was looking as frightened as ever and even a little harassed. Altair ran his tongue over his teeth, knowing the duty to his people came before his own personal responsibilities.
"Speak quickly, Mashhur."
"Master, that woman, the one that ran away—" He gulped when he saw the Master's eyes flare from memory.
"Yes, what of her?"
"She... she just came by a few moments ago, and, well..." He paused, knowing he had to be extremely careful. He couldn't let the two lovers reunite no matter what. It was his job to weaken the Assassin's internally, and leaving Altair lonely and full of desire for that shameful woman's flesh was the answer to everything.
"Well what?"
Mashhur jumped, feigning to be startled. "Well, she... she gave me a message to tell you..."
"And?"
He wracked his brain for any believable lie he had in there. Gulping, he began, "She... she says that she never wishes to see you again, and if you wish to claim what is rightfully yours, for she is not, and never was or will be, yours to touch and fondle and love and whisper to, to search the earth for a boy whose life never even began." Mashhur gulped, masking his joy from how Altair's face paled from the message. He continued, desperately trying to hold back his victory from his voice, "And she says that if you wish to find the pleasures of flesh, either visit a brothel or to... to..." He paused, trying to think of something else to say.
Altair, being ever so quiet, waited for the boy to finish as his heart plummeted further in his chest.
"To continue using your own digits, wishing that you were never an Assassin so that you'd have a full set of ten instead of nine."
The Master of Assassin's inclined his head, not saying a word, which yet again irritated Mashhur to the bottom of oblivion. He kept his back hunched in a form of inferiority in front of the man, and only straightened when the Master called out to a novice on an evening stroll.
"Mustafa."
Immediately Mashhur's face shriveled. He hated Mustafa. Always reasonable, always being a polite little weasel, always chuckling. He hated chuckling as much as he hated the Assassin's Order.
The novice bowed his head once he was standing next to Altair. "Yes, Master?" He hoped that he wouldn't yell at him further. Oh, he'd had just about enough of loud voices and venomous words for a lifetime.
"I've a... request for you."
Mustafa frowned. "This late in the evening, Master?" Then, on a side note, he whispered, "Is everything alright?"
Altair grunted. He wished everything was alright. If everything was alright, he'd be in bed with Maria, holding her as their bodies cooled and as she slept, knowing that he had remembered what love was and what it meant to have a purpose to live. Yet he knew that Mustafa wasn't asking about him personally, but about the whole of Masyaf in general. "Yes, Brother, Masyaf is safe this night." He only wished his troubled soul was.
Mustafa let out a breath he had been holding. "Thank Allah. I was afraid, with all the Templar's swarming the Kingdom, Master."
Mashhur sniffed at this, rolling his eyes beneath his hood.
"We will speak of things further in my study," Altair stated as he eyed Mashhur suspiciously. The dislike between the two boys was obvious, and he was a wise enough man not to create more jealousy between them. He nodded to Mashhur as a dismissal, who bowed before walking away. The boy huffed as he turned, very much not liking Mustafa near the Master. He could unravel everything he'd worked so hard for!
Mustafa walked almost abreast to Altair as they entered his study. The older man sighed as he saw the documents threatening to engulf his desk. He moved behind his table and cleared off the space, placing books back onto their shelves and stacking papers neatly. Well, as neatly a man could do.
"You are aware of our guests, are you not?"
Mustafa nodded as an answer. "Yes, the two women, the dog, and the man that arrived earlier today. What of them?"
Altair paused, hesitating to ask the boy. It wasn't any of Mustafa's concern, but he had some redeeming to do in his eyes. "You are aware of the... delicate balance between myself and one of our guests?"
Mustafa shifted his weight and bit his lip as he nodded. "Y-yes, Master. Your w—Maria, I believe her name is, is not as warm and welcome to conversation with you as say, Hildegard or Malik is." His brief pause of better phrasing had Altair frown. He didn't like the term his Brothers were referring to Maria as.
"That is correct. That balance has recently wavered, and not in a particularly healthy way."
"What would you have me do?" Mustafa blurted, slumping his shoulders. "I'm just a novice, Master, I'm no miracle worker, and you can just ask Rakin or Nabil. I'm still an idiot."
Altair shook his head, sitting down in the chair at his desk. "No, Mustafa, you're far from an idiot. Immature, yes, but that's to be expected. How many years do you have?"
"Nine and ten, almost twenty, Master."
Altair nodded, seeming to like the answers. "And it is that immaturity that I value."
Mustafa tilted his head to the side. "Value, Master? How can something looked down upon be valued?"
"What is love?"
Mustafa blinked, then scratched his head. "Eh, excuse me?"
