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Title: The Road
Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Brotherhood
Pairing: Ezio/ Leonardo
Rating: R (for violence)
Spoilers: ACB spoilers
Summary: Ezio discovers that there are consequences to his actions, and the road to redemption is never easy.
This story continues on from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kissmytypos’s fic, “Good Intentions”, which can be read here.
A/N: My sincere thanks tokissmytypos for permission to write the sequel. And many thanks to those of you still following my story! I'm sorry for the wait, and I hope you'll enjoy the chapter.
Chapter Seven.
1
Whittling down the Borgia’s forces and renovating Roma’s various guilds took time, a commodity Ezio never felt he had enough of. Despite his self-commitment to Roma’s liberation and his own assassin’s guild, however, he still found enough time to hunt down Leonardo’s war machines and destroy them.
There had been many: mounted guns that spat rapid fire bullets; naval cannons that tore apart bodies and ships alike; an armored tank that moved like a plated turtle but left a rampaging elephant’s path of devastation, and Leonardo’s magnum opus: an improved version of the flying machine, this time equipped with an incendiary cannon to lay aerial waste to the land and keep it aloft.
The newly designed flying machine had flown only marginally better than Leonardo’s early prototypes in Venezia, and Ezio grimaced to himself, bones still aching from the bomber’s juddering flight. He crept into the shadow of a tower that overlooked the bench where he was to meet with his old friend. A guard meandered by, barely giving the chalk-scrawled hand on it another look, and Ezio slipped out to the bench when he was sure the guard had gone. Leonardo joined him moments later, his expression strained even as the assassin murmured a quick greeting.
“What is on your mind, Leonardo?” He looks so gaunt, Ezio thought unhappily. He leaned forward to rest elbows upon his knees, sparing the Borgia’s engineer a discreet glance.
“I have many things on my mind,” the engineer snapped. He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply before attempting to respond again. “The Borgia have not taken kindly to the destruction of their war machines.” Leonardo’s frame sagged forward in resignation. “Tell me, Ezio. Are they all…?”
“Destroyed. Forgive me, Leonardo. All your hard work has been undone.” Ezio gave him an apologetic pat on the arm.
“Better scattered across the land than in the hands of men,” Leonardo sighed. He sat up, rolling his shoulders back in relief, as though waking from a long nightmare. “Thank goodness.”
“You should thank me,” Ezio grinned. “Your scroll did not even include instructions for the tank. It took more time to figure out how to run that machine than destroy it.”
With a quick shadow of a smile, Leonardo folded his hands together on his lap. “If anyone could do it, I knew it would be you, old friend.”
At the spark of Leonardo’s old vivacity, a hard tug of longing pulled at Ezio’s heart. He reached out to brush Leonardo’s hand, before stopping abruptly. They could not afford easy displays of their rapport as they had in Venezia, the city with its bittersweet memory of his only intimacy with Leonardo.
Meanwhile, the engineer’s smile faded, as if he had remembered something unpleasant. Ezio shifted closer to him, confused. “There is something else on your mind. What is it?”
“You are mistaken.” Leonardo blinked, his face devoid of expression in a clear attempt to mask his emotions. When Ezio made no move to leave, he tried to smile disarmingly, despite the pain edging into his features. “Ezio, I am fine.”
“Do not pretend, Leonardo. Tell me.” Anxiety churned in Ezio’s stomach. Was the inventor planning to tell him he could no longer meet with the assassin to provide aid? Or was there far graver news than that? They sat together in the shade of an old, crumbling tower, Ezio wishing he could offer reassurance or comfort through something as simple as holding Leonardo in his arms. But the Borgia’s guards crawled the streets, their patrols ever on the alert for obvious signs of the vigilante assassin or their wayward engineer. The assassin could only wait.
Finally, Leonardo let out a slow breath. “I heard you were behind the break-in at Sant’ Angelo,” he said warily. His air of disappointment sounded akin to jealousy.
It was only when pins and needles of feeling returned to numb fingers that Ezio realized how tightly his fists had been clenched. He flexed his stiff digits in relief, wondering why Leonardo would bring this up now. The assassin had infiltrated the castello to exact his revenge on Cesare and Rodrigo, and though neither murderer was there, he had rescued Caterina…
Ah.
