Part Twenty-Seven: For I am an Assassin
17 Thermidor, Y2 (August 4, 1794)
Arno woke up blearily with light trying to pierce through his eyes and into his brain. Ergh, not morning... Where was he again? Not Paris. Okay that was good. Still in France. Merde.
Slowly, other bits of memory started to reconstitute. Bonaparte was after some artifact below ground... Having some sort of key that only needed a door to be found... Dom Poirer and conversing... Léon... being a hero...
He groaned and buried his head further into his pillow, trying to block out the light. Diable. He'd have to make it up to Léon somehow...
But he only had today to get that damned manuscript before he had to start riding to Marseilles to get to Tissot's ship.
Arno let out a long, weary sigh.
If he rode late into the night, he might be able to shave off a day's travel to Marseilles...
Fine.
An hour later, with a splitting headache and squinting at the morning light, Arno shuffled through the streets of Franciade, cursing light, wine, and his dependency on it.
He arrived at the red house and knocked on the door.
"Madame Margot?" he called softly.
The door opened and there she was, a four-year-old in her arms, and a six-year-old clinging to her petticoats. One look at him, and she smiled. "He's out back."
Arno nodded and was let into the house and he bit back a sigh of relief to be out of the far-too-bright sunlight. The back contained a small, walled in yard. One corner was devoted to a small garden, one wall had laundry hanging, and in another corner was an old tree being banged at by Léon and a stick.
Arno walked silently up behind Léon, who seemed to be hitting at the tree with his—it wasn't a stick it looked to be an old broom handle—might, clearly angry about something.
Arno let out a sigh. "Petit homme," he greeted.
Léon immediately swung around, eyes wide, "sword" up.
Arno gave a flat stare. "We have, at best, two days before I need to leave to catch my ship."
"So what?" Léon replied testily.
Arno rolled his eyes. "So you don't want sword lessons?"
Léon's eyes immediately brightened before going back to guarded. "And the enemies of France?"
"One thing at a time, petit homme. If you can't swing a sword, you can't help me deal with them."
The delight that washed over Léon was palpable. "Bien sûr, monsieur! How do we begin?"
Arno narrowed his eyes, assessing, and Léon immediately stood straighter under the inspection.
"Right. There are two things a swordsman needs before he can swing a sword well."
Léon nodded eagerly, eating it up.
"Strength, and endurance." Arno knelt down to Léon and gently guided Léon's arms and broomstick. Both arms were straight out, holding the broomstick, and Arno kept his hands just under Léon's. "A fight, when you have all the advantages, will be very short, and there won't even be a contest. You can't plan on that always happening. A regular one-on-one fight lasts anywhere from three to ten minutes. More enemies takes longer. Hold this broom like this, without touching my hands, for as long as you can."
Léon nodded firmly, his face in tense concentration. Arno started counting out the seconds. At two minutes, it was clear Léon was struggling, and at just over three minutes, Léon's shaking arms touched Arno and he called the time.
"That was hard!" Léon exclaimed.
Arno nodded. "The next thing we'll do is simple." Arno stood and crouched into a fencing stance. Léon smiled eagerly and tried to mimic him and Arno got down to his knees to adjust footing and bend of the boy's knees. "This will be the same idea, you need to hold this as long as you can, because most fencing forms are based on this bent-knee posture." Sure enough, it didn't take long for Léon's legs to start trembling.
"Alright, petit homme, there are two things you can do that will, over time, fix these." Arno stood, brushing off his knees. "First, anything that requires lifting for Madame Margot, you are now in charge of. She needs to get a flour delivery, you're doing it. She needs a heavy pot or pan, you're fetching it for her. The more lifting you do, particularly from a crouch, the stronger you'll get. If Madame Margot doesn't have anything for you to lift, you'll be hanging from your fingertips to try and improve your strength."
"Got it!"
Arno then spent the next hour teaching Léon one very simple fencing stance and "fencing" back and forth very slowly with him until he felt Léon had the motions down. This was familiar from his time teaching under Agustin.
Léon was sweating and hungry by the time they finished, arms and legs shaking, and Arno sent him to go wash up. By now, the sun was beating down on him, and the muggy hair made his clothes feel like they were clinging to him. He headed inside to try and remind his headache that he didn't need it anymore, thank you, and that it was time to go away. The dimmer interior of the orphanage was far better for Arno, and he helped Madame Margot start getting lunch going.
"You know how to cook, Monsieur?" she asked, surprised.
"I did work at a café for a brief while when I was in Paris. I fetched all the ingredients our cook would need for the day and sometimes I'd watch her. When I was a child, I was a houseboy and on rare, very rare, occasions, I'd get to help in the kitchen. I know enough to make things palatable and edible. That's about it."
Mme Margot smiled.
Lunch was a chaotic affair, with a half-dozen children needed to be fed and few wanting to wait as the littlest were tended to. Arno did what he could, keeping the older children at bay and working with them, giving Mme Margot time to feed the youngest. Léon, oddly, was a great help. Once the youngest were set, the oldest were fed and Mme Margot took the youngest upstairs to set them to bed and Arno focused on keeping the oldest children occupied.
Finally, once all the children were fed, Arno sat down to have his own meal. His headache started to fade as he ate, but all he wanted was wine to drink, which Mme Margot, wisely, didn't let him touch at all.
Léon stayed with him, eagerly chatting away as Mme Margot finally settled down to have her own lunch.
Arno looked to Mme. Margot. "I'll be heading out this afternoon; I need to find someone."
"I'll come with you!" Léon declared.
Arno turned, offered his flattest stare, and raised an eyebrow.
"What? We're saving France!"
"What did I tell you this morning about strength and endurance. You need to rest up this afternoon. You worked hard all morning, but your limbs are still shaking, correct?"
"N-no they're not!"
Arno put on his unimpressed face. "And another question. Did you understand anything you overheard yesterday?"
"Enough to know that those were the enemies of France!"
"But can you actually explain what their plan is?"
Léon scowled.
"To fight the enemies of France, it's not just sword work. There's a lot of debate and reasoning," Arno explained, using his spoon for the last of the stew. If only there was bread to soak it up... "The best defenders of France never lifted a blade, they used only their words, like..." Arno paused, feeling washing over him, "like Mirabeau and Danton. To defend France requires intelligence. Being able to judge situations." Arno offered a hard look. "When did you last study?"
"Wh-what's that got to do with anything?!"
"Right, so while you're resting your achy limbs, you're going to catch up on your studies this afternoon."
"But! But!"
Arno turned to Mme Margot. "I'll be back this evening. Earlier, if things go well."
"I understand," she said, eyes sparkling.
"Wait a minute!"
Arno stood, and brought his dishes over to the sink.
"I'm coming with you!"
"Not if you want to do something this evening," Arno replied lightly.
"This evening? What?"
Arno shut the door behind him and slipped away.
"That's not fair!" he could hear behind him.
Arno ducked down an alley and then climbed up to the roofs.
Now, to find that aide-de-camp, and find out more about that golden key.
Now that he was above, he took a moment to just breath.
...Working with Léon had... felt good. For a few hours, he wasn't feeling the loss/regret/relief/confusion that was swirling around him about Élise and Germain, he'd been able to teach, which he hadn't done since being at Café Théâtre, and he hadn't realized how much he missed it. Maybe when he got to Egypt, that would be what he'd do. He could remake himself as a fencing instructor. He filed that thought away for later. He gently called for his eagle, and immediately regretted it.
Right. Hangover still hanging over.