Altair repeated the question more slowly. Mustafa puckered his mouth as he thought. "I... it's... I don't know, Master. I've never been in love, I don't have a say in the matter."
Altair looked pleased with the boy's answer. "Exactly, Mustafa, exactly. Your view on things isn't as complicated as it is with our older Brothers." That, and he was assured he would not try anything with Maria.
"But you could have asked a more experienced Assassin, Master. Surely one of the 'Mediates would be better suited to this task. Or even Malik. Age is only a number, I agree, but status is the amount of effort and success achieved from the effort—"
Altair smirked at the boy as he rambled on and on. When he finally paused to take a breath, Altair quickly seized the opportunity to interrupt. "Mustafa, you do not even know what it is that I am to ask of you."
Mustafa's arms went limp as he slouched, knowing that he was right. Instead of admitting his fault, he stared at the floor, embarrassed with himself.
Perhaps Mustafa wasn't the best choice. Altair liked him enough and knew that he put a lot of work into his training. The boy had potential and was willing to go at any length to achieve the status of Master Assassin. But what was training compared to reality?
"I want you, Mustafa, to keep an eye on Maria for me. Make sure she is comfortable and provided for here. I cannot do it myself for obvious reasons, so I am trusting you with this request. You have the option to turn this down, Mustafa. Don't forget that. I put faith into you that you won't."
The boy blinked, eventually becoming disappointed with the mission. He was to be a... servant? A door mat? Just someone for her to complain to and order around? He sighed. He might as well have been demoted back to kitchen boy.
"Master, I'm... I'm no good at staying in shadow while watching a target. Mashhur's better suited to notice everything around him. He's better at kissing up and buttering people as well." The words were out of his mouth before he even registered what he was saying. He looked terrified as the Master's eyebrows rose. He waited in fear for what the man would do to him for unintentionally insulting him.
"Mashhur is very observant," Altair quietly agreed, "but he also lacks delicacy and consideration for those he is around. If you feel that you are unequal to the task, you can walk away, Mustafa, without a heavy burden on your shoulders."
He felt as if a heavy burden was on his shoulders from hearing the hope in his Master's voice. He was guilt-tripping him into agreeing to the mission, and he was being a sucker for it. He chuckled nervously, wringing his wrists together, knowing that what he was about to say would have him at the cobra's mercy.
"I'll do it, Master." Then, with more confidence, he added, "You can count on me."
Altair closed his eyes, his lips moving together as if he was mumbling a prayer. Taking the silence as his permission to leave, Mustafa bowed once more before retiring to the barracks. He stopped halfway down the stairwell when he heard Altair whisper quietly.
"Thank you, Mustafa, and keep her safe."
Mustafa wasn't sure if he had heard correctly, and he wasn't even sure if he wanted to have heard correctly. The Master was the master, end of explanation. There was no reason to thank his men for accepting a contract, given a choice or not. And he hadn't even started yet! There was so much room for him to flunk and destroy the mission. He was no good with people besides his Brothers, and he had never really interacted with women before. Well, there was Hildegard, but Hildegard wasn't emotionally challenged like that other woman was!
Mustafa chuckled again as he kicked his boots off and buried himself in the cushions and blankets that served as the beds in the barracks. He sighed from the chill of the night, snuggling further into the plush pillows. Nabil and Rakin were already sound asleep, the former's loud and obnoxious snores drowning out the sounds of the night. It was a good thing, too. Crickets could be awfully annoying creatures.
He wrinkled his brow from barely hearing the soft pattering of rain against the fortress. Tomorrow would be a soggy and depressing morning—another reason for him to stay in bed than tend to his duties.
What did the Master mean, though? Keep Maria safe? It wasn't in the job description to keep her safe! He just had to give her a loaf of bread if she asked for it, or to recite poetry if she wanted to hear it. He didn't know poetry, but he did overhear a rather crude and implying ballad involving reproductive organs. Maybe she'd like to hear that?
'What, does the Master want me to become a bard instead of an Assassin?' The thought crushed his hopes of becoming something great. It was his dream to reach the top and to save humanity from the devils that lived within the Templar's. But to reach that dream, he needed to be careful and safe. But he had to keep Maria safe. Was something happening in Masyaf that required her to be protected?
If so, why couldn't the Master do that? He was the best man in the city, both in strength and ability. Surely he could defend her if any invasion of some sort occurred. Thinking of Templar's breaking through Masyaf's walls and terrorizing the citizens made him snuggle even further into the blankets. They were out there, he knew that, but they couldn't possibly sneak their loud and boisterous selves into the gates. Could they? No, they couldn't, not with all the scouts posted in the Kingdom to keep Masyaf updated, and certainly not with their outpost guarding the way to Masyaf.
