Ezio Auditore da Firenze sometimes likes to play God.
It is not something he thinks about consciously. He just tends finds himself crouched on crafted tile rooftops, obscured by shadows, vaguely amused by the idea that he could watch people go about their lives without their knowing. It reminds him, a little, of the games that he would play with his brothers. Perhaps it is the last vestiges of a childhood that ended not long ago.
So Ezio sits and observes. To say that the people on the street looked like insects would be an exaggeration. But they don’t seem like people either. From here, from his height, he is reminded of the way a river flows, all whirls and eddies, fast and slow, no underlying pattern to discover. That doesn’t stop him from trying though. It is a fairly pleasant way to pass the time for someone normally so active, so always in motion. Just small moments of watching, fingers absently brushing the leather that encases his wrists.
The hidden blade. The creation that changed him from banker’s son to seasoned killer. Such a small thing. Such a powerful thing. Any of these people below him, they wouldn’t, couldn’t suspect that their life rested on such a thin, carefully sharpened edge. Slipped between the ribs, the vertebrae, through tendon and tissue, they would be dead before they even knew he was there.
Most of the time, when he catches himself thinking like this, a rush of shame rinses him cold and no matter which way he flees across the city, he invariably ends up at Leonardo’s, where his friend is always gentle and kind but also unafraid to knock sense into him, should he need it.
Most of the time, this is what happens. And that is almost okay.
Except that he never does tell Leonardo about his lapses on the rooftops. That single fact betrays him. Because if he was truly ashamed, if there wasn’t something that he enjoyed about his voyeuristic forays, he would tell Leonardo, and the artist would point out the flaws in his arguments and reasoning, and Ezio would let himself be talked out of… whatever he was doing. But he doesn’t.
Because there have been a few times that he lingers on the roof until a guard spots him and gives chase. Ezio runs, but not always as hard or fast as he can, letting the guard come just close enough to make both of their hearts pound. And that’s like a game too, until Ezio turns and drops down from the sky like the fist of God, and just like that, the guard dies.
It always brings a terrifying rush. That man no longer exists. He’s out of the stream. And it took but the tiniest flick of his wrist and the whirr of concealed springs. It’s easy, too easy, so easy that it hurts.
The shame tries to come, but it won’t begin to bother him until later. For now, Ezio Auditore is safe among justification and rationalization. He was being chased (it wasn’t like he forced that guard to follow him), he had the right to defend himself (not that he’d given the guard an equal chance), he was avenging his family (by attacking someone that probably had nothing to do with their deaths anyway).
With time, the doubts multiply to assertion and Ezio is ashamed and dismayed as he realizes what he’s become. With time, his reaction to the power thrust into his hands (strapped to his forearms) becomes tempered with age and experience. With time, Ezio learns that just because he has the power to end lives at will doesn’t mean that he should.
But that time is a long time coming, and until then, Ezio is an omnipresent force crouched on the rooftops.
A Perfect Circle [2/3]
It is not something he thinks about consciously. He just tends finds himself crouched on crafted tile rooftops, obscured by shadows, vaguely amused by the idea that he could watch people go about their lives without their knowing. It reminds him, a little, of the games that he would play with his brothers. Perhaps it is the last vestiges of a childhood that ended not long ago.
So Ezio sits and observes. To say that the people on the street looked like insects would be an exaggeration. But they don’t seem like people either. From here, from his height, he is reminded of the way a river flows, all whirls and eddies, fast and slow, no underlying pattern to discover. That doesn’t stop him from trying though. It is a fairly pleasant way to pass the time for someone normally so active, so always in motion. Just small moments of watching, fingers absently brushing the leather that encases his wrists.
The hidden blade. The creation that changed him from banker’s son to seasoned killer. Such a small thing. Such a powerful thing. Any of these people below him, they wouldn’t, couldn’t suspect that their life rested on such a thin, carefully sharpened edge. Slipped between the ribs, the vertebrae, through tendon and tissue, they would be dead before they even knew he was there.
Most of the time, when he catches himself thinking like this, a rush of shame rinses him cold and no matter which way he flees across the city, he invariably ends up at Leonardo’s, where his friend is always gentle and kind but also unafraid to knock sense into him, should he need it.
Most of the time, this is what happens. And that is almost okay.
Except that he never does tell Leonardo about his lapses on the rooftops. That single fact betrays him. Because if he was truly ashamed, if there wasn’t something that he enjoyed about his voyeuristic forays, he would tell Leonardo, and the artist would point out the flaws in his arguments and reasoning, and Ezio would let himself be talked out of… whatever he was doing. But he doesn’t.
Because there have been a few times that he lingers on the roof until a guard spots him and gives chase. Ezio runs, but not always as hard or fast as he can, letting the guard come just close enough to make both of their hearts pound. And that’s like a game too, until Ezio turns and drops down from the sky like the fist of God, and just like that, the guard dies.
It always brings a terrifying rush. That man no longer exists. He’s out of the stream. And it took but the tiniest flick of his wrist and the whirr of concealed springs. It’s easy, too easy, so easy that it hurts.
The shame tries to come, but it won’t begin to bother him until later. For now, Ezio Auditore is safe among justification and rationalization. He was being chased (it wasn’t like he forced that guard to follow him), he had the right to defend himself (not that he’d given the guard an equal chance), he was avenging his family (by attacking someone that probably had nothing to do with their deaths anyway).
With time, the doubts multiply to assertion and Ezio is ashamed and dismayed as he realizes what he’s become. With time, his reaction to the power thrust into his hands (strapped to his forearms) becomes tempered with age and experience. With time, Ezio learns that just because he has the power to end lives at will doesn’t mean that he should.
But that time is a long time coming, and until then, Ezio is an omnipresent force crouched on the rooftops.