But still, he'd seen fireworks popping over the market place, so he headed in that direction, sticking to the roofs for speed and to avoid detection. The last thing he wanted was for a description of him to reach Bonaparte.
Once he reached the market, he sat down and observed for a while. This market was closest to the military camp, so Arno saw several soldiers, likely off duty, and noted that the market had an astounding variety of wares from all across Europe.
Ah, there you are. Thankfully without needing to call his eagle, Arno saw the aide-de-camp perusing the stalls. He could just make out the lieutenant's face, and it was clear he wasn't pleased. Arno followed from the roofs, staying close, but not letting his shadow be seen. The lieutenant was clearly being cautious, looking around frequently.
And where are you scurrying to?
Eventually the lieutenant reached the outskirts of the city and looked around repeatedly before entering a dilapidated home. Arno watched carefully, and saw a barefoot man, thin shirt against the Thermidor heat, almost sickly pale like he hadn't seen the sun, enter the building. Raider. Arno silently climbed down and hung by an open window before checking inside, and slipping in. Through loose floorboards, Arno could see the lieutenant stiffly pacing by the raider.
"You weren't followed?"
"Of course not," the man replied, at complete ease.
The lieutenant nodded, stopping to face the man. "What do you have for me this time?
"Silver," the raider replied. "Nearly enough to fill a chest. Lots of jewelry from old queens."
The lieutenant nodded, and Arno could just barely see a greedy smile. "Give it to me."
The raider nodded. "The Commandant still suspects nothing? I heard you had him come here."
The aide-de-camp snorted. "Capitaine Rose is an issue. I was hoping that the Commandant would deal with him. Alas, it seems he is far too occupied in Nice." The lieutenant let out a heavy sigh. "Regardless, your usual fee, plus a promotion, will come down through the usual lines tomorrow."
The raider shifted his stance, and even though he was only seeing the back of his head, Arno knew the dirty man was smiling. "Très bon. A pleasure doing business with you."
The lieutenant nodded and the raider shuffled out.
All alone. Perfect.
Arno descended heavily down the stairs, letting his presence be known and he clapped his hands as he stepped forward. "That was lovely," he complimented. "So much information."
The Lieutenant was clearly pale and sweating, and not just from the Thermidor heat.
"I'll have you arrested!"
"You will do no such thing," Arno countered, keeping his head and hood low and keeping the sunlight behind him to keep his face in shadow. "Give me that golden key or I will reveal your thievery."
The lieutenant scoffed. "I'm merely seeking a harmless profit!"
"Like a rat hungry for apples?"
The lieutenant paled even further. "How did you—"
"Surely," Arno replied lightly, "the Commandant will find the comparison... Enlightening."
"I don't have it on me," the lieutenant said stiffly.
Arno flashed his eagle. "Right hand breast pocket. Because you don't trust Capitaine Rose to not lift it for himself."
"Fine, take it!" the lieutenant pulled it out and threw it at Arno. "This is madness anyway. All that treasure and we're trying to find a non-existent door."
Arno barked a bitter laugh. He'd never have thought a sword that could spill lightning could exist. It did. The door likely did as well.
"Merci. Now get out of my sight. Go back to your profiteering."
"Connard," the lieutenant bit out as he stalked towards the door.
Bien. Arno watched the lieutenant head down the street before slipping back up to the roofs. He tucked the key into his own breast pocket and headed to his room. The evening was going to be very eventful, if things went badly, so he wanted to be sure he was armed. He'd already had the officer's sword and the dull knife from the previous days' excursions, but as he went through his bags, he also grabbed his lockpicks, a few smoke bombs that Tissot had insisted he take along, and some cherry bombs.
He looked at Charlotte's hidden blade for a long, long time. When she had given it to him, she had said that he was an Assassin. He didn't believe her, but he couldn't part with it any more than he could part with his father's broken watch. The one time he had worn it was to go after Germain. Élise had died.
Arno shook his head. He couldn't look at the blade as what it represented. He had to think in terms of what he would be facing in a maze of tunnels and ossuaries underground. In which case, the hidden blade was ideal. A quick death, and silent. With a heavy sigh, he rolled up his coat cuff and slid on the bracer.
He wondered what was below ground that had Bonaparte so invested in searching. So invested that he aimed... for what, ruling France? The world? What "illusion of hope" was Bonaparte searching for?
And where had he heard of artifacts and temples before?
You're not ready for that yet, boy. You barely understand the Assassin Templar war, you'd walk right out if you knew about the artifacts.
Bellec had mentioned something about artifacts. A box his father had been carrying...
You'd walk right out if you knew about the artifacts.
Arno stopped dead in the streets.
Artifacts...
Germain's sword. It's odd design. Arno had seen strange grooves in it, and it wasn't any metal he could recognize when he had hidden it down in the Temple under piles of bones. It could shoot lightning.
You'd walk right out if you knew about the artifacts.
Arno suddenly felt very, very cold in the hot, muggy Thermidor air. What sort of magic or sorcery did these artifacts hold? And Assassins strove to... what? Protect them? Destroy them? Not use them, that much was obvious from the records he'd studied before he understood what the hell an "artifact" was. And the Templars... well... if Germain had been any indication, they would use them.
"Merde," he cursed. There weren't enough foul words in existence for this lovely little revelation. Diable, there was no way this was the same, right?
Merde, merde, merde, merde, merde.
He was suddenly very, very glad that he was armed to the teeth.
He reached the orphanage and knocked politely. Léon was the one who greeted him brightly, "We can go now, right?"
Arno stepped in and closed the door. "Non," he replied with a lightness he was certainly not feeling at the moment. "We aren't going anywhere on an empty stomach."
Léon's pout was petulant, but he didn't argue the point.
"Are your limbs feeling better?"
"Oui...," Léon grumbled. "Just sore."
Arno nodded. "Again, practice and time. You don't become a swordsman overnight. It takes years of practice and hard work. Getting to be good at anything takes years of practice and hard work."
Arno once more helped with dinner, though less with the preparing and more with the wrangling of children. Some of the older ones kept reaching for his sword, and Arno just kept slipping out of reach.
Arno eventually sat down for his own meal while Mme Margot got the children washed up for bed. Léon stubbornly stayed nearby.
Right. Might as well explain the events of the evening.
"Once I am done, we're going to start looking for the artifact that the Commandant mentioned."
Léon leaned forward. "But how? Do you have a map to the Temple in your coat?"
Arno smiled broadly and pulled out the map he hand filched from Rose under the Basilica. "Maybe," he said lightly. He had studied it earlier. "The entrance that they're looking for has to be down here." He gestured to some of the sketches on the side of the map. "It seems that there are symbols that are guiding them."
"I've seen those before!" Léon was bursting. He ran upstairs immediately, somehow evaded Mme Margot demanding he get washed up for bed, and came barreling back downstairs.
"See!" On the table, Léon dumped what might have been some sort of plate or flat, circular art piece. "A chakram from India."
"What a sly thief," Arno observed. He studied the designs, seeing how closely they matched with the designs on the map.
"So what happens now?" Léon asked eagerly.
"Now you show me your hidden entrance to the caverns."
"Yes!"
"Let's go."
Mme. Margot came in. "And we're are we going?" she asked lightly.
"Go away!" Léon whined. "We're busy."
Arno offered a flat stare.
"Ah, excuse us please, Madame Margot. We have business to attend to."
"Better," Arno murmured, standing and sliding the plate into his waistcoat. "Madame, if you wouldn't mind, I would like for you to accompany us."
"What?"
"We need a good disguise, and a family taking a young child out for a stroll before bed seems as good as any."