But what if it wasn't the exterior that had the Master worried, if he could even be called that? Maybe one of the Templar's was inside Masyaf. It was terrifying to think about, knowing that his Brothers' lives might be in jeopardy. He prayed that if there was a traitor in Masyaf, the Master would find him or her soon and put an end to their miserable life. He didn't need the responsibility of repeatedly checking over his back to see if anyone was going to try to stab him in his blind side. Masyaf was home. He was supposed to feel secure. He only felt plagued.
Deciding that such thoughts were best for the Master to deal with, he closed his eyes and hoped that sleep would come. He feared that it would not due to his recent discoveries.
Maria trudged through the Garden, wiping the tears from her eyes and tripping over her own feet. She fell into the mud waiting just for her, cursing as she spat some of it from her mouth. She stood up, her slippers no longer on her feet from her fall, and clambered down to the lowest level of the Garden.
She wrapped her arms around herself, her nails digging into her sleeves as she scrunched her body together as much as possible. Her shoulders heaved from trying to hold back her tears, and her bottom lip trembled. Her legs slowly slid from underneath herself, lowering her quivering body to the wet and muddy earth. She barely registered the fact that she was soaked to the bone and that her dress was soiled beyond recognition.
Tears slowly spilled from her eyes, mixing with the rain relentlessly pouring upon her. She tucked her chin to her chest, letting her hair fall in front of her as she held back her cries.
It wasn't fair. He didn't know, he never would know. He didn't know the pain of being alone while creating another person. He didn't know. He was blind. And he'd stay blind. He didn't know how lonesome she was or how she hated herself. He couldn't see it, she hid it too well. She masked it with her supposed hatred for him. He didn't know. He didn't know, it wasn't her fault. It was his.
He didn't give birth, she did. She didn't see her child, she saw him, cold and dead. She went through that terror of being alone and utterly helpless. No one to talk to. No arms to wrap around her, no warmth to share, or kisses to steal. No teasing, no battles, no thrill of each other's company. Nothing. He didn't know. He didn't know pain, he never would. He didn't miss her, he never did. He never would.
She caved into herself as her mind fooled her to believe false words. He didn't love her. She could feel herself tearing apart as those words clicked into her brain. The man she needed the most to be with, the person she could feel her life belonged to, didn't care. He'd lead her on, then rip her to shreds. Her condition was proof. It was his fault. It was her fault. He reduced her to rubble. She was humiliated, stripped down to nothing more than a common woman. She wasn't significant to him. She held no unique quality. She was Maria Thorpe, woman.
Frail. Defeated. Meek. Incubator. It was all she was. Accept it.
Heartless. Bastard. Seductive. It was all he was. Accept it.
She sniffed as she felt another tremor course through her body. It built up in her chest, then pounded at her throat for release. She was going to break, she knew it. She was already broken.
"Maria?"
She screamed. She tore at the soaked grass, ripping it and flinging it this way and that. She felt a pair of hands firmly grab hold of her shoulders. She shrieked and howled herself hoarse, clawing at the person who dared interrupt her misery. She doubled over, breathless and gasping for air. The hands tried to pull her upright.
'Let me go...'
She fought the grip, trying to rid this nuisance away from her. She tried to gather her breath, but found it too painful. Her nose was stuffed with snot and her mouth too busy shouting and yelling to take in a breath. Her back curved, throwing her back to the ground, her only support her one free arm as she spat whatever she had eaten at dinner.
"Sarah..."
Her lips fumbled, hacking out the gooey strands of half digested food from her. Her tears trailed down into her mouth, the salty taste calling forth another round of screams and cries. The hands finally pulled away, and she could sense the person kneeling beside herself. She felt arms then, wrapping around her waist and pulling herself to him.
"Shh, Sarah, I'm right here..."
She bawled, her arms instantly snaking around his neck and holding him tighter to herself. He rubbed her back, whispering soothing words into her ears that only had her tears shake her further. She fought to keep her eyes open as fatigue washed over her, the raindrops settling in a comforting way on her skin, only to drip off. Her fingers clutched him closer, as if he was her last link to the world.
She tried to tell him to never let go, to never stop loving her. She needed to hear those words more than anything. He was kissing her hair, her forehead, tucking her into his neck with his chin and keeping her safe in his arms. She felt warmth trail down her cheek that didn't belong to her.
He was crying as well. His blue and her grey both shed the tears that spoke the words passing through them. He loved her, he always would. She was the daughter he never had, and he the father she wished she knew.
