AC: Unity Rewrite

Mirror and Image

Versailles, December 27, 1776

"Arno..."

"Can't I go with you, père?"

"Courage, my boy. You just wait here. I will return when this hand reaches the top."

"... That's forever."

"Hmph, not as long as all that. And when I get back, we'll see the fireworks."

…

"And Arno? No 'exploring', hmm?"

"Oui, père."

Élise de la Serre was eight years old, and she was going to be the next Templar Grandmaster. Her mother was Julie de la Serre and was the most amazing person in the whole world. Her mother told her not to act like court ladies, to watch and listen and to think instead of obsess over fashion. Her mother brought Weatherall to teach her about swords. Élise already knew she was much smarter than that bratty ten-year-old Carrol girl, and she'd already had two adventures! Her mother and Weatherall had beaten back a blood-thirsty wolf, and there was that very scary incident in a back alley of Paris. With an assassin! It... it had been scary that time but her mother was clearly, objectively, the most amazing person ever!

The de la Serre were different from everybody. That made it hard, of course, but it also made them special. Nobody else could say their women could protect themselves, and no one else could say they were destined to lead the world. Élise had special training that nobody else did, she was the only girl in the entire world who knew swordsmanship, Weatherall was very particular about that, and she knew more about how France was governed than any girl her age. Her job, when she was older, was to get people to do what she wanted, because she was going to quietly be the next advisor of the King, and she had to get the King to do as she wanted. For the good of France.

She had been happy when her father told her she was going to Versailles – another adventure!

But she learned very quickly that the adventure was for her father and not for her. How boring!

"And Arnaud, no exploring, hm?"

Élise perked to hear the sentence. It sounded so like a father. Was there another child nearby? Someone she could play with? She darted down a hall and hid behind a corner, peaking her head out... there!

"Oui, père," a boy said, sullen. How wonderful, the same age as her! This would be exciting.

Élise held her breath once, twice, waited for the boy to be bored, saw him turn and look at the painting above him. Perfect!

She let herself giggle slightly, waited for him to hear it. She watched him perk, and the chase was on.

How fun it was, darting through the elaborate halls of Versailles, ducking under the lowly servants and even knocking over something – what noise it made! What a reaction from the staff!

"Gardes, arrêtes-les!"

"Where'd they come from?"

"... Isn't that the de la Serre girl?"

"Aller!" she called back, looking over her shoulder. The boy was smiling, too, enjoying the adventure Élise had concocted, and soon they were in some kind of courtyard, the air chilled immediately, and she was thankful for the many layers of her dress. There was a table full of foodstuffs. Perfect!

Élise turned around, cheeks rosy from the run and the chill, and gave her best smile. "Bet you can't steal one!" Would it work? Would he do as she said? She darted back to the door of the courtyard and waited to see what he would do. The boy gulped and shifted his weight from one side to the other, hands worrying. A coward? But no, he took a deep breath and snatched an apple. Wonderful! Just like Mère had said! People were easy to control. Her new power flooded her tiny body, and she was hopping up and down on her feet and clapping her hands at her success.

Which was, of course, why one of the palais' guards turned around. His face was instantaneously livid.

"Thief! Put that back, these are for his Royal Highness, not the likes of you! Do you know what the penalty is for stealing?"

Élise lost all color and quickly darted behind the doorway she had been waiting at and slapping her hands over her mouth.

Nothing happened, however, and she dared to look around again. The boy was crouched behind a hedge, white as a sheet, but the apple was still in his hand. Goodness, the boy was good!

It took several minutes, but the boy remustered his courage and was able to dart towards her. Élise pulled him through a few more halls, backtracking slightly. When they were both safe, panting from excitement, they caught each other's eyes and they both laughed.

"Did you see their faces when we stole those apples?" she asked.

They both giggled.

"I'm Arnaud," the boy introduced himself.

"Élise," she replied.

"I'm here with my père."

"So am I," Élise said. "He has 'important business' with the king."

"What should we do now?"

Élise was about to answer when she heard something, a sound far away. She put a finger to Arnaud's mouth, shushing him. "Listen," she whispered, and the noise slowly got louder. Footsteps, hurried, moved down the hall, and the pair stared at each other, wondering if they really were going to get in trouble. "Don't worry," Élise said, trying to shake it off. "They'll never think to look for us in here." ...Right?

"This way, this way!" someone said, gruff voice. Another set of footsteps were moving, this time heavier and much closer.

And, to Élise's shock, the boy, Arnaud, stepped forward. "It was my fault," he said. "I'm the one who took the apples."

A boy under her power and now honorable as well? Élise liked this boy even more!

But the guard shoved Arnaud aside – quite harshly, how rude! - and Élise realized another adventure was about to happen. She grabbed Arnaud's arm. "Let's see where they're going!" Oh, this was going to be exciting. Hopefully not scary like that time in a Paris alley, truly exciting. Élise delighted at the idea. Could she use her new powers there, as well?

Through an atrium, into a music room of some kind, around a corner, and look! Back in a hall, and there was a crowd of people! Surely there were more people here Élise could tell what to do. She pushed through a few pairs of legs, tugging Arno with her. "Excuse me, Monsieur," she said in her most polite voice, tugging on the culotte of one of the men. "Monseiur," she said again.

"Élise! Come here, girl, now!"

Élise started, looked over to see her father marching towards her, the most awful look on his face. She quickly turned to Arnaud, wondering if he would defend her honor again, but realized belatedly he was no longer holding her hand. He was staring beyond all the legs, and only then did Élise realize there was a body on the floor.

François de la Serre shook hands with M. Franklin, the old Englishman – no, the old American, he would have to get used to that now – all smiles and convivial amiability. The Rite had a chance, a real chance, to meet their goals in the colonies, and he knew Maître Kenway was more than capable of ushering in the New World to the New World. The man perfectly emulated the values of the Order, and François would be certain France supported the Americans. Louis had always been malleable in that respect, and the idea of sticking it to England was an added bonus.

"I'll do everything I can, Monsieur," he told M. Franklin. "You have our unwavering support."

"Thank you, Monsieur de la Serre," Franklin replied. "Here's hoping to a long friendship."

That was when they heard the first scream.

François snapped to attention – Franklin did, too, of course – but François had seen that maverick Irishman Cormac. If that loose cannon did anything to hurt the negotiations...! They moved out into the hall, lush red carpet glowing in the late afternoon sun, the gold trim shining as the magic hour hit its zenith, but on the floor was a blemish of darkness, a body lying there on its back. Red sash at his waist... Oh, no...

Quickly, he leaned in to the American to do damage control. "Monsieur Franklin, I sincerely hope this unfortunate affair does not darken your opinion of our nation."

"Monsieur, if we judged nations by the character of their criminals we should all be called barbarians."

François quickly hid his sigh of relief, and then almost immediately swallowed it as he realized his daughter was not where he left her. Sudden panic flushed through him, remembering Julie's horrifying story from a several months ago. Calm, remain calm, the girl had obviously run off, meaning she would be nowhere near here, meaning she was safe. Cormac wouldn't harm a Templar, loose cannon though he was, he treasured the Order and wouldn't dare invoke the wrath of a Maître. Breathe, François, just breathe... Nom de dieu the trouble that girl was in...!

Ah, but there was the bright green dress and red hair, moving immediately to the crowds. "Élise!" he said firmly, "Come here, girl, now!"

"Père?"

François froze, his eyes finally ripping away from his daughter to see another child, likely the same age, staring.

"Père!"

The boy pushed his way through and stared at the body. His face was totally blank of expression, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Something fell out of his hand, the clatter on the carpet muted. François looked to his daughter.

"Do you know his name?" he asked.

"Arnaud," she answered.

What a grizzly business. Cormac. He had to do something about Cormac. No, the child came first.