"Ohhhh," Léon frowned, clearly thinking it over. "Fine," he grumbled.
But Mme Margot smiled broadly. "I think that's best," she nodded and Arno was fairly certain that she understood what he would ultimately be doing. "Let me inform Mademoiselle Gagne that she needs to stay a bit longer tonight."
Arno was already folding up the map. "Merci," he said.
Arno held a lantern to light the way and Mme Margot held Léon's hand. It was clear that Léon needed to work on his acting skills, since he didn't look like a tired little boy at all. But they managed, and Léon's insistent tugging was its own story, in a way, to prevent others from looking too closely. They were on the outskirts of town, at the base of a hill and what looked like a rockslide. Léon had let go of Mme Margot's hand and was weaving through the wilderness. Arno followed easily, holding up the lamp, but Mme Margot had to hold up a candle to keep a more careful eye on her footing.
Bien. Now to get to work.
"Léon, you need to stay here."
"Que diable-?"
"Léon," Mme Margo hissed.
He took a deep breath. "You need to protect Mme Margot," Arno explained. "And when I come back out, I might need your help."
Léon was beside himself. "Non! I'm going with you!"
Arno looked hard at the boy, seeing far too much. "What have the heroes of the revolution been fighting for, Léon?"
"A free France!" he replied promptly.
"And a safe France. Where everyone is protected. This is your chance to be a hero of France. Protect Madame Margot."
Responsibility fell heavily onto Léon's shoulders. "I will protect her with my life!"
Arno nodded, held up the lantern, and entered the tunnels.
The map he had stolen was... basically easy to follow. He was only turned around twice. Once he saw raiders and turned down his lantern to sneak around them effortlessly before lighting it back up. It was unsettling to be down here. The Basilica was strange enough with a thousand years of kings and queens and family buried there. This was over a thousand years of people in the ossuaries. Bones piled neatly with no means of determining who was who. Rats scurried about everywhere, running from the light, and the sound varied from muffles to echoes.
Everything here unnerved Arno, and it got stranger as he traveled down another ladder to find no more bones, but instead massive slabs of stones that seemed to be cut with remarkable precision before placement. A few bore the strange grooves he'd seen on that terrifying sword Germain had wielded. Illusion of hope. Throwing lightning. Arno could feel his stomach churning and his heart quickening.
What the hell was he doing here? He just needed to get the manuscript from Léon. He didn't need to do all this rigmarole to do it. Just follow Léon and get Condorcet's manuscript. He wasn't an Assassin. He shouldn't be doing this.
But he remembered the light in Léon's eyes as he spoke of the heroes of France and of Mme Margot telling him that one could do what one wished as long as it didn't harm anyone else.
So he went deeper underground.
Ahead seemed to be a massive cavern, and Arno dimmed his light, crouching and slipping forward. The fabled door that everyone sought was massive, but easy to spot by the carving of the odd key that the lieutenant had so kindly given him. The walls were sheer and smooth, but of such a massive size, Arno had no idea how it was accomplished. The buildings of France used large stone blocks, but nothing to the degree of this solid stone. Was it carved out of the earth itself? And if it wasn't the sheer wall with the massive door, the walls were made of massive blocks still far too large for any man to handle, and off centered. It made no sense. Yet despite the clear solidity of the construction, it was clear that time immemorial had worn it away. What seemed to be stairs of such size as to accommodate cities in procession, decay had collapsed many of them. Wooden platforms and stairs were strewn about, evidence of far more recent construction, with barrels and bags, likely of powder or rubble cleared away, Arno wasn't certain. The modern construction seemed almost infantile compared to the grand structures surrounding him. But in the center of the cavern was a massive stone rectangular prism of some sort of obsidian, carved at the top with an eye radiating light underneath it. Lanterns were strewn around to provide some light, but Arno noticed that the door seemed to be under some sort of blue glow.
What the hell was this place?
In front of the door, in the firelight was the thick-necked Capitaine Rose, raiders around him, glaring at a professional man, tricorn hat askew, glasses pushed up his nose. There was angry conversation going on and Arno carefully navigated the support beams to get closer and understand what was going on.
Finally, he heard Rose explode.
"Are you, or are you not an expert lock pick?!"
The professional man shrank back, his tricorn hat falling from his head as he pushed his glasses further up his nose.
Arno watched in horror, as the locksmith stepped forward, trembling, and attempted to put his tools into the keyhole. In horror as he watched lightning build from across the room, below some sort of opening in the ground, and flowed up over everything, turning the cavern as bright as daylight, and coursing through the door. In horror, as the locksmith never had a chance, and was sent flying back, skin smoking, corpse still trembling, scream still echoing.
The raiders were all shuddering, hair standing almost straight up, hushed whispers of fear going about.
Rose just growled. Turning he shot one of the raiders right through the head. "We are opening this door. Anyone else want to cower like a little girl? Now go get another locksmith! Find a different way in! Break down the walls! Anything!" Then he stalked off.
That connard!
Rose was a vile piece of human flesh, cruel and vindictive. Arno bit back his growl and sat back above everything. He needed to think this through. Lightning, electricity, had been discovered by that American, Benjamin Franklin almost... what, forty years ago? What had been learned since then? Arno didn't know, because he didn't read about it. Most of what he'd read dealt with philosophy, all the publications in the streets were about the Revolution. How did one stop electricity?
Arno thought long and hard on what to do.
The one thing he could say with certainty was that electricity moved in a continuous line, whether from sky to ground, sword to Élise, or... He looked back down at the cavern. Where had the lightning started in order to get to the door? Could he break the line so that he wouldn't be hurt when he used the key?
Hmmmmm...
Carefully, Arno navigated the upper beams and paths of the cavern, keeping his lantern dim as he approached the opening that the lightning had come from. He watched the raiders in the cavern as they nervously flitted about, getting axes and picks to try and chisel away at the wall as far away from the door as they could. Already, echoes of their hammering filled the cavern and Arno nodded to himself.
Silent and careful... Silent and careful.
He climbed down below the cavern and carefully stepped down. Made it. He turned up the wick of his lantern and raised it high above his head to look around.
And immediately bit back a scream as he backpedaled into a wall. He covered his mouth, trying to swallow the panic as he stared up at some sort of... wraith. Bon sang, when the hell had he put bread upside-down on a table to deserve this? What was next, a beast of Gévaudan, or lutin, or quinotaur, or a fucking tarasque? Weren't they supposed to live in a rational age?
Arno continued to stare at the... wraith... the... dame blanche... convinced he was about to die some sort of horrible, excruciating death.
But nothing happened.
After several deep breaths (and then a few more and a fervent prayer for wine...) Arno dared to move. At first, all he could move was the toes in his boots, still choking down the terror, but finally he (slowly) moved. The dame blanche did nothing. Just floated there, a hand raised. Arno waved his lantern from side to side, but nothing changed. Breathing a bit more steadily, Arno started to walk, but still, the dame blanche did nothing.
Arno let out a blast of air from his lungs in relief, and leaned forward, hands on his knees, trying to laugh as quietly as possible and just how fucking ridiculous this was. A dame blanche. Guarding some sort of artifact that could provide the illusion of hope.
Face it, Arno, you've walked straight into a fairy tale.
He raised his lantern and carefully walked over to the dame blanche, and then bowed appropriately. "Your pardon, mademoiselle," he offered, trying to remember the bits of older French that he'd studied with Élise years ago. "My deepest and most sincere apologies for disturbing your slumber, but I seek entrance to yonder gateway."
The dame blanche said nothing, did nothing, just floated there. Arno carefully walked around her. Nothing. No reaction.