He rocked her in his arms, smoothing her hair with his hands while he spoke volumes of words to her. She needed those words and the passion behind them. But he couldn't give it to her. A soldier sheds so much blood, ends so many lives. He was the same as her, only a veteran and nearly retired.
She needed the young and free man, the strong and the brave. She was a sinful soldier, almost a paradox.
He held her throughout the night, cradling her in his arms until the rain dimmed and eventually stopped. The thunder raged on, lightning occasionally splitting through the sky overhead. It would have been peaceful. It should have been peaceful. There should have been another holding her instead of him. What had she ever done? She had only ever followed her heart. She was a feather stained by her own blood.
She was asleep, her head resting against his chest, looking as helpless as a newborn. It wasn't like her. This wasn't her, it couldn't be. Where was the spirit, the courage, the woman? Who was this stranger in his arms?
He lifted her in his arms, carrying her back into the fortress. He past the other woman, whose blonde hair was soaked a dark brown. She stood, tears leaking from her eyelids as her gaze followed them inside. He was silent, not daring to wake the woman in his arms up.
The lightning continued to pierce, the thunder resumed rolling.
She looked at the balcony, more tears springing free at the man who had watched everything. His face was hidden by a hand, his arm shaking as it gripped the balcony's railing for support. She blinked, then made to go back inside the fortress.
The rain soon returned.
Altair waited until he heard the door click shut, followed by two pairs of footsteps.
"It's best she sleeps now," Benjamin whispered. He heard Hildegard make a sound of agreement before the footsteps died off in the distance. Closing his eyes, the Assassin waited a couple of moments before turning where the pair had once been. He slowly turned the handle on her door, being sure not to make a sound.
There was a flickering candle on her nightstand, a pleasant and placid orange glow hovering around it. He padded quietly toward the bed where she was.
Bayo's head lifted from the mattress as he caught scent of the man. He wagged his tail happily in greeting, then rested his head back on his paws and closed his eyes. Altair ran his hand over the dog's head before sitting on the edge of the bed, taking one of her hands in both of his.
Her hair was damp as if it had been towel-dried, and the dress she previously worn was discarded in a corner of the room, as well as the belt he had purchased for her weeks ago. Instead, she wore a light and comfortable nightgown.
Her fingers were wrinkled as he rubbed his thumb against her palm. He felt each callous and the hardened skin, her flesh telling the story of the battles she had partaken in.
She looked absolutely exhausted. He cupped her cheek in his hand, brushing his thumb against her parted lips. Maria was never a light sleeper, but she wasn't exactly defenseless while resting. She was either unconsciously aware of his presence and trusted him, or she was too tired to the point where she didn't care if a hundred soldiers stormed the room.
Or she relied on Bayo to alert her to any unwanted visitor.
He shifted his weight on the bed, crawling and turning his body until he was behind her and her head was nestled comfortably in his chest. He tucked her hair behind her ears as he looked out her window. It'd only be a few hours before sunrise. He sighed, his chest rumbling pleasantly against her. He'd rest for a bit, yes, and make his disappearance before she woke up.
It felt so right to be with her like this. Here they were, she asleep and him having his arms wrapped around her possessively. They belonged together. She fit so nicely against him and was so soft...
He shrugged his shoulders, nestling further into the pillows behind him. He was comfortable like this, too. It was far more peaceful than lying alone, even if his bed was larger. He bent his neck and placed a kiss atop her head. He breathed in her hair, noticing it smelled like the Garden. That was his fault. He shouldn't have pushed her.
When she woke up, everything would be different. The rest would be up to Mustafa to make her feel welcomed at Masyaf. He hoped with all his heart that the novice would be able to convince her that the place wasn't so bad. He feared that when she regrouped with her comrades, she'd leave. If she made that decision, he doubted there'd be anything he could do that would change her mind. After all, she was a very stubborn woman.
He nuzzled her, accepting the inevitable.
At least he'd be able to hold her for one night, no matter how brief it was.
Maria groaned and turned her head to the side, frowning in her sleep. She felt something cold and wet nudge her neck, whimper, then repeat the process. She mumbled something probably unladylike, then tossed in bed so her back was facing the pest. She sighed and moaned in satisfaction when the prodding stopped. She twisted the blankets around herself like a cocoon. It felt like years since she slept in something so comfortable...
She felt something shift from underneath her, heard a growl then what sounded like someone shushing the growling mongrel, and then felt something soft on her forehead. The feeling lingered, sending a warmth that reached her toes, before leaving. She said another incomprehensible mutter, not wanting the feeling to have ended. It came back then, this time on her cheek, almost on her mouth. She smiled, reaching out with her hand to find the source of the kisses, but met nothing but air.