"Arnaud," he said gently.

The boy stood mute, staring, unable to look away, most likely locked in his own little mind. Oh, the poor child, to be so young... "Arnaud," he said, louder, with a hint more force. "Look at me." The boy looked up, eyes so wide, face so pale. Élise might have looked like that, if things had gone differently at the alley. Merde, his heart bled for the child. Someone would have to look after him until they found the mother. François offered his hand. The boy, mute, took it. Perfect. He yanked Arnaud back, guided his face to his waist, anything to turn the child away from the cadaver. Élise was at his other hip, watching with her ever intelligent eyes.

"Monsieur Franklin," he said softly, "Perhaps you could help me find a room for the children?"

"Yes, of course, monsieur," Franklin said. He put on a tight smile. "What's your name, girl?"

"Élise," she said carefully, eyes darting to Arnaud and the body. "What's your name?"

"Oh, my name is Benjamin."

"Ben... Benja..."

"You may call me Ben, child, I know English names can be hard on young mouths."

It was, oh, hours later. The royal guards had their hands full: handling the body, interviewing witnesses, trying to identify the cadaver. François did not see Cormac, but he found a page and sent him to find his friend Chrétien with a missive to find Cormac and hold him until he could be spoken to. The hardest part had been the interview with the boy. The guards tried to be gentle, of course, but an eight-year-old boy so recently traumatized was difficult to deal with. François sat with him, Élise on his other side, and he did all he could to coax the boy into talking.

Charles Dorian was the man's name. They had just come back from Africa, and Charles had to give a report. Nobody could find out who he was reporting to, and Arnaud didn't know. He spoke in small, soft mumbles that the guards could barely understand. Élise, eager to help, repeated what he said in a much clearer voice, and François guided her with looks and nudges on when to talk and when to be quiet. Where was the mother? Gone for a long time, since Arnaud was four. Where did he live? Arnaud didn't know, he'd been abroad for two years. A house with three floors and a lot of books, he knew that much. Servants? A cook who would slap his hands with her spoon if he got too close, that made the guard chuckle.

But that was all they could get out of him, and François was quickly coming to realize that the boy had nowhere to go, and François himself didn't exactly know how to contact his mortal enemies to let them know one of theirs had been orphaned. The maître knew what the odds of an orphan were in Versailles, let alone Paris.

"I'll keep him for a few days," he said softly to one of the guards. "Until arrangements can be made."

"Oui, Monsieur," the guard said. "We'll begin our investigation at once."

Arnaud had fallen asleep, and François picked him up – they were heavy at this age – and watched the boy curl naturally into his shoulder. Élise looked up, jealous, but François silenced her with a look. The carriage was waiting for him, and he settled in with the boy on his lap. "Arnaud is going to stay with us for a while," François told his daughter. "The boy's been through a tragedy, and we need to help him as principled people."

Élise's mind was working, a small frown on her face. "Is this because he doesn't know his mamen?"

"Oui."

"So he has nowhere to go?"

"Non, he doesn't."

And suddenly her face split into a delighted smile. "Then we can keep him?"

"Élise, he isn't a pet."

"But I got him to do what I wanted, just like Mère said I could, and then he defended my honor. He can be my chevalier in shining armor!"

"This isn't a fairy tale, Élise," François scolded. "The boy has just lost his père."

Élise pouted of course, but this late at night she fell asleep quickly.

Julie, bless her, saw the child when he came in and didn't even blink, calling for Olivier and telling him to set an extra bed. She and François put the children to bed, Julie putting an extra warming pan in the boy's, and François explained what had happened at the palais.

His beloved clucked her tongue. "Are you certain it was Cormac?"

"An Assassin is dead. I know of no one else so zealous as to perform such a task at Versailles."

"I assume that was why Chrétien stopped by earlier."

"Oui. He has Cormac?"

"Oui. The man thinks you've arranged a meeting."

François' face darkened. "In a way, I have. I'll want him here early in the morning, before the children wake up. I don't want them hearing this."

"I'll have Olivier set it up. For now, let us to bed. I am very tired."

They held each other that night. Julie fell asleep easily – sharp as her mind was her body was beginning to fail – but François was up for a very long time, thinking about children, about responsibilities, about the future.

Cormac came at six in the morning, the sky only barely beginning to lighten and even then, it was a dark overcast that forced lamps to stay lit. His black and red overcoat were gaudy in such a noble house, his scar and age lines making him look like a mercenary, a cold blooded killer. And he was.

"Come with me," François said.

"If it please ye," Cormac said in his accented French.

"None in the Order can deny your expertise, monsieur, nor your thoroughness. Your work in the Colonies has been stalwart and beyond reproach. I saw you in the palais yesterday, but you did not announce your business with me. Why were you there?"

"Master Kenway sent me," Cormac said. "The Assassins had a box from Those Who Came Before. I came here to retrieve it."

"And did you?"

"Yes. The journey was very productive."

"Monsieur, in that we quite disagree." François opened a door, holding a finger to his lips to ensure silence. Cormac looked in, saw little Arnaud sleeping, still pale even now. Cormac frowned, looking at François in obvious confusion. The Maître closed the door. "That boy," he whispered, "Is named Arnaud. You have succeeded in making an orphan."

Cormac's face did not change, save for a slight widening of he eyes. "He's an Assassin?"

"Non," François corrected. "He is a child, and now he has nothing and no one to turn to, vulnerable to the world the way you were."

"Not like I was," Cormac corrected, voice dark and low.

"Does it matter?" François countered. "An Assassin might not think twice about who he orphans, but the Templars are of a higher morality than that. Tell me, would you have killed the man in front of that child's eyes? Would you have killed the boy if he was a witness?"

"I-"

"Non, monsieur. I have said my peace. This is why one contacts a maître before running around half cocked. I could have told you who was at that meeting if you had let me know about it. I could have given you help in eavesdropping or following the attendants. I would have told you what a damned fool idea it was to murder someone in Versailles. Whatever value Maître Kenway sees in you is now forfeit in this country. You are no longer welcome in France Monsieur Cormac; I've already written the other Rites. As a courtesy of your service we will provide for your transport back to England, but that is the extent of my kindness. Do you understand, monsieur?"

Cormac's face was flat, composed, but the slight lowering of the corners of his mouth spoke volumes. "I understand, Master Serre," he said in English.

François deliberately did not see him out, instead tending to Julie, who had watched from another room, silent support and ready warrior if things went badly. Both breathed a sigh of relief when Olivier said the carriage had left.

"We have another problem," Julie said over breakfast.

"Yes, I know. The boy himself."

"It is as you told Élise," Julie said, "and as you told Cormac. We are of a higher moral principle."

"Élise?" François asked.

"She's listening behind the corner, François," Julie said with a small grin. "Have you not noticed?"

The girl was smart enough to come as soon as she was discovered, taking a seat at the table.

"Well," the Maître said. "Seeing as I am clearly outnumbered, it would appear that we are, in fact, 'keeping' him."

Élise, of course, was delighted, sunshine immediately emanating from her face, but Julie simply put a hand on her to curb her reaction. "How do we integrate him?" she asked. "A servant? He is young for that. Can he read?"

"Most certainly," François said. "He's an Assassin."

"We cannot ignore his schooling," Julie said, "But the question is how much he should receive? What station should we place him, what trade?"

François had been pondering that late into the night. "Our first priority is to see how smart he is. If his mind is as keen as is usual for his kind, then perhaps we can use it to our benefit."

"You mean turn him," Julie said, the distinct look of disapproval on her face. "François..."

"He obviously knows nothing of his heritage," he said quickly. "There would be little fear of betrayal, and Maître Kenway has proven to be a ringing endorsement of the process."

