DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters or ideas from Assassin's Creed and the idea for this poem was taken from Alfred Noyes's The Highwayman.

Author's Note: This was written for the AC kinkmeme. Noyes's The Highwayman is a poem that I have returned to consistently over the years for the sheer beauty of its words. I'm truly the kind of person who does not care much for poetry, but Noyes did a damn good job. If anyone would like a reference for this, just do a quick search for the poem. I tried to stick to the overall tone of the poem itself while trying to input my own words, but I did quote a few of Noyes's passages verbatim because, well, the man knew what he was doing and you just can't mess with poetic perfection.

The Assassin

PART ONE

I

The city was asleep with dreams beneath the clear night skies

The moon was a half-eye watching 'twixt the stars where it flies

The alleys darkly beckoned with fingers wrought from old lore

As the Assassin came striding—

Striding—striding

The Assassin came striding through the shadows to the artist's door

II

He'd a white cowl pulled low over dark eyes, a scar down his lips

A cloak of red velvet, and rough hands cocked on his hips

They knew a world much harsher than the peace of the city home

And he walked with steel a-twinkle,

His rapier hilt a-twinkle,

The blades at his wrists a-twinkle, as on them the stars shone

III

Over the rooftops he scrambled and shuffled towards the artist's back-door

And he rapped on the wood with his knuckles, whilst his foot tapped the floor

He rapped a pattern with his fingers, and who should meet him there

But Toscana's beloved artist,

Leonardo, Toscana's beloved artist,

Holding a brush in one hand, his smile ever fair

IV

And deep in the shadows of the city streets a boot scuffed the dirt

Where a lone Templar listened; his face a twisted sneer that promised only hurt

His eyes bore only hatred, his fingers itched to kill

But he knew his part to play,

His pawn's part to play,

Quiet as death he listened, and he heard the Assassin say—

V

"One kiss, caro mio, forI have a job this night,

But I shall come back, whole and well, before the morning light;

Yet if I am delayed by those who wish to see me fall this day,

Then look for me by moonlight,

Watch for me by moonlight,

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

VI

He leaned into the doorway, his breath a warm flame in the air,

And their lips met in the space, framed by the artist's fair hair

They held one another in the short doorway;

A lover's embrace in the moonlight,

(Oh, sweet, soft lips in the moonlight!)

Then parted their ways in the moonlight, the Assassin's step a light sway

PART TWO

I

He did not appear in the morning; he did not show by noon;

And as the sun set slowly, Leonardo watched the rise of the moon,

When through the alleys that darkly beckoned with fingers wrought from old lore

Dark figures came marching—

Marching—marching—

The Templars came marching, up to the artist's door

II

They did not beg legal entry, they broke the wooden frame instead,

As they gagged Toscana's artist and cracked the hilts of their swords against his defiant head;

Two of them laughed at his struggles, such cruelty they could contrive!

While death waited at every window;

And hell at one dark window;

For Leonardo could see, through the pain, the path from which he would arrive

III

They had tied him up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;

They had bound a blade beside him, its sharp tip aimed at his breast!

"Now, keep good watch!" and they struck him.

He heard the dead man say—

Look for me by moonlight;

Watch for me by moonlight;

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV

He struggled against his bindings, but all the ropes held tight!

He twisted and pulled till pain or tears blurred his sight!

They sat and waited in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,

'Til, now, on the stroke of midnight,

Cold, on the stroke of midnight,

One hand was free to hold it! The blade, now his, brought tears!

V

Blade in hand was a victory, but courage would drive the rest;

Up, he stood, to attention, with the point at his breast;

The Templars were not watching, their eyes upon the streets in vain,

For the city lay bare in the moonlight;

Pale and bare in the moonlight;

And the beat of his heart in the moonlight throbbed to his lover's refrain

VI

Scuff-scuff; scuff-scuff! Had they heard it? Those footsteps shuffling so clear;

Scuff-scuff, scuff-scuff, on the rooftops? Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Down the angles of the buildings, soaring 'cross the empty spaces,

The Assassin came striding,

Striding, striding!

The Templars readied themselves swiftly! He stood up, stared into their faces!

VII

Scuff-scuff, in Toscana's silent sky! Scuff-scuff, in the empty night!

Closer he crept and closer! His eyes glowed with determined light!

His will faltered only a moment; he drew one last deep breath,

Then his hand moved in the moonlight,

The blade shattered the moonlight,

Shattered his breast in the moonlight, and with his last cry warned him—with his death

VIII

He started and turned towards the house; dread clenching his heart in a fist

As he watched the Templars run out from the door of his beloved tryst!

He watched as they scattered, hands trembling with fear

And he knew Leonardo, Toscana's beloved artist,

Toscana's fair-haired artist,

Had waited for his love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there

IX

After them he raced like a madman, crying his pain to the sky,

With rooftops crumbling beneath him and his rapier brandished high!

Blood-red was his gaze when he found them; no mercy for any of his fated trips,

As he took them out in the streets,

Slashed their throats in the streets,

Bathed in their blood 'neath the moonlight, the scar livid on his lips

X

And still on a cool clear night, they say, when the city lies beneath the night's clear skies,

When the moon is a half-eye watching 'twixt the stars where it flies,

When the alleys darkly beckon with fingers wrought from old lore,

An Assassin comes striding—

Striding—striding—

An Assassin comes striding, up to the artist's door

XI

Over the rooftops he scrambles and shuffles towards the artist's back-door;

He raps at the wood with his knuckles, while his foot taps the floor;

He raps a pattern with his fingers, and who should meet him there

But Toscana's beloved artist,

Leonardo, Toscana's beloved artist,

Holding a brush in one hand, his smile ever fair