Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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Ezio + Novices: Famiglia [1/2]

[(Anonymous)]

(Disregard the comment up there, Papa Ezio is irressitible to first author!anon. It had to be written nao.)

Perhaps Emiliana Santi? Ezio shook his head and scratched her name from the list he’d scribbled on a piece of parchment. No, she was not yet ready for a mission all alone and out of country. Her rank said otherwise, perhaps, but Ezio was the one who watched her grow as an assassin and knew her strengths and weaknesses. She was in her element when she could lie and persuade. Her witty tongue was as quick as her stealing fingers and not knowing the language would severely hurt her chances of success. Of course, he should push her from time to time, but not in a way that might get her killed.

If he would send her along with Ulrico Ursini, though, that might work. The mission did not call for two, but since she was a veterano with slightly predictable, but very effective ways and he was a mercenario who always found a novel approach, they might learn from each other.

The next matter was Stefano Spellano. His new recluta would definitely have to walk with him for a mission or two before he sent him out to do anything on his own. Unlike many, he was not a young one anyone, but a former mercenary of about thirty-five summers (still younger than Ezio, the Mentore had to admit). He would bring his skills and his scars alike and Ezio wanted to learn about them.

His thoughts were interrupted by a frantic knock on the door. Ezio looked up, surprised. He was alone at present, but his novices usually would climb in through the roof entrance. Machiavelli and Claudia had keys and La Volpe – well, he didn’t, but he always found his way in, so evidently he did not need one.

Thieves, perhaps, courtesans or mercenaries come to warn him? Guards? Ezio rose from the table which had the maps and half-written mission orders splayed out before him and unsheathed his sword on the way to the entrance.

However, when he pulled open the heavy oak door, his friend Leonardo da Vinci all but fell into his hideout.

“Leonardo?” Leonardo was out of breath and he would never risk coming to the hideout on a sunny afternoon without very good reason. They could barely afford to meet on a daylit street, much less visit each other without the cloak of night for protection. Leonardo was his oldest friend still alive. To see him in obvious distress made the hair on the back of Ezio’s neck stand. “Che c‘è?!”

“Listen, Ezio.” Leonardo raised his hands to stop him from talking. “It’s Cesare.”

“Are you in danger?!”

“No, not me.” Leonardo straightened his back. Though he had grown older, there was still that same life in his observant blue eyes. They were wide with fear now. “When I was at his court today, I overheard some of his guards talking. I didn’t get all of it, but they said they intercepted a group of assassins travelling from Firenze yesterday night. Apparently they had just brought them up from the dungeons to be transported. I cannot be certain, but this morning, Cesare asked if I had I ever been present at a hanging. He might not have been talking about them, but if he is-”

Leonardo did not need to finish. Though Ezio tried to keep him cut off from information for his own protection, Leonardo knew about his novices. They would often sneak into Leonardo’s roof garden, made sure that any Borgia spies were cleverly waylaid and even at times received healing through a courtyard window of Leonardo’s studio when they dragged themselves in after a rough fight. One or two had even hid there for a night, though Ezio forbade it, on account of it being much too dangerous for Leonardo.

If Cesare had been speaking about his novices...

A fist of ice tightened around his stomach. He saw figures dangling from the noose, feet swinging free, and a line of men in iron like a wall between him and the people he loved choking out their last breaths. The group from Firenze, he knew who they were, of course. Dispatched to dispose of a few false missionaries indoctrinating in Templar ways, Mino Ricoveri, Giacomo Gadda and Alessandro Albarella where under the command of Beatrice Simone. Their faces flashed before him, one by one, blood spilling from their mouths, their necks snapping, their lips blue, their eyes rolling to show the white.

“Leonardo, take a horse and ride as fast as you can for Bartolomeo’s!” Ezio wiped a handful of papers from the table to reveal his throwing knives, which he shoved in his pouch, grabbing his dagger with the other hand. “You will be safest there should Cesare figure out who betrayed him. Go!”

There was nothing in Ezio’s tone that invited argument. Leonardo knew him too well, knew all of him, to even try. Like he was another novice, Leonardo nodded his head, bolting out of the door that Ezio held open.

He wasn’t panicked, Ezio realised. For a moment, he had been seventeen again, weak again. But he was not. He hadn’t been for a long time. He had killed men that would have had Cesare quivering in his boots. He had taken more lives than most platoons of soldiers combined. He was not frightened. He was furious.