And left his closest ally imprisoned, at the Borgia’s beck and call, helplessly watching as the assassin abandoned him again. Suddenly the hint of jealousy made sense, and Ezio swore inwardly at his folly.
“Had I known you were there, I would have…” Ezio paused. A more proactive approach was needed. “I will come for you, my friend. Just tell me where they are imprisoning you now.”
The offer seemed to soften the hardness from Leonardo’s eyes, as if he had only needed to hear the words from Ezio, and the engineer said nothing for a moment. Slowly, a gentle, more genuine smile rose to his face. “Grazie, Ezio.” He rested his hand on the assassin’s shoulder, seemingly conflicted with what he wanted to say next. “But I can take care of myself.”
A fine job you’ve been doing, thought Ezio, almost resentfully. He hated to see Leonardo’s worn visage, the worried lines in his forehead and the bags under his eyes. If it were up to Ezio, he would spirit the man away now. Conversely, the fact that Leonardo still lived was a testament to his own will to endure; had he not been able to ‘take care of himself’, the Borgia would have long disposed of him.
Perhaps I should have more faith in Leonardo, Ezio resolved, attempting a weak smile in return.
“Besides,” Leonardo added, “I will be of more use to you from inside the Borgia camp, especially if they plan to produce more weapons or discuss military strategies. Your efforts are better focused on liberating the people of Roma first. Perhaps then…”
“Then?”
The engineer watched him carefully, his expression guardedly neutral as he stood up. “They are expecting me back at the castello.”
“Which area?” asked Ezio, his tone sharper than intended.
A soft, quiet laugh, as Leonardo shook his head. “Good luck, Ezio,” he said, deflecting the clumsy attempt to fish for his whereabouts. Leonardo stepped away briskly, ascending a short stairway before disappearing around a corner. Within moments, his red cape and beret were no more than a fading mirage.
Ezio watched his friend depart, a slow, insistent ache stealing into his chest as a realization struck him: Leonardo’s stressed smiles were a far cry from the dreamy quality they held not so long ago in Venezia, but those days were gone, replaced by Roma’s bleak and unforgiving present.
2
“I hope,” Machiavelli began, standing resolutely in front of Ezio’s desk, “that you are not still entertaining thoughts of rescuing Leonardo. He has told you himself that he is willing to stay to help us spy on the Borgia.” Machiavelli had initially entered to discuss changes to the novices’ daily regimen. From his offhand comment, however, Ezio supposed he had done a poor job of hiding his distracted thoughts.
“It is too dangerous for him to stay there,” Ezio replied, not bothering to look up from the ledger he was reviewing. He tapped his quill impatiently against the parchment; reading by candlelight was already difficult enough without having to field Machiavelli’s scathing remarks.
“Perhaps I should remind you that you still have a Brotherhood to run. And several of our novices were lost in the attack at—”
“I know,” snapped Ezio irritably. “I recruited them myself.” His grief over the new assassins was still agonizingly recent. And if those under his wing had been lost, then what of the man who worked deep within the enemy fortress?
The sigh in response was almost disdainful. “I cannot see why you concern yourself with that man. It is true that he has uncanny insight into designing weaponry, but—”
Ezio set his quill down forcefully, throwing a menacing glare at Machiavelli to let him know he was treading on thin ice. “We need him.”
Machiavelli’s mouth fell open in surprise at Ezio’s edged reply, but he recovered quickly. Setting his lips into a thin line, he narrowed his eyes as if he had experienced a moment of clarity. “You need him.”
“What are you implying?” Ezio asked slowly. That his comrade could openly voice what he himself could not was irksome, and he searched the other assassin’s face for signs of mockery or contempt.
Machiavelli’s face remained as impassive as ever. “I imply nothing,” he said, turning to leave the room. Before disappearing into an adjacent chamber, he added, “Do what you will. But do not compromise the Brotherhood with your own goals.”
3
Ezio’s meetings with Leonardo now were brief, clandestine affairs, their conversations shrouded in secrecy.
Afterward, Leonardo would leave for his workshop in the Borgia’s stronghold, and though it pained Ezio every time they parted, he did nothing. In truth, while he had offered to free Leonardo from his fetters to the Spaniards, Ezio was unsure if he had the time or resources to do so and was certain Leonardo knew it too.