"Oh, François," Julie said, taking two fingers to her temple. "You've no idea of the human condition. Maître Kenway was deeply scarred from the murder of his father, and he has spent most of his life looking for the killer. Imagine what would happen if he ever learned we were the ones who killed his père, let alone that he was an Assassin? A man of his skills would be a force to be reckoned with, and he would know all of our innermost workings and plans. It is too dangerous to turn him. Ignorance, as they say, is bliss."

"I don't want him a Templar," Élise added. "I can't practice my powers if he's supposed to be like me."

François shook his head. "I am outnumbered," he said, sighing, leaning back. "We'll install him as a servant, a page for now until he's older. Monsieur Weatherall can assess how smart he is. Élise, go tell Olivier what I've just said."

"Oui, Père!" the girl replied, all but popping out of her seat and darting off to do her task.

Julie, of course saw through the dismissal. "You still want to turn him."

François nodded. "You have a point about the human condition," he acquiesced. "I fear to guess how long it will be before he can say more than bare mumbles, or how long the grief will hold him. Gentle hands will be necessary for this, and trying to induct him at so sensitive a time would be ludicrous."

"But you are not saying no."

"Non, I am not," François said. "Je suis desolée, Julie, but every time I look at that boy I think about what could have happened to you and Élise in Paris and-" His voice cracked.

"Sh," Julie said gently, reaching across the table and taking his hand. François blinked, not realizing how moist his eyes were. Damned weather, to be sure. He rubbed at them. "I understand," she said, thumb rubbing his knuckles. "You see a dark possibility, and you want to erase it. I foresee you doting on him as you do Élise, a second child and a son for you to pamper."

"I wouldn't dare go that far," François said. "He is not family, you and Élise are."

Julie smiled, softly – that knowing smile that he so loved about her. This was not their bed chambers, where he could express his inner-most self without fear of servants coming in, but she saw everything on his face, as she always had done, and she told him everything with her bright eyes. Scandalous as it was, he leaned over the table and kissed her, giving her his gratitude.

François pulled the staff aside the next day to discuss little Arnaud.

"The child has suffered a loss. He found his father's body. No one knows where his mother is. We will be doing our best to find his family, but he has traveled so much and the shock has made him very quiet. Without any information, we'll install him as a house boy for now. Give him small tasks to do and keep busy. Keep his mind off his tragedy." From there it was shorter conversations individually. Élise was currently the only other child in the house, but staff had had children before. One of François' best friends growing up had been a child two years younger than him that had been the son of the cook. François had rewarded that friendship and service and that boy now kept the family house in Paris with his young bride.

François then spoke with Weatherall. The Englishman would be in charge of assessing young Arnaud. Given the boy's heritage, François had some very specific expectations. There was no doubt the boy would have some level of physical skills – useful in his new role as part of the staff – but how far did that training go? Did he have any fighting skills? Could he be trained to be a bodyguard for Élise? Or would he simply be better off in the stables? François reminded himself not to make decisions without more information. And by far the most important thing to learn was the boy's intelligence. Being an idiot would limit positions, after all. But the Assassins, for all their backwards thinking, proved to be cunning as well. Their philosophy ignored the very foundation of what humanity was like, but it was a philosophy, proving that the Assassins had many deep thinkers to even generate a philosophy – inane as it was. Arnaud would likely be able to read and write, François was certain of that. But how adept was his mind?

Still, the assessments would be made by Weatherall and the staff would look after him. So François let it be.

A week later, after the turn of the new year, Weatherall made his report. As François expected, the boy was already strong for his age and had knowledge of the first lessons of fencing and swordplay. He could read and write and when he spoke it was clear he could pick things up swiftly. In fact, an interesting tidbit that Weatherall mentioned was that they had been spelling the boy's name wrong. It was not the proper French Arnaud. Instead, the spelling was Austrian: Arno. Julie had frowned at that, though François couldn't understand why, but she could provide her own observations, such as how little Arnaud – Arno – understood basic politics of the staff. What was sad, however, that both Weatherall and the staff mentioned was how reticent the boy was. Many of the women had tried to offer solace to the child, but it seemed he didn't respond. Only sat there quietly. Élise had come to him, frowning, asking why her powers didn't seem to work anymore, or was it that Arno was broken and how to fix him. With so many pleas, François realized he couldn't just let the boy disappear into the staff. He would have to speak to him again.

So he called the boy up to his office.

"Arno," François said softly. He sat at the settee with a cup of coffee, looking at a long night ahead of him with secret Templar communications – he wanted this to be brief, had squeezed it in after dinner. Haytham was getting a man to deal with that troublesome Washington, and while it was too early for a report, François wanted to review how things were going. After all, Haytham had lost another of his subordinates to the Assassins earlier that year, a man named Hickey. It seemed Haytham was either incompetent and didn't know who the Assassin was yet after losing so many Templars, or more likely he knew damn well who it was and wasn't sharing.

"Monsieur," Arno greeted quietly, still standing.

"Bonsoir," François refocused. He didn't offer a seat. Staff didn't get that privilege. "I know losing family is difficult," after all, he still dreamed of when he almost lost Julie and Élise, "You've been here a week now. I thought I'd see how you were doing."

"Everyone has been very kind," Arno said softly, looking down to the floor.

That should have been enough. Arno was doing well, send him on his way, get to work. But François hesitated. Arno wasn't fine. That was why he'd called the boy up.

"Arno," he said softly. "Come sit with me."

The boy hefted himself onto the seat, staring down at his lap.

François thought for a moment, wondering what approach would work best. His experience with Élise wouldn't work given how direct she was when upset. Finally though, he decided to be direct, as he would with the rest of the staff. "What's bothering you?"

Arno said nothing for a long time. Eyes fixed on his hands, François considered asking again, but he saw a tear fall. Then another. And another.

Finally the boy was quietly sobbing, trying to hold it in with little success and rubbing at his eyes. François didn't think. He stood, stepped over, and sat by Arno, sweeping into a hug as he would with little Élise. The sobbing continued and François felt nothing but sympathy. It seemed that the boy hadn't let this out since his father had died. The least François could do was weather the storm and let Arno feel with the loss.

Some time later, Arno's tears were finally starting to abate. By then, François had rung the staff and asked for some chocolate and sweets which he gave the boy to eat.

"Sorry," Arno mumbled, red-faced and staring down to his lap.

"It's quite alright," François replied. "As I said, a loss is a difficult thing."

"'s my fault," the boy mumbled, face somehow getting even redder.

"Come now," François automatically said, "you didn't-"

"I left."

And all at once, François understood. It wasn't just grief. The boy was facing guilt as well. That was a heavy burden to bear. He couldn't help but recall what he'd told Élise the previous year. That people didn't want freedom and responsibility because it was too great a burden to bear, that only the strongest minds could do so. Arno's mind wasn't a strong one. It weighed grief and guilt and came up with strain. François hugged the child tight. Élise had proven to have a strong mind, she had survived the attack on her and her mother and showed no ill affect. Arno hadn't faced such violence, had only discovered the loss, and he was already crumbling.

Julie was right. Arno wasn't ready to be indoctrinated to the Templar order. His mind was too weak.

But...

Perhaps...

No. François would follow Julie's wishes on this.

"It's alright," he said softly to the young boy.

"Non, it's not," Arno insisted softly. "Father told me to wait. No 'exploring'. We would have been gone." The child's face scrunched up into a fresh round of tears. "B-but I left. I disob-beyed. It's all my fault!"

François pulled Arno close again, feeling tears in his own eyes. He remembered the attack on Julie and Élise. One thing going wrong... And a child, even one as competent and formidable as Élise, could make a mistake. Something as simple as wandering away. He gave an extra squeeze for the despondent boy in his arms.

"Let's get one thing straight, Arno," François said firmly. "You are not to blame for being a child. You are not to blame for putting a blade in your father. You are not to blame."