Confused, she forced her eyes open, only finding the room empty, besides Bayo lounging on her bed and Benjamin snoring in a chair near the wall.
She slowly sat up from the bed, her hair disheveled and tangled in front of her face. Was it... a dream? Her imagination? She brought her hand up to her cheek, not finding anything peculiar about it. Was it... him?
Bayo's head popped up and he placed it in her lap. He blew out of his nose and looked up at her expectantly. She shrugged and rubbed the area between his eyes with her knuckles. "He's a strange man, isn't he, boy?" she murmured quietly. Bayo licked her arm, then nudged it. She stretched her arms over her head, yawning like a bear waking up from hibernation. Benjamin shook himself awake from the sound, snorting and turning his head this way and that.
He rubbed his eyes free of sleep when he saw Maria. "I see you're awake," he said carefully. He watched her closely. She arched her back, throwing her fists in the air and groaning in pleasure as her back cracked. She twisted her back left and right, sighing as she felt it pop. He himself grimaced from the sound. He never did like hearing bones crackle or leave their sockets.
"Sorry," she whispered when she saw his disapproving glare. "I like cracking them."
"I can tell—eugh, Sarah!" He winced and closed his eyes from hearing another pop. She smirked, then collapsed back onto the bed.
"I'm finished now," she laughed quietly. He blew in relief and offered a small smile, one that she returned.
"How are you feeling?"
She frowned at the question, recalling her breakdown last night. One quick glance out her window told her that she had slept in past noon. A good thing, too, else she would have been in a foul mood if she woke up sooner. "I'm contained," she said dryly.
"Are you feeling better now that it's all out?"
She shrugged her shoulders and closed her eyes. "I suppose you can say I'm relieved that I can still feel that much emotion after everything I've been through. I'll admit though, it was refreshing, even if I made a fool out of myself."
"Nonsense," he gruffly replied. "You've had a rough year, Maria. You can't blame yourself for reacting the way you did. Besides, you were both at each other's throats."
She rolled her eyes and wiggled her toes. "Maybe. But maybe I'm like all the other women out there: prone to cry over the smallest of things."
"I sincerely believe that crying over a year's worth of loneliness, a dead babe, and a lover are not so petty as you make them out to be."
She tried to smile. "I don't know anymore, Benny. Sometimes I think that I'm wasting my time by remembering the past and that I should just let it all go. But, other times... Sometimes I like to believe I have a right to be angry."
"Of course you do."
"But is it worth it? Will I produce any positive results from it? Will he—" She cut herself off and turned her head to the side opposite of Benjamin. She didn't need him to see her blush.
"Will he still love you?" he quietly finished for her. She nodded. "Maria, my dear, I may not be as young as I used to be, and even though my eyesight is starting to deteriorate, that man has it bad for you," he chuckled. "I mean, really bad to the point where he's slurping drool back up his mouth." Maria smiled and gave Benjamin a thankful look.
"And why not?" Benjamin argued with himself, smiling like a proud parent. "Any one of my daughters is likely to trip a man here and there. Why, with their looks, their personalities, their ferocity—"
"Except Zaina," Maria chuckled.
"Except Zaina," Benjamin mused. He blinked, as if he was just hit in the face. "I nearly forgot! Blimey, curse old age's memory!" he grumbled as he pulled his saddlebag from the side of his chair. He placed the bag on Maria's bed, piquing her interest.
"You forgot what—" She gasped as he withdrew broken pieces of metal from the bag and gently held them out to her.
"I'm sorry that this is all I found of them," he whispered sadly. "I tried looking for more pieces, but... I'm afraid the furnace found them before I could. I know they were dear to you, Sarah."
Maria deftly took the pieces from him and looked them over with a heartbroken gaze. "Ebony and Ivory," she breathlessly whispered. "Oh, my babies..."
"You'll have to make new hilts for them, as well as forging the blades back together."
She shook her head and looked back up at Benjamin. "But, how? Where'd you find them?"
"Acre, love. I had hoped you and Damiel would have been there when I arrived, but just like the other pieces," he gestured at the broken blades, "I couldn't find you two. So, I scoured the fortress, and found a whole lot of dead guards. Clean kills, too. I overheard a few men arguing over the blades, each of them wanting both to themselves. I got there just after they decided it was best that the swords be destroyed, and well... that's all I could salvage. But, I should be truthful," he sighed. She furrowed her brow in question.
"Truthful? What do you mean?"
"I... I knew you weren't telling me the complete truth from the very beginning, love. Why else would your swords be in Acre? I thought to myself, 'It isn't like Maria to just leave them somewhere', and when I found Earl's dead body, well. Some things in the picture cleared up, and I had assumed you were captured."