Well, if she wouldn't say anything, neither would he. Finally he dared to look around (though he still avoided putting his back to her...) and once again raised his lantern. It seemed there was some sort of cave in centuries past, ones from above and filtered down with mud and dirt that had dried out. His lantern's light seemed to reflect symbols on the walls, but he had no idea what they meant. It looked almost like writing, but not of any kind he'd ever seen.
In order to survive a dame blanche, one needed to do what she wished, and Arno didn't understand the symbols at all to do so. With a sigh, he called on his eagle in hopes for some sort of hint.
HE IS HERE! ...MUST MOVE TO AWAIT THE NEXT... TIME TO MOVE... COME...
Arno gasped and fell to the ground, clutching his head.
Que diable—
His head was swimming, and whatever those... whispers were, it didn't disappear once he cut off his eagle. In fact, his eagle seemed to have united with something and information was singing in his head.
Make it stop!
But when he looked up to the luminescent symbols again, while they were still foreign and indecipherable, he could somehow understand them.
Return the disc.
The whispers kept chattering away and Arno's vision seemed to waver and twist and he clutched at his head harder, avoiding looking at either the dame blanche or the strange symbols that he could now somehow read, squinting as his eyes watered and his head ached and it made no sense and what the hell?
But as he tried to focus his eyes, he noticed something.
Under the dame blanche was a circle, and it was faintly glowing.
YES! RETURN THE DISC! MOVE TO THE NEXT LOCATION!
"Urgh..."
That circle under the dame blanche was the same size as the "chakram" that Léon had lifted. He pulled out the disk with its unusual symbol on it, and studied it. It seemed to match one of the symbols on the wall. Return.
God, if it made the whispers stop, fine!
"Your pardon again, mademoiselle," he grunted, still squinting through watering eyes and trying to hear anything beyond the whispers. "I believe I acquired an item that belongs to your honorable self. I shall return it to you at once." He crawled forward, bowed low again, and carefully placed the disc in the circle.
The damn whispers giggled triumphantly
The dame blanche disappeared, but Arno didn't move at all as he heard screams above him that made his blood run cold.
"Ghost! Flee if you value your lives!"
"Run!"
"It's real! The ghosts are real!"
"I quit! Get me the hell out of here!"
Slowly, and once again very carefully, Arno climbed, this time up, to the main cavern again.
HE COMES, HE COMES!
"Tais-toi," Arno whispered. God, he thought hangovers were bad, that was nothing.
Slowly, Arno approached the door. He pulled out his key and reached it forward, very aware that he couldn't very well dodge lightning if this wasn't the correct answer that the dame blanche wanted.
He let the key touch the keyhole and waited.
Nothing.
"Allow me," said a voice behind him, gun barrel shoved into his ribs. Arno stiffened cursing that he had been caught unawares, as Capitaine Rose moved into his line of sight, snuffing tobacco. "What skill stealing the key from the lieutenant, I was hard pressed to open this without him."
"Listen," Arno said, "You don't know what's behind that door."
"Of course not," Rose said, smiling darkly. "But those that do will pay a lot for whatever it is. Assuming I don't like it for myself."
"No," Arno corrected, feeling a second gun press into his back. "You don't know what you're dealing with."
"Tais-toi," Rose said, snide grin fading into impatience. "The only reason you're even still alive is because you knew how to open this door. You don't need all your limbs to do that." His eyes shifted. "Knock him out 'til we need him."
And, like at Versailles, the butt of a rifle filled his vision to strike his face. This time, however, Arno had training and experience, ducked his head to the side and pulled back as far as he could. He couldn't prevent the strike, but instead of being knocked out he was knocked senseless.
"Should I notify the Commandant?"
"Tell him I resign."
Arno was left locked in his own mind as his head throbbed with the blow, feet dragging along the uneven ground and rope pulling at his wrists and arms. His dull knife and officer's sword were removed from him, something Arno could barely catalogue for the pain in his head. It was worse than his worst hangover, and all he could think to do was moan.
... What now?
What more could he do?
... What more could he do?
He had tried for years to undo his mistakes, only to learn when it was too late, that they could never be undone. He had tried to fix the people around him, only to learn at the bitter end that they did not want to be fixed – not Bellec, not Élise – they were content to think the worst of everyone, even Arno himself, and never once bent in their beliefs, rigid and unmoving. Arno had tried and tried and tried, most especially with Élise, and it had all been for naught but more blood and more death. Now it was all gone, Arno was untethered, unmoored, unmade. What could he do if he could not fix his mistakes? What could he do if everything he held onto disappeared?
... Who was he? Who was he if he couldn't keep his father alive? M. de la Serre alive? Mirabeau alive? Bellec alive? Élise alive?
Who was he but a failure?
Moaning, Arno rolled onto his back, wrists pinched behind him, and he fumbled with his feet.
Was failure the only thing he could do? No one could love him, then. Who would want to associate with a failure? Who would want to look after a disastrous mess like him, who would endure the effort it took to put a broken mess like him back together again? No one. No one would want that job. No one would believe in him. No one—
"There you are!"
Arno blinked, realizing dimly that his sight had returned to him. His head still throbbed, but he could hear, see, smell. He was back to his senses, and there, above him, was the petit homme.
"... Léon?" he asked, voice rough, confused. "... How did you find me?"
"I snuck back in after Madame Margo finally went to bed," the boy said brightly. "Once I knew she was safe I had to come here and make sure you were, too. You're a hero of France, I have to make sure nothing happens to you so you can save us."
... What?
"Léon," Arno said, confused, "I'm not a hero."
"Of course you are," Léon said, "You're from Paris. I'm sure all the other heroes there are waiting for you."
Waiting for him? Who would wait for him?
... Cosette. Charlotte. Augustin. Fabre and Marcel, Yvette and Célestine and Paul and Jacques and Claude.
"Oh, Arno. It's not your responsibility to fix her."
"I wish you could see yourself the way I do."
"The more I get to know what he did to you the more I wish I could resurrect that connard Bellec and kill him all over again."
"Look Victor. You ever need a place to sleep. Look me up."
"But you did enough. That's what counts. You always do enough."
"Mon frère..."
"Do what you do best: keep thinking."
"You're the novice that came from a Templar family that rose to every challenge that was thrown to you - even when it wasn't right or fair... you have a heart and a sense of principle, and that's very rare in this world."
"Here, monsieur. Pain can't be starved out or drunk out, it must be eaten out."
Was Léon right? Were they waiting for him? Even after all this time? After all of his mistakes?
"But we believe you will. Rien est vrais. Tout est permis. Your room will still be here when you return."
"... I don't have a home..."
"Yes, you do. You have one with us."
Arno's eyes snapped open, wet with realization. Groaning, he made himself sit up, throbbing head or not, as he realized the truth.
"All anyone can do now is keep doing what they're best at."
"Petit homme," Arno said softly. "... Thank you."
"Of course, monsieur," Léon said, unaware of what he had just given Arno.
Arno wasn't nothing. He wasn't unlovable – he wasn't even unloved, as he was with Élise. Cosette and Charlotte had told him where his home was. Augustin and Fabre expressed what his worth was. Marcel had called him brother. Yvette helped him through his grief with Mirabeau. These were people who would not waste their time with someone unworthy. These were people whose opinions he valued – cherished, even – and though he himself didn't see what they saw, the very fact that they saw something... it meant there was something in him. Something worthwhile.
He had spent the last year, since leaving Versailles, seeking to apologize for his mistakes, realizing he had a second chance: he could be anything, but at the time he didn't know what to be.