He had assassins to recruit and a Brotherhood to build, after all. And his pride forbade that he allow Machiavelli to take complete command.
Still, the mountain of tasks could not deter Ezio from wondering why Leonardo continued risking life and limb to see him. Was it was out of a sense of obligation? A way for the engineer to help liberate Roma by equipping the most capable person he knew? Or were there other reasons for their continued association?
Inevitably, Ezio would brood over the same, gnawing thought: whether Leonardo’s actions meant the assassin still had a place in his heart.
Ever since the destruction of the war machines and Ezio’s offer to free him, Leonardo’s behavior had gradually begun to mirror that of their days before Roma. He would shoot frequent, momentary glances Ezio’s way and even sidle close to the assassin, sometimes near enough for their fingers to brush. On other occasions, his hand would rest lightly on Ezio’s back or shoulder, before being quickly withdrawn. These mannerisms fanned the tiny flame of hope within Ezio’s heart, and often, he wished he could reach out, to touch—but feared the contact would leave him wanting more. So he followed the path he knew best: that of inaction.
While Leonardo used to disappear without looking back, he now cast lingering glances toward the assassin when he left. Despite his concern that this would lead to his friend’s demise, Ezio often felt a familiar pang of longing in response, which did nothing to help his plight.
Then again, perhaps he was reading too much into Leonardo’s absentminded habits, and all Ezio had were illusory hopes born of wishful thinking.
4
“What is it that troubles you, Ezio?”
It might have been the heaviness in the assassin’s voice or the tense posture of his shoulders, but it hardly surprised him that Leonardo could sense his discomfort. The man had always been attuned to his moods somehow.
“The other night, Niccolò appointed me to the position of the Mentore. Just after Claudia’s initiation into the Order.” Ezio clasped his hands under his chin as he shifted his weight forward on the bench. “I…I am not sure I can handle the responsibility that comes with that position.”
He felt a brief pat on his back, and turned in time to see Leonardo’s quick, tired smile. “I know of no other man who has risen to the challenges life throws him, conquering them with his own brand of resilience, as you have.” Leonardo paused, before quietly adding, “I am sure you are the right leader for the Order, Ezio.”
His self-doubt momentarily dispelled, Ezio gave a soft laugh. “Only time will tell that, Leonardo. I only wish you had been there for the ceremony.” He stopped, realizing the cruelty of his words. At the same time he had ascended to the rank of Mentore, warmed by the heat of the crackling brazier and the presence of his peers, Leonardo had been absent, still captive under the Borgia’s oppressive employ.
Leonardo seemed not to have taken offense, opting instead to lean forward and press close to the assassin, as if to share a momentous secret. “Ezio.”
The strength and surety in his voice made the assassin look up in surprise.
“Such moments will be ours, once you rid Roma of the Borgia’s influence. And if anyone can do it, it is you.”
The forces and power of Roma’s ruling family had been dwindling steadily due to the efforts of all the assassins of his Brotherhood. Nevertheless, Ezio was moved, humbled even, by the implicit faith Leonardo had in him alone. “Grazie, my friend,” he said, gripping Leonardo’s shoulder gratefully as he stood to leave. Those warm words of encouragement heartened the assassin in a way that nothing else could.
Later, as Ezio rode hard to the Basilica di San Pietro in a race to snatch the Apple from the Borgia’s grasp, those words and the feeling he garnered from them would strike him again. From this simple feeling Leonardo induced, of being able to accomplish anything, Ezio finally knew.
Knew he wanted Leonardo, by his side.
But after all that had happened—the lie he had lived in Venezia and all but abandoning Leonardo in Roma—Ezio knew he had no right. No right to barge back into his friend’s life, to demand his attentions and affection.
Not when he was the one who had turned Leonardo away.
5
With the Apple safely hidden in a pouch on his waist, Ezio leaped a little less heavily across the rooftops. Adding to his improved mood was the fact that Rodrigo, the instigator of the plot behind his family’s execution, was dead, and Cesare, ill with poison of his father’s design, had fled Roma for the safety of his allies. The young Captain General worried more for the state of his health and troops than the location of his engineer, with his power and position at stake.
Ezio was free to visit his artist now, with less fear of endangering him. Ever since Leonardo’s emancipation, the assassin had come to think of him as an artist again, instead of the engineer he had been coerced into being.