"So, you're saying you humiliated me publicly on purpose?"
He chuckled. "An old man's sense of humor, what can I say? Besides, you needed it more than you know."
She scoffed at him. "I barely remember anything from Acre. I recall beating idiotic men senseless in a bar, but... things are still hard to grasp. I... I vaguely remember Earl. I remember he was there, but I'm not sure where there is, or was. I know I was hurt, else I would never have these," she pulled her sleeves up and motioned toward the dull red lines on her wrists. "It's just frustrating that it isn't coming to me."
"Give it time, Maria, but prepare yourself for the worst while you're waiting. You never know what may have happened. Who knows, maybe I'll find something out before you do. But don't worry yourself sick over it." He cupped her cheek in his palm and gave her a warm grin. She slouched her shoulders and let her eyes slide shut.
"Bara would have killed me if he saw them like this. To have his and Catherine's swords snapped like twigs... Oh, poor things," she sighed.
"Now, there's no need for that," Benjamin pleaded when she looked like she was on the verge of tears. "You've had quite enough of those last night. You can fix them, can't you? You're good with the anvil and hammer. After all, you crafted Riva, remember?"
"But I had something to go by," she retorted. "If I didn't find that manual, Riva never would have existed."
"But you know swords," Benjamin countered, "and there are plenty of smiths here that would gladly help you. And on top of that, Xavier, bless his soul, taught you how to smith, didn't he?"
"He taught me the basics, like making sure the hammer hits the blade and not my leg," she grumbled. "I don't know if I have the skill to fix this..."
"Have some confidence, Maria, or just ask around."
"I don't want any of these Assassin's touching my babies."
"Well, then you're on your own, now aren't you?"
"Don't you know anything about smithing?"
Benjamin scratched his trimmed beard, then replied with a jolly 'no'. Maria rolled her eyes, then frowned when she noticed a tunic and a pair of britches were folded neatly on her dresser. She puckered her lips, then swung her body over to the side of the bed. Sure enough, her boots were placed there as well, clean and polished, as if she'd never lost them.
"I take it someone's trying to say 'sorry'?" Benjamin chortled when Maria tugged her nightgown over her head and shrugged into her britches.
"A perverse way to say it. Giving a person back their clothes..."
Benjamin turned around politely and shrugged. "Least you'll be more comfortable, and it's the thought that counts, right?"
"Then he'd love to not hear what my thoughts are."
"Oh, Sarah," he scowled. "Learn to give the man a break. Women are such mysteries."
"Men are so incapable of solving mysteries." Finally having her tunic smoothed out over her torso, she held her hair up as she began looking for something to hold it in place. "And he's unable to give me back my clip," she hissed.
Bayo hopped off the bed, then crawled doggy-style underneath it. He barked happily when he found what he was looking for and crawled back out. In his mouth was the missing hair clip. Maria smiled and gave a word of promise of raw meat to the hound before pinning her hair into a bun.
"And what is Maria Thorpe's schedule of the day, may I ask?"
She looked over at Benjamin once she shouldered his saddle bag with what was left of Ebony and Ivory placed back inside of it. "I'm not so sure, to be honest. I'll see if I can't do anything about them," she patted the bag, "and then I think I'll pay a visit to the bathhouse. I feel as if my skin is crawling."
"Sounds like a plan, love. Sounds like a plan."
Seer struggled not to laugh at the sight in front of him. Tyler, looking little more than a child who had been denied the right to play with their favorite toy, sat at the table, teary eyed and huffing every other second. The only knowledge he had gained from the boy was that he had a fine set of lungs and could scream for hours on end, even when he was not tortured. Seer thought that the boy was trying to deprive the guards of their sleep. He was doing a fantastic job of it. A pity that it affected Seer with the same efficiency.
"I don't know what else to do," Tyler sniffed into his folded arms. "Malcolm will yell at me if I don't find any information out soon. He expects me to learn about that Thorpe woman through Damiel. But how am I supposed to do that if he doesn't talk?"
Seer rolled his eyes. He was afraid of yelling? Of sound? Oh, and if the world was to collapse that very second, the fool would still be worried about being screamed at by Malcolm. Pathetic. And he was being forced to work with this man? Absurd.
"Everything we tried on him—coals, The Rack, The Chair— it just doesn't work! I've peeled skin, I've sliced skin, I've even melted skin, but oh no. Heaven forbid he says one word about Maria! Would be nice to make my life a little easier."
Seer stoically sipped his wine. The thought of blood made it have a metallic taste. And this was supposed to be the good stuff...