Now he did.
He knew what he could be – what he was – what he always was, if those he so valued were to be believed.
He knew what he had to do.
"Let's go," Léon said. "Let's go save France."
"No," Arno correct. "I am going to save France. You are going to go back to your training. And when you're think you're going to fall, when you think the world will break you, you will go to Café Théâtre on Île Saint-Louis in Paris. Do you understand, Léon?"
The boy blinked, and even in the dim light his small face turned bright pink, possibility flooding his features. "Oui, Monsieur," he said.
"Good. Now go."
Léon disappeared into the shadows, and Arno closed his eyes and looked inward. Could he still hear the dame blanche?
HE IS HERE TIME TO MOVE NEXT LOCATION...
Merde that hurt every vessel in his brain, but that meant it was still here, Capitaine Rose had not yet found the artifact. There was a window of opportunity, and Rose would fall.
For Arno was an Assassin.
And it was passed time he started acting like one.
Léon had cut his bindings, and Arno rubbed his wrists and took inventory. Knife and sword were gone, but they hadn't found the smoke and cherry bomb, and they hadn't realized his bracer was in fact a hidden blade, meaning he only had Assassin weapons on him. He stood, felt a throb in his head; he touched the sore spot, and his hand came back with blood. He pursed his lips.
"Time to prove them all right," he said to himself, rolling his shoulders and calling for a microburst from his eagle. The dame blanche's voice swept over him again, louder and overwhelming, but with it came a sense of age in the necropolis, what was "new" and what was very, very old. His eagle provided an instinct less like fireworks and more like those beams of light that had been at the locked door and its relief, where the dame blanche had been waiting for someone to return her chakram. That was where he had to go.
He followed his extra sense, the dame blanche not needing an eagle to unite with him.
The door he had unlocked was open, and beyond it was a massive cavern – how far below ground were they? – that had an unholy blue light cast upon everything. The raiders were at the base of a massive series of stone steps, huddled together and afraid.
"What's wrong with all of you?" Rose was saying. "There's treasure to be had!"
"But, the dame blanche..."
Rose growled, pulling out a gun and shooting one of the laborers. The spray of blood and the flash of the gun echoed across the chamber. Everyone shuddered, clustering even closer together. Arno crept down the stairs, extending the phantom blade. If they were that scared, then like this... He lifted his arm and took careful aim. Distance was everything, and he crept further and further down. He licked his lips and gave a long, meandering whistle, letting the acoustics bounce it around directionlessly, scaring the raiders even more. One more step, one more... there!
Arno fired and ducked behind a pillar, listening as Rose fell, reloading his phantom blade. No berserk darts, that would make this go quicker. Instead he gave another whistle, pitching his voice up and lengthening the sound to his best impression of a feminine howl.
"It's her!"
"She's back!"
"It's not worth it!"
Everyone started running up the stairs, tripping and falling over themselves to get out of the temple, screaming and cursing and shouting. They ran right passed him, invisible because they were so lost in their own fear, and disappeared back to the necropolis.
"Mademoiselle," he said politely under his breath, leaving his hide-spot and moving to the bottom of the steps, "Forgive me for invoking your duty to scare the frightened away, and forgive me for spilling blood in your place of rest."
He touched the ground of the temple and looked over to Rose's bo—he was still breathing?!
Arno knelt down. Rose's eyes glared at him, blood pooling not from his neck but from his shoulder. Arno's aim had been off.
"Do you have last words?" Arno offered. "How did you and Bonaparte even learn about this place?"
"... Commandant knew it... don't know how... was told to steal the treasure..."
Arno frowned. "Told? By whom?"
"... Soldier... deliver it... lady Eve..."
His eyes lost their light.
Arno reached up to close them. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I'm sorry you're efforts brought you no reward. Repose en paix." He gave the body a moment of silence, a moment of respect, before checking pockets for pieces of paper or missives, stuffing whatever he could into his shirt for later work.
He stood, eyes taking in the temple with more detail. Walls came up in sheer faces and stout edges, it was almost like the pictures of Egypt Arno had seen in his studies underground. He frowned, wondering if there was a connection. The dame blanche was calling him again, lines of light emanating from the far side of the temple, a ghostly blue color. The far side held a raised dais, thick black stone etched in blue light, unholy and surreal. Arno wondered if he wasn't dreaming, if the dame blanche had been displeased with his work and was seeking to haunt him.
... As if he didn't have enough ghosts.
Upon the dais was a – nom de dieu – a severed head, perfectly preserved, mouth agape, eyes wide and glowing. Who was this?
LAST USER CALLED A SAINT DENIS
Arno jumped back, startled. St. Denis? That head was St. Denis?! The man who brought Christianity to the Gauls? Who was decapitated via sword and took his head and kept preaching? Arno looked at the temple with renewed eyes. Legend said Franciade – Saint-Denis – was the site the saint had died and a small shrine had been devoted to him, which later grew to the great basilica above them. This was the "small shrine"? Then who was the dame blanche?
GENEVIÈVE TRIED TO FIND BUILT A MONUMENT USED ANOTHER PASSED TO ROYALTY
"Stop," Arno said, holding his head, the pressure unbelievable. "Please... stop..." The whispers were voices, loud and eager and responding to his very thoughts. Too much information, his eagle was unified with something godly and his mind couldn't take it – he was certain he would go mad—! He collapsed to the ground, shaking, head splitting open with information in allegory and metaphor and shadow. He moaned, curling into himself, before at last the voices departed. He was left prostrate, panting, afraid to move.
Eventually he was able to crawl up to his hands and knees. His eyes were dilated, oversaturated with information, like he'd had eight eagles in his mind. He head hurt from neck to crown, he almost couldn't see straight between the pain and the detail. Arno put a shaky foot under him and worked to stand, swaying on his feet for an eternity before he felt steady.
... move out next location next event next calculation look inside from mouth to mouth...
Geneviève was still there, whispering, the dame blanche quietly insistent. Arno moved up to St. Denis' head. The glow was less overpowering now, a dull flicker inside the mouth.
"... Mademoiselle, am I to reach into this venerated man?"
... yes...
Arno took a deep breath. "Monsieur," he said in his most formal tone. "I must disturb your slumber at the missive of another saint. I beg your forgiveness, and pray you understand."
Scrunching his eyes closed, holding his breath, he traced his hand into St. Denis' mouth. His fingers touched a smooth, round surface. Grooves. What...? Could it be...? Arno pulled it out, and when he opened his eyes he saw a sphere of the same metal and design of the sword he had left under the Temple. He frowned. Artifact indeed – would it spit lightning? Arno shook his head, tucking it into his belt. He knew better than to ask questions, the dame blanche Geneviève would answer at full volume and he still had to leave this "small shrine" and get back to Léon.
The necropolis above was empty of any souls, and as soon as Arno exited the temple the door closed behind him, content to sleep.
He exited the ossuaries, climbed the hill to see it was dawn, the sun cresting St. Denis' basilica that St. Geneviève had asked to be constructed. The humidity in the air had at last broken, meaning there must have been a thunderstorm last night. He could smell dry air, a breeze touching his skin as the sky gloried in shades of gold.
It was beautiful.
A fresh tear rolled down his face. He scrubbed at it, annoyed.
18 Thermidor Y2 (August 5, 1794)
Léon was asleep at the window, having waited up for Arno. Mme Margot smiled to see his return, the frown and commented on his pallor.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," she said softly, mindful of the boy's sleep.
"... I suppose that is accurate..." Arno said, bewildered.