"But I m-made a choice," Arno mumbled. That damn Assassin philosophy. "My ch-choice... My fault..."

So François hugged him.

François had promised himself that he wouldn't take an interest in Arno or in training him. Julie had insisted that it wasn't their place, and that Arno would not be a good fit. But after that night, François couldn't help but notice. He would look up and smile or offer kind words if Arno came in to deliver something or to do some small, menial chore. He paid attention, as he always did with Élise. But he kept to that promise.

But the new year had dawned with Arno coming to them and Julie became ill with it.

A lingering illness that slowly wasted her away.

He sat with her often at first. Offering words of support, vowing that this would get better. Doctor after doctor was called. Élise would sit with her mother for hours at a time. Weatherall as well, and his cheeks were always tear-stained afterwords. François could not afford to spend so much time as he wanted with his beloved wife. He was still Grandmaster. He had an Order to run. A king to manage. Aristocrats to keep in line. So many little things.

And, to his private and personal shame, it was easier.

As Julie became more and more skeletal, as her complexion paled to translucent, he mourned the loss of his wife before she was even gone.

He wanted to remember as he knew her best. Strong, capable, quick-witted, and wise.

He did not want to remember the remains of her that still held breath.

So it was easier.

It was easier to start teaching Arno.

Teaching him the sword. Teaching him maths and sciences. Getting him to the same lessons as Élise and reviewing it with him.

Arno was still a member of the staff. He had tasks to do, chores to accomplish. But François... found it easier to dote on the boy than to dote on his failing wife.

And when Julie died...

Élise did what was expected of a young lady of her station. She was sent to boarding school, but François insisted that Weatherall accompany her. Partially as bodyguard, partially as continuing teacher, partially to get rid of a man who loved his wife as much as François did but was able to stay.

So François focused on little Arno.

1782

Life moved on.

Arno became a member of the household, and François remained somewhat proud of how the boy had come along. Granted, the majordomo Olivier seemed to have nothing but contempt and scorn for the boy, but François put that to not caring for children in general. Olivier also seemed unhappy with Élise, though he was far more reticent about it, whereas Arno was within his control, or lack of it. François took this in stride. That young Assassin had such a keen mind and was finally smiling so much that he brushed aside such criticisms. He matched well with Élise's sharp wit and the two challenged each other to new heights. François wouldn't be a very good father to Élise if he didn't keep around such a foil, no matter how Olivier wanted Arno reported or thrown out of the staff and house.

It wasn't until the children were fourteen, however, that François started to wonder if the good match was perhaps a little too good.

The cook had evidently sent Arno out to make an order for fruits from an orchard just outside of Versailles. Also evidently, Élise had decided to tag along, and given how often those two were together, no one had given a second thought about her going off with Arno on his work.

François would talk to the staff tomorrow about that. On ensuring that Arno doing work did not need Élise bothering him, and to shoo her away as needed. He could already see Olivier's bare twitch of a smug smile. But that was tomorrow.

Right now he had two children to scold. Thoroughly.

The first, of course, would be Élise. Arno was still being treated by a doctor.

For it had seemed that when the two had gone to the orchards something had happened. There had been dogs involved, and a chase, and now Arno needed to be treated for several severe dog bites in his leg. Neither child had been able to offer a clear history of events and François could see that the two were covering for each other and that no story would ever bear the complete truth. At this point, the truth didn't matter. He knew enough.

"Élise," François greeted his daughter in her room. She had been quite upset at Arno's injury, and she quickly stood demanding to know how the boy was doing. He held up his hand and she returned to proper decorum, sitting neatly once more in her chair. François stepped over to her, but remained standing, crossing his arms. "Today's incident shows very little thought, and from you, my dear, that surprises me."

She frowned up at him, showing no signs of anything other than calm.

Much better.

"I expect better from you, Élise," he started, keeping his voice soft and firm. "You are a de la Serre. You are a Templar. I have been very thorough in what that means. Weatherall has done so as well whilst you're at school." And what a day for Weatherall to have the day off. He would likely have prevented this little mishap, whatever it was. "You are to be a leader amongst all of humanity. A beacon of how things should be and will be when we win this detestable war with the Assassins. And a leader shepherds all who follow them."

Élise said nothing.

Good. That meant she was thinking.

"It doesn't matter how this transpired. What matters is that it did transpire. On your watch."

That got a flicker, and François nodded to himself. He was getting through to her.

"Now there is no way to prevent every catastrophe in existence. Floods and famine care not for human intervention. But we plan as Templars. We prepare for eventualities. I see no sign of any such thing from the mangled accounts of both you and Arno, and the farmer who came to see me about reimbursing him for the damages you two caused."

At last, Élise looked down and François knew that what he was saying was sticking.

"What you have done is as follows: One: You have caused Arno, a staff member that is under your care, injury. Two: You have caused damage to a farmer who feeds us, and is under our care. Three: You have caused injury to a dog, who did only what a dog does. Four: You have caused injury to me, as I have to pay for this and ensure that this indiscretion doesn't follow you as you continue to grow." He raised a brow at her. "You are starting to reach a marriageable age, my dear, so you need to look to your image now more than ever. Part of the cruelty of man that we must overcome its long memories and hatred that breeds from festering wounds."

"I understand, Father," she finally spoke, softly and sincerely contrite.

"I hope so," he replied. "Because you will be facing a more severe punishment than Arno. He has enough punishment with that torn up leg."

Her eyes flashed, resisting briefly, before going back to her calm face.

Good girl.

"Now this is not because I'm trying to be unfair. But because you bear more responsibility in this. You are a Templar, and you did not shepherd as you were supposed to. Arno is staff. He is one who needs to be guided and you guided him wrong."

"I understand," she repeated. "Do as you see best."

François nodded again. "The first punishment, is that you are confined to this house. You will not be going about town for any reason whatsoever."

"Of course."

"Second, you will now do Arno's chores that he cannot as he is laid up in bed, saving those that require leaving the house. I hope you enjoy mucking out stalls. I will tell Olivier to give you the worst chores he gives to Arno."

She nodded, but there was the tiniest flash of a smile he didn't like.

"Third, in the free time you have, you are to study your least favorite subjects. Classical literature and musical theory. I will be testing you in this, as will others I bring by to ensure you have studied."

Her face was calm and she nodded her agreement.

And now the last and hardest one for him to do.

"Finally, you will return to your boarding school two weeks early."

"What? Non! Father, please!"

François raised an eyebrow and tilted his head just so.

It was work for her to control her face. Her jaw was twitching in displeasure, that much was clear her eyes still flashing anger and rage. He wondered if something was wrong at school, but he doubted it. Surely, she would tell him. Besides, he didn't want to send her early. He had so little time with her due to the boarding school. He cherished having her about the house and she was so like her mother when she was younger.

Julie...

But for now, she had erred, and as her father he needed to ensure that this lesson stuck.

"For now, you are to stay in your room for the remainder of the day."

She nodded sullenly.

François frowned, but left it as it was. She had been scolded and punished appropriately. Most importantly, she learned. He doubted he'd see her in such trouble again.

He hoped.

Trouble seemed to follow Élise and Arno.

François headed to the servant section of the ville, and finding Olivier first. He explained the punishment for Élise, and the punishment he planned for Arno. Olivier clearly wasn't happy with either, but he did what was proper and said nothing, merely accepting it. Good man.

Next he checked in with Arno. The doctor had come and gone, providing stitches and warning that there were signs of infection already starting and what foods and herbs would be required to ward it off, along with a salve to be applied every day. François nodded it all off. The staff would handle that, he didn't need to know, that was beneath his purview. Instead, he cared about the price of it. He nodded, sent the doctor to Olivier to pay him, and entered Arno's tiny room.