"What if I'm removed from my position? What if another torturer catches Malcolm's eye, and I'm replaced? What will happen to me then? What will I do? Oh, Seer, it's awful!"
"I'm sure it is." Sip. Sip. Sip.
"I have papers, though," Tyler thought aloud. "Yes, I have papers that clearly state my competence for this position. I've studied under the best minds, learned the parts of the human body, and I know how to manipulate others! I have to stay."
"What a shame." Sip.
"I can try slicing more skin off of him and then feeding it to rats right in front of him. That might crack his mind just enough to let us know a thing or two. Oh, but then I'll have to wait for his skin to heal and grow back before I can do that! Do you see how frustrating my job is and how well I deal with it? No one else can replace me! I am irreplaceable!
"Did it ever occur to you that perhaps the boy doesn't know anything?" Refill.
Tyler almost gagged upon hearing the words. "Don't be ridiculous, he has to know something! Else I receive a good kick in the rear out the door and into God knows where!"
"Clear your mind of your pitiful excuses for a moment, would you? Let's assume that he has no idea where Maria is, what her plans are if she even has any to begin with, or what the Assassin's plans are. How would you feel knowing that you have been abusing and almost killing an innocent man?"
"It's too small for him to be a man, I assure you—"
"Tyler."
He huffed and crossed his arms like a stubborn little boy. "He's still guilty, though! He's with The Rose, and that's reason enough to kill him! I'm just taking my time with it!"
"You'd kill a man who believed differently than you?"
"Oh, Seer! Don't start this with me! We're Templar's, and they're nearly Assassin's! I mean, did you see the boy climb up the ramparts? He was like a monkey! A spindly, bloody monkey! He probably is an Assassin!"
He swished the wine in his glass around, frowning at the red liquid. "It's a comforting fact to know that you don't store your victims blood, otherwise I'd swear I was drinking it."
Tyler rolled his eyes and swatted his hand in a blasé fashion. "I keep those bottles near the torture chambers, you needn't worry about that."
Seer's mouth thinned into a disgusted line as he purposely pushed his wine glass away from him.
"I'm retiring for the night. I need some sleep to know what to do with the boy. Maybe I'll dream of something, if God is kind to me. Or maybe I won't. Enjoy the rest of your night, Seer."
The Roman watched with a curled lip as Tyler excused himself from the table and walked out from the dining room. What a little man he was. He deserved his own vile creations to be used on him. Seer's mind partly liked that idea. Maybe it was just the idea of hearing him scream for mercy that had him smiling sadistically. But he was an honorable man, and all honorable men knew not to torment the lesser and the weak. He'd have to just hope that one of the Assassin's would sooner or later (preferably sooner) dispose of Tyler.
Then he'd have a corpse to laugh at without hearing its whiny and adolescent complaints.
But maybe he could squeeze his hand in matters not related to him. Perhaps he could persuade Malcolm to rid the Order of Tyler. That'd be a comfort to all the Templar's—besides Clarence, of course, but no one even liked Clarence anyway. Seer pushed himself from the table. He was taken with the idea of Tyler just disappearing. Now, to play his role in the grand scheme...
He never did like the torture chambers. Not only were the victims usually whimpering or mumbling to themselves like mad folk and the guards taking enjoyment from the sight of them, but it was the feeling. As soon as he stepped down the stairs that led to the cells, he could feel the diseases brooding in the air. They immediately swarmed him and had his throat itch. How could anyone even survive down here? How could a torturer even work down here?
Seer shook his head and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He held it to his nose as he picked the key from its holder on one of the walls. It was coated with crusty and dried blood. How sickening. No doubt some of the men here were capable of holding their own in battle. They were probably honorable. He sighed, but regretted it when he almost gagged on the stench. He turned a corner and rummaged through the recovery table. Tyler thought since he reduced his victims to little more than animals that it was perfectly alright to claim their valuables as his own.
He picked up the worn leather journal that he had previously browsed through. They had no need for it, so why keep it? After all, it was highly rude to read someone else's diary, Assassin or not. He casually walked back to the cells, briefly searching them for the boy he wanted.
He stopped in front of his cell, narrowing his eyes at the sight before him. The boy was red with blood, ribcage showing as well as other bones. His knees were sliced clean of the flesh, as were his elbows. He was curled in the far corner of his cell, his long hair matted and covering his face. He smelled absolutely repulsive, his feces clinging to him like a second skin.
But he was speaking to himself. It wasn't the gibberish that most captives spoke. It was actual language.
"...Journal number twenty-seven... knives and hammers..."