The madame left him to his privacy, touching Léon to wake him up. The petit homme moved groggily, rubbing his face and humming as he struggled to wake, until his eyes took in Arno.
"You're back!" he shouted, causing cries upstairs of the younger children. "Have you done it? Has France been saved?"
"I don't know about saved," Arno said, "But disaster has been – at least temporarily – averted."
The boy was ecstatic, running upstairs to let the entire orphanage know adventure had just taken place and that he had had a part in it. Arno found himself smiling, and he turned to see the same smile on Mme Margot. "I need to thank you," he said softly, leaning against the door frame. "A lot has happened in the last few weeks, and I was..." He frowned, looking for the right word. "I was lost. I was a mess. I was..."
"I know," Mme Margot said. "I was there once, too."
"You helped me through it," Arno said, bowing his head. "I didn't think anyone would. Je vous remercie."
"Vous," she repeated. "Such formal words."
"Formality duly deserved," Arno said. He looked up at the ceiling, the clamber of footfalls and the noises of waking children. "If you ever need help, send a letter to Café Théâtre in Paris. We're," he smiled, a little self-effacing. That was the first time he'd included himself in the Brotherhood. "We've taken a beating with the Revolution, but we'll do what we can."
"Oh, I almost forgot!"
Léon had run back downstairs, grabbing Arno's wrist and tugging. "I have to take you to my fortress. You had wanted a manuscript, n'est-ce pas? It's in the back yard."
Arno had one place to visit before he returned to Paris.
He returned to Versailles.
Versailles was much as he'd left it.
And Versailles still hurt, as Arno remembered.
But as he dressed in his old police uniform, the hurt was... duller. His one mistake here, that was five years ago now. There was a distance. And since he wasn't here to drink himself into a stupor, he could notice that while he still held regret, still held guilt, still held the wish to atone, it wasn't foremost in his mind. He dropped off an item at a shop and then walked towards the station. There, he asked and was guided to, a grave.
Élise Dorian, née Élise de la Serre 8 Novembre, 1768 - 10 Thermidor, Year II
Arno lay down a bouquet of fresh roses, just budding.
"Bonjour, Élise," he said softly. "I had thought that I'd write to you, as I do with my father. I was never able to say goodbye to him. I just wandered away. Monsieur de la Serre recommended I write him, and, in a way, I was keeping him alive by doing so. It was a childish way for a child to grieve. I can't do that for you."
He sighed. "I loved you, Élise. With every fiber of my being. I wanted you safe; I wanted you happy; I wanted to help fix you after all you'd been though. But you were too ill. The malaise twisted you, changed you. I'm not sure by how much. I don't know how much of what I saw in you at the end was there before everything went to hell. I can only hope that you are once more as I wish to remember you. That you are finally free of the malaise, that you can now be happy.
"I wasn't able to say goodbye to my father. I'm saying goodbye to you. I will think of you often, probably every day for the rest of my life. But I won't write to you. If I did, I'd have to keep acknowledging that I never really knew you at the end. That the malaise had penetrated you far more than I understood. I'd have to question how you would respond as the you I remember fondly or the you I knew at the end. So I wish you the best. I wish you health. Above all, I wish you peace."
Arno left, tears streaming down his face, and never returned.
He returned to Paris. It was nearing dawn and he knew how he wanted to approach the day. He had read through Condorcet's manuscript, how the conditions of humanity boiled down the three points: the destruction of inequality between nations, the progress of equality in one and the same nation, and the improvement of man.
Arno could see why Condorcet was an ally of the Assassins. So he quietly entered the Tissot's shop under the cover of darkness and laid the manuscript where it would be easily found by the family. He probably should have met with them, but Arno had a different goal in mind. He had been working to repair his mistakes. He had apologized to many. But there was one group he needed to apologize to before he did the hardest part of the day.
So when Yvette came into the kitchens of Café Théâtre to start cooking for the day, she nearly screamed when she saw him laying out materials for her as he sometimes did when he was up early enough. Claude seemed to have heard something and came running down as best as he could limp and stopped dead when he saw Arno there.
Arno offered a small, embarrassed smile. Diable, this felt hard to do for some reason.
Yvette quickly ran to get Charlotte and Augustin, and Arno was inundated with questions as Célestine, Paul, Jacques, and Gretel arrived.
Arno kept his answers mostly truthful. Élise had died, and it wasn't a good death. He had been a drunkard for a while, and had been piecing himself back together since then. The staff may not have had the order of events correct, but Charlotte, Claude, and Augustin likely understood.
The Café was closed for the day, despite Arno's protestations, and they all sat in the dining hall.
"It was wrong of me to leave," he said heavily. "I abandoned all of you when you've never been anything but good to me and tried to help me. You all deserved better than that. I'm sorry."
"Don't you go apologizing," Yvette said crossly, even as tears glittered at the corner of her eyes. "We've all been in love with the wrong person at least once, we've all lost a love in some way. And we've all ignored friends and family when we shouldn't have."
Arno gave a wry, almost bitter laugh. "You were most vocal that Élise wasn't good for me, Yvette," he replied. "I didn't listen."
"Children never do," Charlotte replied gently.
Augustin nodded. "You are still very young, Arno. You need to try things on your own, fall, and learn from mistakes. Some mistakes can never be fixed or undone, but you must still learn from them."
There was a weight to what Augustin was saying, and Arno wondered if that tied in to Augustin's interpretation of the Creed.
"I believe I've learned a great deal. Or I hope so."
Célestine was smiling. Had been smiling broadly since she had seen him. "We'll, of course, be helping you to move back in," she said. "I didn't see any bags, will they be arriving soon?"
Arno offered a sheepish smile. "I left a bag upstairs. That's all I have."
"I'll get right to it!" she stood. "I'll air out your room and set everything to where it should be." She kept smiling, then she squealed. "Oooooh! You're back! We weren't the same without you!" Despite all decorum she came over and hugged him fiercely before rushing upstairs.
Arno shook his head. He turned to Paul. "I know you've been straining under being both intendent and steward. When would you like me to Interview about getting my old job back?"
Paul smiled warmly. "No interview necessary. I'll be glad to have the help. We can start going over the accounts this afternoon."
Arno suspected as much, but that wasn't why he mentioned an interview. A glance at the three other Assassins showed them give a subtle nod. Claude stood, dropped a hand the size of a cannonball onto Arno's shoulder, and disappeared. The Interview would be arranged.
"Oh, I have to get cooking," Yvette smiled. "I'll be making a pâté. I know you love those. It will take some time, and I need to get right to it to make it perfect."
Jacques was just smiling as Célestine had been. His wife, Gretel, had been hired on as an assistant to Yvette and scurried away as well, giving him thanks and welcomes as she passed, grinning just as much as her husband.
"Monsieur," Jacques said. "I don't think we can express how worried we were and how happy we are that you're back." He also stood. "Café au lait?"
"You know me so well."
That left Assassins in the room.
Charlotte and Augustin were beaming pride and Arno wondered why he'd left all this in the first place. But first thing's first.
"I found an unusual artifact," he said, "a strange sphere with odd groves that glows and whispers. It told me it needs to get to Al Mualim in Cairo."
Surprise flitted briefly across their faces. Augustin quickly stood. "I'll arrange it. We'll need a full briefing on what happened." Then he smiled gently. "After your Interview."
Charlotte stood. "It's good that you're back, Arno," she said softly.
"Madame Gouze," he stood, "I have something of yours." He glanced around, made sure it was safe, then pulled up his sleeve to unstrap her hidden blade. "You were right. This was useful. I'm really not sure I can thank you enough for all your support and wisdom over the years."