The boy was red-faced, from shame or fever François couldn't say, leaning back on his bed with his leg up on a pile of pillows fetched by the women staff and their emotional sensibilities. The leg in question was bandaged, and there was no sign of bleeding through, which François took as a good sign.

"Arno," he greeted sternly, deliberately lacking the warmth he had shown Élise.

"Monsieur," Arno greeted quietly, looking down as staff should instead of in the eye as Élise did.

François nodded in approval. "Now, about this little incident of yours..."

"It was my fault, Monsieur."

"Arno," François sighed, "fault doesn't really matter. What does is that something happened. And we need to address it."

"Oui, Monsieur."

"Good. Now, my boy, I am disappointed in you."

"Of course, Monsieur. You should be."

That damn Assassin ideology was pervasive, despite the years he had been working with this boy. François sighed and aimed his eyes at the ceiling to ask for strength in all this. "Arno, I have been teaching you. You are learning swordsmanship and marksmanship. Someday, as a member of this staff, you many need to defend Élise. That is part of your duty as part of this house, as she is my successor. Today you did not. You and she got into trouble instead. And while you understand defending my daughter from physical threats, you don't yet understand that there are more threats that a young woman faces than just a sword or bullet."

"Oui, Monsieur."

"A young noble lady faces gossip and rumors. Scandal and deceit. Her virginity sold off to get a high price in marriage. I may not do that to my daughter, I may plan for her to marry whom she wishes, but gossip mongers won't care. They'll try to sully her reputation to increase their own standing."

"I understand, Monsieur."

"I would hope so." François waited a moment to let that sink in. "Now for punishment."

Arno merely nodded.

"You will be paying the bill of the doctor."

Arno looked up, eyes huge. No doubt wondering the cost and where the money for that would come from. But he didn't say a word.

"Now, since we provide you room and board and meals, you have never been properly paid for your work. You still won't be."

Arno's eyes doubled in size. So expressive this boy.

"Since you are laid up and will be unable to walk, what you will be doing is going over the accounts. I know you have quite the skill at maths, so it's time for you to use them. You will be working closely with Olivier to go over the accounts and you are responsible for finding ways to save the money needed for the doctor. When you've reached that amount, any left over will start to be your wages."

Arno nodded dumbly, the entirety of this task clearly weighing heavily on him.

"And Arno, no cutting corners."

"Non, Monsieur."

"Bien."

May 5, 1789

Growing up with M. de la Serre, Arno had learned many things. As a member of the staff of a noble house, he had privileges that other members of the Third Estate didn't have and that Arno often saw when going about doing errands for said house. He had access to an actual education, for one, which the countryside often lacked, though the literacy rate was far, far higher in the cities. He had been given lessons in swordsplay and marksmanship, which was only for soldiers and nobles, the art of sport. He had good food, often leftovers from the main table. And one didn't need to go far to see how impoverished and hungry the masses of France were. He had learned what was needed for running a household, in fact going over accounts whenever he got into trouble was often the only way for him to get any spending money, aside from gambling at pharaoh.

But Arno often wondered exactly where he stood. Oh, he was certainly staff. Olivier, in particular, delighted in making him do the worst chores he could think of, and Arno had an incredible grasp of horses and their care as a result, to say nothing of knowing his way around chamber pots or refuse or garbage. As his immediate boss, Olivier made it abundantly clear that Arno was Third Estate, and don't expect any different. You are the lowest of the low, don't aspire for more. If M. de la Serre ever needed to send Élise a punishment to do chores, Olivier offered her the easiest tasks that fell far closer to what would be expected of her station than mucking out stalls.

The simple fact that Arno stayed on after getting caught was a benefit of working in the de la Serre home. Other villes, ones Arno was often sent to as courier or messenger, turned out staff that did even the slightest things wrong or on the whim of the noble they served. Arno knew damn well to count himself lucky to be at a house that didn't do such a thing. However, Arno wasn't an idiot. He knew it was only by the work of being at the de la Serre home that he was able to lead as good a life as he did.

It was why he often wondered why he wasn't kicked out.

It was why Arno wondered where he stood.

Because M. de la Serre doted on him. Treated him as a son. And dammit, Arno loved him as a father. Not his actual father, but Arno understood that he was lucky in having two fathers. Charles Dorian, its own bitter haze of dusty memories, and the knowledge that it had been his fault, that his father wouldn't have been there if it hadn't been for his exploring. Then M. de la Serre came along, found him lost and alone, and raised him. Arno had no doubt that was part of the reason that Olivier hated him so much. Because Arno was often treated more as family than staff. M. de la Serre ensured his tutelage, often used him almost as a private assistant, and most tellingly, forgave Arno for his indiscretions that would likely bring gossip and rumors to the house if he'd actually be the son and heir.

In a way, Arno counted on that paternal feeling, as much as he actually believed in M. de la Serre to be a second father. It was why he kept doing silly things like gambling, occasionally drinking, carousing, joining the occasional debate if only to play devil's advocate and stir things up. But Arno was twenty now. He couldn't keep doing this. Change would happen. But the last time his life had changed drastically was coming upon the body of his father, dead as a result of his choice to explore. Arno wished to push off changing into someone more responsible for a little bit longer. Linger in the frivolity that he could while he still had the chance.

Linger in his love with Élise.

Oh he knew that as the Third Estate he didn't have a chance in hell with her. She would some day be married off through political alliance, despite M. de la Serre's constant words to the contrary. Arno would likely marry a staff of either this house or some other, or maybe someone from Versailles proper. That was how things always went, from fairy tales all the way through to reality.

But he loved Élise. Wholly and completely. She was his best friend, his partner in crime, his heart and mind. And though she would never say it, Arno knew she loved him just as much. Their few trysts had been passionate and devoted, expressive of their love and care for one another. In many ways, it continued a private joke from when they were entering a bout of trouble: Don't get caught. After the incident in the orchard and the dogs, it was their constant refrain to one another. Avoid trouble, or else don't get caught. Don't get caught stealing a pair of horses for a ride in the countryside. Don't get caught in a shadowed hallway for a passionate embrace. Don't get caught filching food for the banquet. Don't get caught when they stole champagne and tried it for the first time. Don't get caught. The trouble was almost expected.

So for now, Arno enjoyed his life as it was. His uncertain position in the de la Serre home. His love with Élise. His barely-there privilege in the Third Estate.

A night of gambling sounded good. Victor was hosting a game with his brother at their smithy. Perhaps Arno would join.

Arno stared at the watch. The last thing his father had ever given him. Broken. Frozen in that one moment of discovering his father, ten minutes too late. He hated the watch. It was a constant reminder of his mistake. Of his irresponsibility.

Arno had tried to deal with it many times over the past thirteen years. It had been buried in a sock draw. Thrown into the trash. Hidden in a trunk.

Four separate times he had sold it.

He always came back the next day to get it back.

It was the last thing his father had ever given him.

Every time he saw it, it was a reminder: of his failure. Of his father's death. It should be gotten rid of.

Every time he saw it, it was a reminder: of his father alive, smiling, cajoling, before his demise. He couldn't lose that.

This push and pull had lead him to his current situation.

It was still early in the morning. Shops were only just starting to open to greet the day, bustle was barely beginning on the streets for the early risers and members of house staffs that went to market earlier in the day for when farmers brought in their freshest goods just picked.

That was the task Arno had taken. He was supposed to be getting bread. And he would. The de la Serre family didn't serve until 8:30 sharp. Arno still had time. He was sure he could find a baker who wasn't charging an arm and a leg for such a necessity of the French diet.

But first.

He stared at the watch. It had been left on a table in the smithy. The back had been opened and it was clear that Victor had been studying the innards. Did that lout really think he could smith the delicate parts of a watch? Arno silently snorted to himself and closed the backing, looking instead to the worn and dulled interior, the delicate craftsmanship, the red cloth lining to protect the glass that had been shattered with the death of his father.