His expression relaxed into a smile at the thought of Leonardo, as he dropped down to a small terrace. When Ezio saw him now, it was as if a great burden had been lifted from the artist’s shoulders; his face was no longer clouded with constant worry, eyes no longer darting everywhere from paranoia. Just as Roma had been liberated from nearly all of the Borgia’s influence, so too had the haunted look been erased from Leonardo’s features.
Ezio’s thoughts were interrupted by the shatter of glass and a broken shout that rang out up ahead. The voice sounded so much like the artist he was to meet with that he scanned the area below for the source of the outburst.
“Not a woman, but you’ll do,” came a harsh bark of laughter.
“Looks like your assassin friend is not here to save you.” Another voice, cruel and jeering.
Ezio froze as he spotted the source of the noise. Three guards, one carrying a flag emblazoned with the Borgia’s red bull, had surrounded Leonardo in a secluded alleyway. His satchel of scrolls and supplies had been dashed to the ground, and broken vials and brushes littered the stones. A tight flicker of anger rose to Ezio’s face as a guard slammed Leonardo against a wall, but when another stepped forward to tear at his collar with what was clearly lustful intent, the flicker burst into flame.
Leonardo was his.
His paralysis broken by the anger that heated his face, Ezio raced across the wooden beams, wondering when he had grown possessive of Leonardo. He shook his head quickly to dispel the thought; he was not being possessive, only protective.
The flaunting of the fallen family’s insignia suggested that the guards were only common thugs masquerading as Borgia soldiers. Regardless, two of them tore viciously at Leonardo’s clothes while another reached out to cup the artist’s face and lick it in a lecherous manner. Leonardo thrashed about, his flailing fists connecting with flesh, and in the short moment he was free, he ran.
He made one, two, three steps—before a guard tackled him to the ground, twisting his arm behind his back and drawing a thin line of blood with a dagger to his throat. Now within range, Ezio leapt down from his ledge, a flurry of white robes and uncloaked animal fury, like a bird of prey fighting another predator for its prize.
Red.
Red was the enemy, in the Vision that Ezio had activated; red for the rage that boiled inside him, and red was the lifeblood that sprayed across his face as he slashed open the throat of the guard restraining Leonardo. Another guard suffered a brutal kick to the groin, followed by a quick, jabbing strike that tore through his bowels. As more blood spattered on the assassin’s face, he tasted iron, the vilely rich liquid coloring his robes as screams rent the air, of the dying, the fearful.
A panicked trampling of boots caught his attention, and the assassin’s gaze snapped upward. The last guard was running away, shedding his armor as he went. So it was true: the thugs had only donned the soldiers’ garb in order to extort favors and incite fear in the general populace. Ezio seized one of the spears they had been wielding, reared his arm back and let it fly, relishing the piercing scream that issued as the spear found its mark.
He turned quickly, searching for Leonardo. He had to have arrived in time—they could not have gotten to him, could not have killed him because he refused to comply. Everything Ezio had done until now would have been for naught, so Leonardo could not die, could not be dead—
“Ezio.” A hand was shaking his shoulder. “Ezio!”
Still keen with an assassin’s instinct for danger, Ezio sprang toward the sound, his blade sweeping down in a deadly arc, stopping just short
(Leonardo, the blue is Leonardo, but for that glimmer of gold)
of the perimeter of a soft, blue glow. Visibly shaken at how close he had been to death, Leonardo hesitated for a moment, before wrapping his arms around Ezio’s shoulders, pulling him into a comforting hug even as the assassin stumbled against him. Ezio wound his hands over Leonardo’s ears, into his hair, then slid them to his shoulders, gripping tightly as he held the artist at less than arm’s length. Their foreheads were close enough to touch, and as he felt the warmth of Leonardo’s breath upon his cheek, Ezio breathed out in a rush of relief. He wanted to hold Leonardo, to kiss and mark him as his own, and secret him away to a place where no one could touch him, but…
His friend did not deserve to be caged like that.
“Ezio?” Concern, worry. All in that one word.
“Leonardo.” For a moment, his voice caught in his throat. “I cannot lose you, Leonardo,” Ezio said forcefully, the raw honesty in his words surprising him. “Do you understand?”