She took back her hidden blade, eyes shining, and pulled Arno into a hug.
"Je vous remercie, Charlotte."
"You are most welcome, Arno. Never forget that."
To say the rest of the day was a celebration in the Café was something of an understatement.
That night, Arno was finally able to shake of Célestine – married, now, to her lover – and her determination to place everything appropriately in his room. True to Charlotte's promise, nothing had been touched: green wallpaper, dark wood, the desk everyone had bought for him, the small table by the bed. The worn rugs had been replaced with richer Persian rugs, soft on the feet, and as Arno sat at an upholstered chair in the corner he looked out over the truest home he'd ever had. He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, smelling the air.
"I'm home..." he murmured to himself.
The quiet settled over him, and as it did the tears came again. Not grief, not over Élise or his long list of failures, but relief. Relief that he was in a safe place, that he would be looked after here, healed here. He wasn't sure what the Brotherhood would do, after all the damage he'd wrought, but here, at least, he could put himself back together. He would learn the value he had, and come to terms with what he'd done in his life.
"Arno..."
He looked up, saw Pontmercy in his green surcoat, at the fenêtre-porte leading to the gardens.
Arno sat up straighter, wiping his eyes. "I didn't realize I'd see you so soon," he said.
"I volunteered," Pontmercy said, stepping into Arno's room. "Word's spread like wildfire that you're back."
He nodded. "I'm sorry," he said, first and foremost. "I'm sorry for the pain I caused you, and the damage I did. I can't make it right, but I want to start over." He stood, holding out his hand. "You called me brother, once, and I didn't realize at the time how deep that word goes. I'm not sure I do now, but I want to learn. From you."
Marcel looked down at the hand, looked back at Arno. He stared a long time.
And then, he took his hand.
"We both have a lot to learn," Pontmercy said. "I didn't realize what that woman put you through, and I wasn't there for you when you needed me."
Arno shook his head. "I'd hurt you—"
"We hurt each other," Pontmercy corrected. "Let's do what we can to move past it."
Arno followed Pontmercy out to the gardens, down the back staircase to the streets, and to the ramp that lead to the riverbank of the Seine. Fabre was there, palm rubbing the stump of the arm he had lost at Tuileries, massive axe leaned against the entrance to the sewers.
"The rats were wondering where you'd disappeared to," he said by way of greeting. "They couldn't figure why it was suddenly so easy to sneak into Saint-Germain. Thought the guillotine had found you."
Arno smiled. "Nothing that merciful, unfortunately."
"Nothing that tragic," Fabre corrected. "You dying would have been a loss for the entire city of Paris."
"They don't even know who I am," Arno said, shaking his head.
"Tell that to my rats," Fabre corrected again, grin splitting his face. "Tell that to Giraud Durand and his family, tell that to the customers up above who've been asking after you. Hell, tell that to Tissot and Lisette and Gabriel and a bunch of us down here." He freed his hand and slapped it on Arno's shoulder. "It's good to have you back," he said. "Diable, we've missed you."
Fabre took position at Arno's other shoulder, and they entered the sewers, the tunnels twisting and turning before entering the locked grate that took them to the Sanctuary, where his best friend waited. Cosette didn't say anything at first, just smiled and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing with all her might. Arno hugged just as fiercely. "I've missed you," he said into her shoulder. "You did so much for me, and I didn't even realize..."
"You did the same for me," Cosette said, kissing each cheek. "I only wish I was as sensitive to you as you were to me."
He followed his escort into the Sanctuary proper, two to three dozen assassins assembled to watch his arrival. Charlotte and Augustin were there, as was Claude from Café Théâtre. Beaumont glared at Arno, and he felt a trickle of nerves. He couldn't shake away everything that had happened down here: the challenges and the suspicion. It would be a lot of work to show everyone here what he'd learned, and just one look at Beaumont made him realize that some people would never change their minds. He would have to live with the damage he had done.
But that was assuming they would even take him back. He swallowed hard as they passed under the grand staircase, down to the ceremonial chamber. His eyes were on the floor, he was a little afraid to look up, but he did and saw two white hoods. The Brotherhood fanned out around the room and Arno stepped forward and – theatrically to his mind, but no less sincere – took a knee.
Trenet: "Arno Dorian returns to us."
"Yes," he said.
"Why?"
Arno took a deep breath. "Élise de la Serre is dead. François Thomas Germain, Grandmaître of the Templar Order is dead. I—"
"So you come back to us, thinking if de la Serre is not here, then we are all that's left?" Beylier asked.
"Non," Arno answered, "Though I understand why you would think that. Little have I done to engender myself to the Brotherhood. It was as you said, Maître, I was obsessed with finding Germain and redeeming myself of my part in the death of Monsieur de la Serre. I was obsessed with erasing the mistakes I had made, and later obsessed with fixing the woman I had broken. It was all for naught, and realizing that nearly ruined me."
"And now?"
Arno bowed his head lower. "When I first came here, after my Interview, I was told that I had Died, and was reborn as a member of the Brotherhood. I thought it was ceremony, rhetoric for the sake of it, detached from the symbolism and the meaning of the words. It was not until after my expulsion that I realized how Dead I was, how much opportunity lay before me. And still I hesitated. I did not know what I wanted to be. I did not know what I was. I clung to the familiar, to Élise, thinking she loved me as I loved her. After—" his voice cracked, his eyes welling, and he needed several seconds to control himself – this was the last place that he could afford to break, he could break upstairs, in the safety of the Café. Here he needed to be strong, clear, persuasive. "After her passing," he said, voice shaky. "I thought I was done, that I was nothing and should just... disappear. I sought to leave France all together, to be somewhere that didn't hurt as much, where the memories weren't as painful, where I could be the nothing I always thought I was.
"But I was wrong," he said, head down, staring at the floor and willing as much conviction into his voice as he could muster. "There are people here who see something in me that I do not. Mira... Mirabeau told me that the Brotherhood was waiting, waiting for me to realize what everyone who comes here realizes, and that I would see a remarkable change. Maître Trenet, you asked me, when I was Attainted, to recite the Creed. I couldn't then."
He lifted his head, not enough to look up to the Council, but enough.
"I can now."
A long pause drew out, the quiet disrupted by the sensations of the Brotherhood around him; the shift of weight and the small breaths of those who understood just how far he had come. Someone clapped a hand to their mouth – Arno suspected Cosette.
"Then recite the Creed," Trenet said, voice flat.
Arno closed his eyes, looked to the words, the lessons the last five years had taught him.
"The Creed of the Assassin Brotherhood teaches us that nothing is forbidden to us. Everything is permitted. Once, I thought that meant we are free to do as we would. To pursue our ideals, no matter the cost. Jacobins, enragés, Robespierre and his ilk, the Girondists, the Royalists, all of them did exactly this: they broke and rewrote every law they could find to shape the world to the ideals they held. Even now, I'm certain the reactionaries coming out now that Robespierre is dead are doing exactly the same thing. Germain sought his ideals, thinking he was Jacques de Molay reborn. Élise... Élise pursued her revenge, forsaking everything and everyone. I thought I could undo my mistakes, to create an ideal where I never failed to deliver Chrétien Lafrenière's warning. An ideal where Monsieur de la Serre was still alive, and Élise was unbroken. How I got there didn't matter.