Already Arno wanted to get rid of it.

The door to the smithy opened from the stairs that lead to the upstairs rooms. Arno looked up, surprised. Surely Victor had been too drunk to be getting up so early!

But, sure enough, Victor stood there, thick shoulders and chest bulging in his red shirt, leather apron not even fully tied on.

They stared at each other for a moment, both clearly surprised to see one another.

Then Victor saw the watch.

Arno quickly stuffed it in his waistcoat.

"Can't win fairly at cards, so you stoop to thieving? You bastard!" The hefty blacksmith lunged and Arno did the only smart thing. He kept the worktable between them.

"Calm down, Victor,!" he said lightly. "I've only come for the watch. A paltry little thing."

"It's my watch now!" Victor roared. "I won it fairly!"

Arno snorted, ten months of debate in preparation of today turning his voice snide. "Well, in a just world, Victor, I would agree with you. But this is not a just world. This is France."

Victor's face contorted in rage, "You're a dead man!" And he rushed forward, hips digging into the table with such force it actually moved with all the tools and smithy paraphernalia on it.

"Step lightly there!" Arno cautioned, stepping further back to the open door he'd come through. "You'll hurt yourself!"

Even further enraged, Victor's muscles bulged and he flipped over the table and everything on it.

Right. Time to go.

Arno left, slamming the door behind him and grabbing a chair to stick under the handle. There, now he could get a proper head start, go get that bread...

But Hugo, Victor's smaller, dumber brother was there. Staring stupidly at him.

Arno attempted charm. "Bonjour! I just had a nice chat with your brother-"

The door behind him pulsed outward.

"And... now that it's been resolved, I really must be on my way," he started edging down the street, both arms open and visible.

"Hugo!" Victor roared from the window. "Fetch the marshals!"

"I've got it Victor!"

"Hold on a minute!" Arno shouted back, but people were staring, and Hugo, though slow, understood commands very well and took off. "Diable."

So Arno did the only sensible thing.

He chased after Hugo. In this, at least, Arno felt he had an advantage. Both Victor and Hugo were huge brutes, and neither had much in the way of brains. They were strong, certainly, but they weren't overly fast. Arno, by contrast, had been getting fencing lessons for years, was lean and limber, and very fast. So as Hugo plowed through the crowds, Arno had a clear path to race up, and tackle Hugo to the ground. Stunned, the huge lout looked around confused and Arno used that to lug him to a private garden, throw him in, and then lock the gate behind him.

Now he had time for a proper head start.

He sighed. "Thickheaded blacksmith like you probably can't even read a watch," he muttered. Now, the baker was in which direction-

"Come over here and say that!" was a familiar roar.

Arno whirled around, eyes wide. "Ah... non," and took off, this time being the chased instead of the chaser.

"Get back here!" Victor bellowed. "Stop him! Thief! I'm going to smash your skull into paste!"

Arno didn't dare banter back, instead focused on the streets he had grown up on, darting this way and that, ducking through private gardens and alleys, hopping fences, and then calmly walking through a perfume shop before ducking out the back door and down another alley. With Arno's natural speed, he soon lost Victor, but it had taken up valuable time. He needed to get home. Some excuse for the bread... thieves. After all, bread prices were ticking further and further up. That would suit Oliviers arrogance.

So Arno made his way back to the de la Serre ville, no bread in hand. Olivier was in the driveway courtyard, speaking to one of the maids, Yvette, likely sending her out for new linens perhaps, Arno didn't try to follow the schedules of the entire house as there were too many and he was never assigned to the softer jobs like a maid. Olivier made sure he was always doing the dirtiest work he could think of. So, with the majordomo busy, Arno breezed lightly by. He needed to head to the kitchens to make his apologies to Clarette, the cook.

"And where in God's name have you been?"

Arno was very glad his back was to Olivier, as he was sure his face showed off all his annoyance at the belittling tone and arrogance that just bled off his voice. He took a second to collect himself, and turned.

"Hah! Got you, you little shit!" Victor came running up, his idiot brother beside him and clearly out of breath, leaning over to try and catch it.

Olivier and Yvette turned to Arno, both with a question in their eyes. Yvette looked with curiosity and amusement. Olivier... however...

Olivier tilted his head in pure haughtiness and raised a smug eyebrow. The interrogation was clear in his eyes.

Arno deflected: "Just a little... misunderstanding, nothing to-"

Victor, belligerent as always, barged in before Arno could finish his sentence, going straight to Olivier. "Your master is harboring a common criminal! In broad daylight he broke into my home and stole my watch!"

Olivier's eyes danced with possibility as he turned to Arno with a quirk of the lips speaking to his dark bemusement. "Did he indeed?" he said softly. "Well, I'm sure the Marshalcy would be more than willing to sort this out."

Arno was caught between a frown and a grimace as he watched Victor smile in delight.

"Sort what out, Olivier?"

M. de la Serre! Arno stepped back to let him through and, deep down, to watch the master of the house fix everything smoothly.

Olivier took a properly deferential tone.

"Er, a most serious accusation against your ward, sir."

M. de la Serre stood straight, looking down his nose.

Victor was quick to jump in. He pointed straight to Arno. "He robbed me!"

M. de la Serre offered a withering look. "Of what, precisely?" Then he turned that withering look to Arno and Arno knew he was in for it. "Wait for me in my library."

Arno nodded his head and offered a victorious smirk to the blacksmith brothers before heading back in. Quietly he headed up to see what the punishment would be this time. The accounts again? To make up whatever money that M. de la Serre paid to make the problem go away? Permanent stable duty for a month or more? Scullery? He looked to Élise's portrait. Her punishments were always light in comparison to his, but she was a noble. That was expected.

He wondered how she was doing. She had finished her schooling but she hadn't returned home yet. Instead she was in Paris, only twelve miles away, working on some longterm project. Her letters didn't go into details. He hadn't seen her in almost a year now. He missed her. They wrote weekly, but the letters, no matter how detailed, weren't the same as seeing her sparkling eyes or glittering smile.

Élise's painting always seemed to change when he looked at it. Her smile was more amused than usual, appearing to question why he did such a foolish thing as trying to get rid of his watch. Again. It was a part of him that she didn't understand. The warring desperation and reluctance to get rid of it.

He frowned up at the painting.

Don't give me that look, he thought to the painting. Victor cheats when he plays pharaoh, everyone knows it.

"Arno?"

He swiftly turned. "Monsieur?" He ducked his eyes in deference.

M. de la Serre looked tiredly at him before turning and walking briskly to a desk. "You'll be happy to learn I persuaded Olivier to leave off calling the Marshalcy." He looked up with his eyes flashing. "Again."

Arno ducked his head in deference and offered his thanks. "Je vous remercie, monsieur."

But M. de la Serre wasn't quite through. "What is this, the sixth time? Seventh?" he asked in a beleaguered tone, clearly unaware of what to do to curb Arno and his frivolities. "Perhaps a new hobby might be better for your health," he suggested.

Arno couldn't quite bite back the first words that came to his mind. "Well, I find playing cards affords many opportunities for fresh air and exercise." Particularly exercise and running from cheaters or upset losers.

Normally that would be enough to encourage M. de la Serre to smile or chuckle, but that was not the case today.

Damn. Arno really messed up this time.

"We'll talk about this later," he said, gathering a file of papers and his hat. "I have business in town and must collect Élise before I can attend to it."

Normally that would mean trouble. That Arno's punishment was about to get creative in a truly humiliating way. But Arno missed all that entirely. Instead he instantaneously brightened, smile wide on his face, eyes alight at such news.

"Élise is here?" he asked lightly and with great excitement.