He would get his novices back, his fratelli and sorella, his famiglia. And when he found those who kept them from him, the streets would run red with blood.

*

Another hole in the road and Beatrice’s head hit the wooden side of the wagon. She shifted, trying to lean away, but that just ended with her falling against Alessandro’s shoulder as the cart took a sharp turn.

Alessandro was crying. He tried to hide it, but they could all hear it. The sounds from outside – soldier’s armour clinking together, hooves and wooden wheel on stone – were muffled and none of them knew what to say, so his occasional sniffle was the only noise. Alessandro, built tall and strong like an ox with a head of straw blond hair sticking in all directions and calm bright eyes, could easily make you forget that he was only sixteen years old. It showed now. The Templars had laid into him the worst, testing his endurance for sport when he would not talk. His chest was bare and whips had left bloody slashes like carvings in the flesh.

Beatrice lifted her gaze. Across the cart, piled between wooden crates, arms restrained and bound at hands and feet just like they were, sat Mino and Giacomo. Small, swarthy Giacomo, the fastest climber she’d ever met, might have made a run for it, but when he saw Alessandro and Beatrice beset by a dozen guards who made as if to slit their throats, he turned around.

Mino’s tongue kept nervously flicking out, like that of a snake. She hadn’t known he had that habit – Mino had never taken off his cowl before the Templars ripped it off. His mouth was surrounded by old scars, small holes like the criss-cross pattern of a stitching. This had to be what Mino was talking about when he proclaimed that people had ‘tried harder than that to shut him up’ when one attempted to silence his often all too sharp tongue.

Even Mino was pale and quiet now. That scared her more than Alessandro’s choked sobs.

As guerriero, she was the highest in rank and counting twenty-five years, also the oldest among the captured novices. It was a very young age to have seen your last morning, though, and as she clumsily tried to get back into a sitting position, she hardly felt like a great assassin, either. Still, catching Alessandro’s watery gaze, Beatrice gave her best to smile trough the strands of unkempt curls that hung in her face, half-covering her field of vision and a painful bruise a Templar’s gauntlet had left on her cheek.

The cart stood and so did her heart, she was sure. However, it started hammering in her chest a second later as the moving prison cell shook them and resumed movement.

“I wish the cazzi would have just stabbed me,” Mino muttered, voice distorted. His nose was broken and as he turned his head, it made her stomach lurch to see the unnatural angle at which it stood. His tongue darted out again, licking at the dried blood.

“We’re not dead yet,” Beatrice tried to reassure him, though she knew exactly what he meant. This waiting was intolerable. They knew where they were headed – Cesare Borgia had informed them personally – and they were defenseless as babes. She would have preferred a quick deadly stroke on the battlefield to this any day.

“Even if – we die,” Beatrice forced herself to say. “We must die with our heads held high, like true assassins.”

Giacomo looked about ready to throw up, but he nodded his head. His hands were bound in front of his body, his right one a clump of dirty red rag. A Templar had cut off his two outermost fingers with his axe. Absent-mindedly, she worried that the wound might be inflamed. Her mother had explained to her once that an unwashed wound could easily fester and infect the limb or the whole body with a black, deadly poison.

Then she remembered that in an hour’s time, it would not matter anymore. Alessandro choked on his own breath and cleared his throat.

Someone yelled.

The voice seemed remote through the solid wood case they sat in. At first, Beatrice didn’t relate the scream to them at all – but then the cart stopped with a violent shudder, the horses screamed, commands were shouted and there was trampling and more voices and metal bashing on metal.

Beatrice stared at her companions. It was Mino who moved first, using small starts to move his bound body closer to the front of the wagon, where, through a small window barred with iron, they had looked at the back of the driver’s head. It was gone now and as he could stand, Mino could look outside.

“Impossibile...”

Beatrice grimaced as she pushed herself onto her sprained ankle, falling more than leaning against the wall next to the window. Through the haze of pain, she could now see the same that Mino witnessed.

“What is it?” Giacomo asked as he came to his feet, glancing briefly at Alessandro, who was too weak to rise.

Beatrice gave a strangled laugh. Suddenly, she felt like crying, too, but it was relief that flooded her like a cold rush of water.

“Il Mentore.”

*