Even as he nodded, Leonardo’s expression was a mixture of shock, confusion, and even fear, but Ezio hardly cared. All that mattered was that Leonardo was safe—from harm, from guards and even from Templars. It was only when the artist slid his arms around Ezio’s shoulders again, murmuring soft, soothing words to calm him that Ezio recognized the most prominent threat was himself.
Still, he drew Leonardo in desperately, arms closing tight around the lithe waist. He would allow himself this one instant of selfishness.
Ezio breathed deep, inhaling the comforting scent of oil paints, and enveloped in the long-missed warmth of Leonardo’s arms, pulse slowing, he realized what the flash of gold he had seen in the Vision meant.
That his target had always been Leonardo’s heart.
(tbc - Chapter Eight.)
Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Brotherhood
Pairing: Ezio/ Leonardo
Rating: R (for violence)
Spoilers: ACB spoilers
Summary: Ezio discovers that there are consequences to his actions, and the road to redemption is never easy.
This story continues on from
kissmytypos’s fic, “Good Intentions”, which can be read here.A/N: My sincere thanks to
kissmytypos for permission to write the sequel. And many thanks to those of you still following my story! I'm sorry for the wait, and I hope you'll enjoy the chapter. Whittling down the Borgia’s forces and renovating Roma’s various guilds took time, a commodity Ezio never felt he had enough of. Despite his self-commitment to Roma’s liberation and his own assassin’s guild, however, he still found enough time to hunt down Leonardo’s war machines and destroy them.
There had been many: mounted guns that spat rapid fire bullets; naval cannons that tore apart bodies and ships alike; an armored tank that moved like a plated turtle but left a rampaging elephant’s path of devastation, and Leonardo’s magnum opus: an improved version of the flying machine, this time equipped with an incendiary cannon to lay aerial waste to the land and keep it aloft.
The newly designed flying machine had flown only marginally better than Leonardo’s early prototypes in Venezia, and Ezio grimaced to himself, bones still aching from the bomber’s juddering flight. He crept into the shadow of a tower that overlooked the bench where he was to meet with his old friend. A guard meandered by, barely giving the chalk-scrawled hand on it another look, and Ezio slipped out to the bench when he was sure the guard had gone. Leonardo joined him moments later, his expression strained even as the assassin murmured a quick greeting.
“What is on your mind, Leonardo?” He looks so gaunt, Ezio thought unhappily. He leaned forward to rest elbows upon his knees, sparing the Borgia’s engineer a discreet glance.
“I have many things on my mind,” the engineer snapped. He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply before attempting to respond again. “The Borgia have not taken kindly to the destruction of their war machines.” Leonardo’s frame sagged forward in resignation. “Tell me, Ezio. Are they all…?”
“Destroyed. Forgive me, Leonardo. All your hard work has been undone.” Ezio gave him an apologetic pat on the arm.
“Better scattered across the land than in the hands of men,” Leonardo sighed. He sat up, rolling his shoulders back in relief, as though waking from a long nightmare. “Thank goodness.”
“You should thank me,” Ezio grinned. “Your scroll did not even include instructions for the tank. It took more time to figure out how to run that machine than destroy it.”
With a quick shadow of a smile, Leonardo folded his hands together on his lap. “If anyone could do it, I knew it would be you, old friend.”
At the spark of Leonardo’s old vivacity, a hard tug of longing pulled at Ezio’s heart. He reached out to brush Leonardo’s hand, before stopping abruptly. They could not afford easy displays of their rapport as they had in Venezia, the city with its bittersweet memory of his only intimacy with Leonardo.
Meanwhile, the engineer’s smile faded, as if he had remembered something unpleasant. Ezio shifted closer to him, confused. “There is something else on your mind. What is it?”
“You are mistaken.” Leonardo blinked, his face devoid of expression in a clear attempt to mask his emotions. When Ezio made no move to leave, he tried to smile disarmingly, despite the pain edging into his features. “Ezio, I am fine.”
“Do not pretend, Leonardo. Tell me.” Anxiety churned in Ezio’s stomach. Was the inventor planning to tell him he could no longer meet with the assassin to provide aid? Or was there far graver news than that? They sat together in the shade of an old, crumbling tower, Ezio wishing he could offer reassurance or comfort through something as simple as holding Leonardo in his arms. But the Borgia’s guards crawled the streets, their patrols ever on the alert for obvious signs of the vigilante assassin or their wayward engineer. The assassin could only wait.