"But I was wrong. Not a grant of permission, the Creed is a warning. Ideals too easily give way to dogma. Dogma becomes fanaticism. Pierre Bellec idealized the old ways to the point of trying to purge the Council in order to purify it. He killed Mirabeau because the idea of peace with the Templars was antithetical to killing every last one of them. Robespierre usurped the very government he took control of and sent thousands to the guillotine he once feared to be a political tool. More and more, people are pushed further and further away from where they started, without ever realizing they are being radicalized, without ever realizing they are being twisted, without ever realizing they are hurting everyone around them.
"No supreme being watches to punish us for our sins," Arno continued. "In the end, only we ourselves can guard against our obsessions. Only we can decide whether the road we walk carries too high a toll. I paid my price, and it was only after that I learned that it was too high. I lost Élise long before she died at the hands of Germain. Her revenge pushing her to fanaticism and away from life itself. She told me she would sacrifice everything to get to Germain, and she did. Even herself. Bellec's fanaticism made him willing to kill everyone in the Brotherhood so that he could restore it to some kind of power he thought we didn't have. Germain changed the entire format of the Templar Order, disavowing aligning with political and symbolic figures and instead residing in where the power derives: money, and he killed M. de la Serre and all of his supporters to do it in his fanaticism. Robespierre slaughtered the Girondists simply because they were moderates, not radical enough, not fanatic enough. These are the people the Brotherhood fights.
"We believe ourselves redeemers, avengers, saviors. We make war on those who oppose us, and they in turn make war on us. We think we are right and chose to kill those to do not stand by the ideals we set, the Creed we hold. We dream of leaving our stamp upon the world, even as we give our lives in a conflict that will be recorded in no history book. All that we do, all that we are, begins and ends with ourselves.
"I have failed the Creed repeatedly," Arno said, dipping his head back down. "I thought killing Germain would fix everything, and I did not realize how fanatic my obsessions had become. After Mirabeau's death you banned me from assassinations, and only now do I realize you were trying to give me space to learn the Creed. But I did not know, was too obsessed, to see what you were trying to do. Instead I tried to continue my investigation, wrote Élise my findings, never realizing she would come when I had found a lead.
"I killed Frédéric Rouille when I found him during the September Massacres, because I did not think of the cost of going against the Creed. I knew I was going against your orders when I worked with Élise on finding Marie Lévesque, but I thought the ends justified the means. I used Marcel Pontmercy, thinking I was helping him, even as I compromised him. Cosette tried to help me and I ignored her, instead going after Germain at the execution of Louis. I failed the Creed and lead to the death of a Brother, Jean-Louis Rivière, who was sneaking into Germain's circle.
"I pursued my ideals and the Brotherhood paid the price. You cut me out to teach me of the blood I was spilling and still I didn't learn. It was not until Élise..."
Moisture fell to the tiled floor, and Arno closed his eyes, sniffing in a heavy breath. He opened his mouth to speak again, to say more, but a hand touched his shoulder.
He looked up, blinking, and saw Trenet, still in her white robes but hood down. She knelt down in front of him, her severe face gone, replaced with a soft smile. His other shoulder was touched, and she leaned in, kissing his wet cheeks.
"Bienvennue," she said gently. "Welcome to the Brotherhood."
Epilogue
15 Vendémiaire, Y4 (October 7, 1795)
"Yes, Maître Trenet?"
"Arno. Good. I wanted you to know, we still don't know who this Eve is that the Apple was to be delivered to, but your work in solving that series of murders connected to ancestral Templars has given us a new list of possibilities." She looked up from her work. "I have a new assignment that you might not be comfortable with, and I wanted your opinion first and, if necessary, a name of someone else to give this to."
Arno frowned, tilted his head. "Of course."
"After that royalist revolt a few days ago, the Convention has a new hero: Napoléon Bonaparte."
"... I thought he was smeared after Robespierre. He was arrested in Nice, wasn't he?"
"Yes, but he got out a few weeks later. He failed reclaiming Corsica back from the English and avoided the demotion to infantry in Vendée and is recently back from Constantinople. He was the one who fired grapeshot into the royalists."
Arno nodded. "That sounds like him. Controlling the human animal."
Trenet paused, gave Arno a long look. "We never learned what he took from the armoir de fer, but whatever it was led him to that temple in Franciade. He now has the gratitude of the Convention: fame, wealth, whatever else they will throw at him. With access..."
"He can now do more," Arno said, nodding.
"Look," Trenet said. "You've made it clear that certain assignments won't be healthy for you, and I've tried to honor that as much as we could afford."
"I know, Maître, I've noticed. And I thank you. You need someone to watch Bonaparte, is that it?"
"Yes."
Arno nodded. "I can do it, I think. For a little while, at least. But if the Convention puts him back on the Army of Italie..."
Trenet nodded. "I know you don't want to leave Café Théâtre. We'll do what we can."
"Merci, Maître."
"Bon chance, Assassin."
Author's Notes: aaaaaaaaahhhhh so much to saaaaaaaayyyyyyy...
We'll start by hoping you all enjoyed the little ghost story of the dame blance, who Arno rationalized as St. Geneviève, and OMG St. Denis. Like, wow what a great ghost story to have. Also - the French have a superstition about putting bread upside down on a table. That's kind of wonderful.
But Arno's luck continues to hold out, he's caught and he enters a downward spiral. But unlike other downward spirals, one person shows up and stops the descent - and though the two of us HATE child characters we tried to make it work, and to make "Rose will fall; for I am an Assassin" the whole raison d'être of the fic. Arno's spend the entire fic denying that he was an Assassin, calling them a cult and never including himself as one of them, but at last he realizes what the readers and everyone else in the fic does: he's totally an Assassin. Ah, so much yes! So many feels! And the fic isn't even done yet!
Next is Arno saying goodbye to Élise, something we will someday have to say to our abuser, too. Like everythng else in this fic, Arno's emotions over it are messy and complicated, but he understands them now far better than he ever did at any other point of the fic.
And the Café Théâtre just about explode to welcome Arno home. Like that verse int he Bible, "For my son was lost, and now he is found." Arno took the long, windy path, but he's finally where he's suposed to be, and he proves it by doing something he hasn't been able to do: he recites the Creed, and it's amazing. His end game dialogue is so poignant, but given over a montage one can't know who he's saying it to. The two of us always thought he was saying it to the Council when he came back, and just like Mirabeau predicted, there was a massive change. Welcome back Arno. Welcome back!
This fic is one of, if not the, most personal fic we've ever written. About 60%-70% of Arno's headsapce is ours - how he reacts to certain situation, how he feels about Élise during his expulsion, some of his actions. Élise, too, has a lot of moments from life - some lines are lifted directly from out abuser to make it as real as possible. Our abuser has BPD versus NPD, but there are enough overlapping symptoms that we felt comfortable in writing it. Some chapters are raw in a way other fics aren't, and to our pleasure our reviewers were able to feel it.
That's particularly amazing given how messy the start of the fic was. It took us a while to find our feet, and as a result there are certain key points that really aren't conveyed well: Bellec's verbal abuse isn't even a quarter as clear as Élise's (like, geez, I don't even think people realized Bellec was calling Arno merdeux - shit - all the time. Imagine someone only ever calling you shit!), we never once had a scene about the fights/challenges Arno suffered while he was underground - from Beaumont or Tissot or anyone else, and probably a hundred other things.
But despite al that, there are some amazing moments in this fic, and in the end Arno finds his family, his "real" family. All we can do is smile. Imagine if Ubisoft had done something like this - Arno now a full Assassin just in time for the Napoleonic wars. Actually... that gives us an idea... we never did assassinate La Touche on screen, what if... Hold that thought. Let's see where it goes before we announce anything.