"Only for the day. We have a ball to attend tonight. She returns to Paris first thing tomorrow."

The unspoken, "She won't see you," was clear as the morning's sunlight.

That didn't stop Arno, his heart already fluttering. "She'll need an escort, won't she? With you so preoccupied?"

M. de la Serre shot that down with the deft speed of a cannoneer. "One of you running amok is quite enough." Whether he was referring to Arno himself or Élise was clearly open to interpretation. "Remain here and see if Olivier has any chores for you."

Arno looked down and away. "I'm sure he does," he said bitterly.

M. de la Serre turned at the doorway, brow raised. "What was that?" he asked firmly.

Dammit. "Give my regards to Élise," he offered hopefully.

M. de la Serre nodded and left briskly, folders in hand.

Sighing, Arno went to his tiny room in the staff section of the home to clean up after running around the damp and muddy streets of Versailles. Looking far more presentable, he grimly marched down to his fate.

Olivier hated Arno, of that he was certain. He hated that Arno had been added to the staff. He hated that M. de la Serre looked after him. He hated that Arno was often treated more like a son than a member of the household. So as the majordomo, Olivier took great delight in given Arno the absolute worst assignments. A deluge of pouring rain? Arno, there are things that must be done in town. Arno wanted to look nice for when Élise came home from boarding school? Arno, muck out the stables. The weather was gorgeous and everyone was doing their chores outside? Arno, the basement needs sorting and cleaning. And when M. de la Serre sent Arno to Olivier for punishments, Olivier took even more delight.

Arno entered the foyer and found Olivier talking to a deliverer. He waited patiently nearby and Olivier knew it. So the old bastard took even longer with the deliveries, checking things over to make sure they were "just right" for the de la Serre family and fussing over every little thing just to make Arno stand there stupidly.

Olivier may have hated Arno, but the feeling was quite mutual.

It took almost fifteen minutes for Olivier to be satisfied and send the deliverer on his way before turning slowly to Arno with that damn smug smile on his face. "Thrown out onto the street yet?"

Arno scowled. "Oh, you would love that, wouldn't you?"

"It would break my heart," Olivier said with saccharine sincerity.

"Olivier," Arno retorted, "if I weren't here, who'd do all your work for you?"

Olivier's face flattened, his face taking on haughtiness and arrogance. "The horses need brushing, boy. Get to it."

Right. Arno nodded to the order, offering a bitter, "Certainly, monsieur," as he acquiesced.

So Arno went to the stables. The first thing to do was the brush the horses, of course, that was Olivier's orders, but Olivier saying "horses" meant, "muck out the stables" and any other dirty work that was needed. The stablemaster, Jean, was quite familiar with Arno showing up to do all the dirty work and gave a rough smile.

"Caught some trouble again?"

"A misunderstanding. Olivier is making sure it's trouble."

Jean gave another rough smile and a bark of laughter. "Remember, boy, we don't question the high and mighty. We just do as told, bleed as told, and piss as told."

Arno offered a pout, but Jean clapped his back. "Come on, boy, we'll start with the horses. We can worry about the stalls later and keep you at least somewhat pretty for part of the day."

Arno laughed.

It took an hour to brush down all the horses, and Arno admitted to taking particular care for Élise's mount. If she was coming home, even for an evening, maybe they could sneak out for a ride. Spend some time together. Something. Jean teased him over it, and kicked Arno out to the courtyard drive to "go exercise that prissy mount and come back when you're tired and ready to work!"

However, no sooner had he pulled out the mount when a lathered horse came galloping in, pudgy Perrault, messenger of one of M. de la Serre's closest friends and advisors almost collapsing off the horse and falling to his knees.

"Monsieur!" Perrault shouted. "Monsieur de la Serre!" He tried to walk to the main door, but tripped and fell to his knees, his hard ride clearly not good for Perrault's pudgy frame and life of more leisure. "Nom de dieu, Monsieur de la Serre!"

"Woah," Arno rushed forward. "Calm down. Trouble? From Paris?" And why would Perrault beat his horse to a lather to race as fast as possible from Paris with word?

"A letter," Perrault panted, "for Monsieur de la Serre." He gulped, wiped sweat from his brow, and took another great gulp of air. "It's very important!"

Indeed. "Calm yourself, Perrault," Arno helped the chubby messenger up. "Let's get you to the kitchens. You need some wine to calm those nerves and some food-"

"He must receive it! Today! It's very-"

"Very important, yes," Arno repeated. "I heard you the first time. I'll see that he gets it."

Perrault looked to him, face red and sweating, taking the measure, and finally nodding, sagging in exhaustion. "Come on. Let's get you inside."

Jean had poked his head out from the stables with all the shouting, and helped Arno get Perrault inside to the kitchens to stuff him with some food and wine to calm his nerves.

Arno looked to Jean. "I need to get this letter to Monsieur de la Serre. Immediately."

"If Perrault here rode himself to a heart-attack, you'd best get going. I'll tell his lord himself Olivier."

"It will get us both in trouble."

"Not when he sees Perrault here. Just make sure you do it."

Arno nodded.

So he headed back out into Versailles. Because the entire house, indeed all of Versailles, knew where everyone was today.

Les Étates-Généraux.

Arno hadn't paid much attention to the goings on of Versailles and the court or the king. Élise was far more distracting and he was the Third Estate anyway. He knew exactly where he stood. At the very bottom. Even with all the care that M. de la Serre showed, Arno would never make it to the nobility, the Second Estate, and he had absolutely no interest in joining the clergy to be in the First Estate. He was fine being the house boy.

But for all that he didn't pay attention, it was hard not to pick up bits and pieces of things.

This was the first Estates-General in over a hundred and fifty years and it had something to do with financing or money. Last December, Necker, the Minister of Finance, had announced that representatives for the Third Estate had been doubled, which had spread a wash of rumors through the streets on what that could mean: if the meeting was this large something might actually change.

Arno doubted it. He wanted it. He had read that pamphlet last January, Qui est-ce le tiers état? "Who is the Third-Estate? Everyone. What has it been in the political order? Nothing. What does it want to be? Something." Olivier had seen it and immediately thrown it into the fire.

It was all a lot of hullabaloo.

But Arno dutifully went to the Hôtel des Menus Plaisirs to find M. de la Serre.

The crowds were massive, thick with people clearly decked out in their best clothes, but Arno blinked when he looked at them all. Clergy were there in their finest ceremonial robes, nobility in the latest fashions in the finest cloth, and many, many, many members of the Third Estate, wearing simpler clothes that were well-cared for and fancy, if nowhere near as flamboyant and ceremonial as the nobility. The din of the crowds were thunderous, arguments and debates that Arno only ever participated in as a sport dealt with seriousness and severity.

Well.

It seemed this Estates-General might actually be something.

And something in Arno finally sparked.

Everything he'd heard or debated or read were suddenly forefront in his mind as he realized that maybe... Something actually could change. There was a power to all these people assembled. And with so many of the Third Estate... Arno dared to hope. Maybe offensive pricks like Olivier were wrong. Maybe...

A guard at the gate stopped Arno as the crowds pushed him forward.

"No entry!"

All at once, Arno remembered his purpose.

"Please, monsieur, I have important news for Monsieur de la Serre, delivered just a half-hour ago."

"Then it can wait a few hours."

"But-"

"Are you deaf as well as stupid?" The guard barked. "Piss off!"

But a delegate of the Third Estate had seen the exchange.

"Ah! You're here!" he called over and quickly shook Arno's hand. "Had a long ride in?"

"Well, I-"

"Come on, I know where to go."

And suddenly Arno was dragged along into the Estates General.

"Make sure you listen," the delegate was saying. "I've been here for a week greeting delegates and discussing what we can propose. Come, sit with me. I need someone to take notes for me."