The Roman sighed and cleared his throat. The boy's head immediately shot up to stare at the man. He was petrified by the thought of being tormented again so soon.
"So, you're the infamous Damiel I've heard so much about, hm?" Seer shook his head when the boy pressed himself further against the wall. "I suppose asking you not to fear me is out of the question, isn't it? Ah well. Quella è vita per voi, no?"
Damiel tensed and narrowed his eyes at the man. Seer leaned against the cell bars. "You don't know anything, do you? About Maria?" Seer smiled grimly when the boy didn't reply. "I know you don't know, but Tyler doesn't. We'll have to fix that, won't we?" He shoved the key into the hole, turned it, and slid the cell door open. He knelt and placed the journal at the cell entrance.
"Listen carefully, boy," Seer sternly instructed. "I won't stop you. The guards are asleep. Go out the back. There are horses fully saddled and tacked. Take your pick, and get yourself out of here. Use this map." He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and sat it on top of the journal. "It's marked with your current location, as well as where you want to go. But heed this warning, boy: if you are caught, I will not help you." Seer stood. "There are provisions in the saddlebags. You'll only have a few hours before anyone notices you are gone. I do hope you use it to your advantage."
He walked away, eager to retire to his own chambers. He smiled to himself, knowing he had just bent the rules in his royal fashion. Ah well. If Tyler asks where the prisoner went, he could always shrug and say 'oops'. If Tyler expected him to be a fool, then he'd play the part beautifully. That was his good deed of the day, and he had to say he was quite proud of himself. The lesser had a chance to redeem himself. Seer liked to think that he didn't free Damiel, but that he gave him an opportunity to consider.
Damiel sat in his cell for several moments, absorbing what the Templar had just told him. He shook from the idea of freedom and a chance to escape the pain. But this could be a Templar trap as well. The man could have wanted him to leave his cell so that Tyler would have yet another reason to ravage him. Damiel shut his eyes, feeling tears slide down his face, leaving clean lines in their wake. He didn't know what to do. He wanted to get out. But he... he didn't know...
'What more can they do to me?' He leaned his head against the cell wall and let the tears clean his face. He couldn't stay a caged eagle forever. He needed to be free, to find the others, to attack the Templar's...
He couldn't do that from within a cage.
He bit his bottom lip as his arms slowly felt for the wall. The limbs shuddered uncontrollably from the pressure he exerted onto them. He tried to will the pain away as his fingers fought for a better grip on the rough stone. The rocks dug into his fingertips, more blood emptying out onto his flesh. He wailed as he curled his fingers around the coarse edges of the stones. Bringing his knees out from under himself, his eyes watered more as a stinging and brutal pain coursed from the bottom of his feet to his knees.
He struggled, slowly pulling himself up. His breath was short and filled with gasps and whimpers. His flesh felt like it was on fire. His knees buckled, sending him back to the soiled floor. He screamed as he scraped himself against a protruding stone. Sweat was trickling down his brow and back, mixing in with other excretions on his body. He split his lip from biting it so hard, and soon he tasted that horrible metallic flavor. He flushed the blood out of his mouth with his tongue, the sticky liquid dribbling down his chin and neck.
Damiel grunted and braced his muscles as he attempted to bring himself back up. Another cry pierced the cell when his bones rattled and refused to correspond with his command. He gasped again and wrinkled his brow in concentration as his toes and fingers pushed him back up.
He would not be left to die in this cell. He'd free himself. He was un Asesino, and he'd be damned if the Templar's ended him. 'Maldiga a estos Templarios al Infierno y a todos los demonios del inframundo!'
He fought the urge to collapse and welcome the cooling embrace of sleep. He shouted as loud as he could as he slowly stood. His eyes bulged as the pain became overwhelming, and his arms and legs tensed. He swayed side to side. Panting, he brought one foot in front of the other. It felt as if needles were shooting into his body with each painful and tormenting step he took.
He wasn't even at the cell door yet. 'I can't do this...'
'NO! You can, you must! Listen to yourself, Damiel! You've people waiting for you, you've a LIFE waiting for you!'
Damiel held the wall with one hand as he bent his knees back to the ground. 'The journal... grab the... the journal... and map... get it...' He fumbled with the incomplete Codex and map, cursing until finally grasping it in his bloody palm, and then stumbled throughout the torture chamber.
"Dios está conmigo."
Translations"
Quella è vita per voi, no? = That's life for you, no?
Un Asesino = an Assassin
Maldiga a estos Templarios al Infierno y a todos los demonios del inframundo! = Curse those Templars to Hell and all the devils in the underworld!
Dios está conmigo = God be with me.
Special thanks to Maki-San for helping me with my Spanish! :D