"But I need to deliver-"

"Never mind that, boy!" The delegate said with pure enthusiasm. "We're here for history. The Third Estate will be getting a say in things. The étiquette has been strictly enforced and I've never seen such pomp in all my life. The opening ceremonies have been dragging this all out in ritual and elegance and not a lick of practicality. The King should be speaking soon and I want to hear what he has to say about there not being any money in the Treasury."

Was that was all this about? Arno's mind boggled. He saw the wealth of the nobility every day. How could they have no money in the treasury? But he and the rest of the Third Estate paid so much in taxes, how could there not be any money left in the treasury? But the delegate was continuing passionately, and Arno started to realize just what was going on.

And thus, Arno's political awakening had begin.

Honoré Gabriel Riqueti, comte de Mirabeau, was tired.

Granted, that was an understatement.

But he was tired.

To say the last year had been difficult would be an understatement of the highest order. In Grenoble, the previous June. Six riots across the city, all in open defiance after the Church and the representatives of the King abolished their parlements for refusing to accent another new tax code. It was the first time in centuries that any part of France had revolted against the King, citizens throwing roof tiles down at forces that came to settle things down.

And it wasn't like France was doing well at that moment in the slightest, but it became a flashpoint and suddenly, Honoré could see what was going to happen. France had been facing drought and famine steadily, the price of bread getting more and more outrageous, and most of the Third Estate ate easily a pound of bread a day since other foods were often so scarce. The ten years of laissez-faire economics just had vendors charging more and more for bread of poorer and poorer quality as the famine continued. Plus, the country had been heading to bankruptcy for decades, the extravagances of each successive Louis trying to outdo the last. Add on to that the Seven Years War decades ago and the subsequent financial support that France had provided for the Americans. To even further deteriorate things, provincial parlements, like Grenoble were resisting all the new taxes that the nobility kept claiming exemption from. There was no equal taxations across the country, so some places were more heavily taxed than others, along with taxes to the nobles or the Church, and tax farmers collecting more than needed and pocketing the rest.

Enlightenment was progressing further and further. The bourgeoise were getting more and more ambition and taxes ruined them before they started. Every reform put forth to limit the privileges of either of the first two Estates was shot down, not wanting to have any of their indulgences curbed.

And now, after the first day of the Estates General, Honoré could see with clarity what would happen.

Civil War. Revolution. And most horrifyingly, blood.

After the long meeting let out, Honoré had done the only thing he could think of. He sought out his counterpart, François de la Serre. They may have opposing views in all aspects of philosophy, but Templars and Assassins both believed in avoiding bloodshed. De la Serre had proven honorable as they had fenced from the shadows, and had a good control of his subordinates, just as Honoré and his Council did.

Since they were meeting in such a public place, both knew they would leave this meeting alive.

Honoré limped to a chair and gratefully sat down, his twisted foot that he was born with hurting after running around so much this day. God, and this was only the first day. There was still so much to do.

De la Serre sat as well and almost simultaneously, they both sighed.

"Do you see where this is all going, François?" Honoré asked quietly.

De la Serre took off his wig and ran a hand through his graying hair. "Indeed. The nobles won't budge, neither will the clergy. Not after seeing all that fire in the Third Estate today. They'll form a voting block."

Honoré nodded sadly. "And dear King Louis can't make a decision to look either left or right without listening to whomever last spoke with him." He rubbed his scared face, small pox having left so many pockmarks. "This is going to be a mess."

De la Serre looked over tiredly, but raised a brow in curiosity. "My old rival, don't tell me you're suggesting we guide this mess?" A wry gin. "Shepherd it to beneficial results?"

He gave a withering glare. "No philosophical debates today, mon ami. But neither of us care for unnecessary bloodshed. We usually work against each other. In this, I propose we work together to actually prevent bloodshed."

De la Serre's brows raised to his hair line. "And how do we do that? The King rules by divine right. It's his say, no matter how much of an idiot he is, and even with both of us whispering in his ear, he's such a weak-willed ninny that he may not even do as told."

"Oh, I'm not saying it's going to be easy, far from it," Honoré acknowledged. "But can France afford the bloodshed about to happen? England was defeated by us and the Americans. They're still stinging. Austria has no love for us and God only knows what they'll think when they see some sort of civil war break out. And let's not forget that the Church is viewed in such a bad light by being the First Estate. I think the Pope might have some say if things start deteriorating."

"In that, at least, I agree with you."

He nodded. "So we help the Third Estate find a new form of government where they have more say. After we've peacefully reformed the government, we can go back to fighting in the shadows."

De la Serre actually raised a brow. "I see how the Templars can benefit from this. We'd have more people to recruit, more ways of getting power for shepherding. What do you Assassins get?"

Honoré offered a wry, if delighted smile. "Progress." The common man starting to have a say in government, in ruling himself. A step for humanity to see that nothing was true and all was permitted. A way to see that laws arise from man and that meant ruling wisely, compromise, and continuing to the betterment of mankind.

"We magically create a new government," de la Serre raised a brow. "So, who or what will take its place? Another King? A council of capable men?"

Like Templars was left unsaid.

Honoré smiled. "That is the question, isn't it. Tell me, I've traveled a great deal-"

"For your affairs."

"-have you ever been to England?"

De la Serre's smirk was ironic and contemptuous. "As little as I possibly can."

"They have an interesting form of government there."

"I see where you're going with this."

"Indeed."

De la Serre sighed. "A truce, then?"

Honoré nodded appropriately for the severity of what they were discussing. "Till the government is settled and strong. I'll write my people of our truce. They'll know by the end of tomorrow and spread word."

"I'd best let mine know as well," de la Serre nodded, then bit back a yawn. "I need to go home and change, at any rate."

Honoré couldn't quite hold back a barb. "Ah, a lavish party to go to?"

De la Serre actually chuckled.

Author's Notes: Yeah, so what's the definition of a bad idea? How about taking on a enormous research-driven novelization project - actually, no, that would be too easy. Let's make it a rewrite instead, where we fix all the things we didn't like about the game like the love story and the blatantly, factually wrong history and try to make it even better? Acutally no, to make it even worse let's do all that right at the start of school when one of us is starting a new job and writing curriculum from scratch. Does that sound like a bad idea? Yes? Then let's do exactly that!

And it will be delicious.

Hi everyone, remember us? It's been a while, hasn't it, since we last wrote for the AC franchise. If you're rusty, or if you're new, there are some things to keep in mind:

French will be used in polite speak - i.e. yes, no, sir, please, etc, and in the beloved curse words, like we did in the AC novelizations. UNlike the AC novelizations, we won't be locked in one person's perspective, as this chapter demonstrates. We also finally buckled and put in dates so that we can keep track of all the freakin' chaos that's happening in Paris. Before anybody asks, the love story is going to be an... exploration. We'll leave it at that for now, but suffice to say we have goals and ideas (people who know us will be utterly shocked, we're sure :P). We will also be utterly ignoring the populist conspiracy angle.

Like, Ubisoft, we love you dearly, but not all conspiracy theories are cool. This one was a little stupid even for the AC also announce the retirement of our beloved beta, Tenshi. She's been with us for years - since the Order's Best Years, and has helped us through all the novelizations and more. She's been an amazing asset, but now has to put her personal life first for a while. We love you Tenshi - and we're better writers because of you!The means, necessarily, that we are shopping for beta's. Mostly this is for spell checking because we suck and noticing homonyms, but also flow and sometimes-chapter-specific asks about imagery. If there is another beta out there that is more fluent in French than we are, that would not be always, the rest of the fic will not go up until it is complete - god knows when that will be with the school year starting, but don't worry, readers! The fic WILL go up!Next chapter: To love and to lose. Only happy things will happen, we're sure.