Finally, Leonardo let out a slow breath. “I heard you were behind the break-in at Sant’ Angelo,” he said warily. His air of disappointment sounded akin to jealousy.
It was only when pins and needles of feeling returned to numb fingers that Ezio realized how tightly his fists had been clenched. He flexed his stiff digits in relief, wondering why Leonardo would bring this up now. The assassin had infiltrated the castello to exact his revenge on Cesare and Rodrigo, and though neither murderer was there, he had rescued Caterina…
Ah.
And left his closest ally imprisoned, at the Borgia’s beck and call, helplessly watching as the assassin abandoned him again. Suddenly the hint of jealousy made sense, and Ezio swore inwardly at his folly.
“Had I known you were there, I would have…” Ezio paused. A more proactive approach was needed. “I will come for you, my friend. Just tell me where they are imprisoning you now.”
The offer seemed to soften the hardness from Leonardo’s eyes, as if he had only needed to hear the words from Ezio, and the engineer said nothing for a moment. Slowly, a gentle, more genuine smile rose to his face. “Grazie, Ezio.” He rested his hand on the assassin’s shoulder, seemingly conflicted with what he wanted to say next. “But I can take care of myself.”
A fine job you’ve been doing, thought Ezio, almost resentfully. He hated to see Leonardo’s worn visage, the worried lines in his forehead and the bags under his eyes. If it were up to Ezio, he would spirit the man away now. Conversely, the fact that Leonardo still lived was a testament to his own will to endure; had he not been able to ‘take care of himself’, the Borgia would have long disposed of him.
Perhaps I should have more faith in Leonardo, Ezio resolved, attempting a weak smile in return.
“Besides,” Leonardo added, “I will be of more use to you from inside the Borgia camp, especially if they plan to produce more weapons or discuss military strategies. Your efforts are better focused on liberating the people of Roma first. Perhaps then…”
“Then?”
The engineer watched him carefully, his expression guardedly neutral as he stood up. “They are expecting me back at the castello.”
“Which area?” asked Ezio, his tone sharper than intended.
A soft, quiet laugh, as Leonardo shook his head. “Good luck, Ezio,” he said, deflecting the clumsy attempt to fish for his whereabouts. Leonardo stepped away briskly, ascending a short stairway before disappearing around a corner. Within moments, his red cape and beret were no more than a fading mirage.
Ezio watched his friend depart, a slow, insistent ache stealing into his chest as a realization struck him: Leonardo’s stressed smiles were a far cry from the dreamy quality they held not so long ago in Venezia, but those days were gone, replaced by Roma’s bleak and unforgiving present.
“I hope,” Machiavelli began, standing resolutely in front of Ezio’s desk, “that you are not still entertaining thoughts of rescuing Leonardo. He has told you himself that he is willing to stay to help us spy on the Borgia.” Machiavelli had initially entered to discuss changes to the novices’ daily regimen. From his offhand comment, however, Ezio supposed he had done a poor job of hiding his distracted thoughts.
“It is too dangerous for him to stay there,” Ezio replied, not bothering to look up from the ledger he was reviewing. He tapped his quill impatiently against the parchment; reading by candlelight was already difficult enough without having to field Machiavelli’s scathing remarks.
“Perhaps I should remind you that you still have a Brotherhood to run. And several of our novices were lost in the attack at—”
“I know,” snapped Ezio irritably. “I recruited them myself.” His grief over the new assassins was still agonizingly recent. And if those under his wing had been lost, then what of the man who worked deep within the enemy fortress?
The sigh in response was almost disdainful. “I cannot see why you concern yourself with that man. It is true that he has uncanny insight into designing weaponry, but—”
Ezio set his quill down forcefully, throwing a menacing glare at Machiavelli to let him know he was treading on thin ice. “We need him.”
Machiavelli’s mouth fell open in surprise at Ezio’s edged reply, but he recovered quickly. Setting his lips into a thin line, he narrowed his eyes as if he had experienced a moment of clarity. “You need him.”
“What are you implying?” Ezio asked slowly. That his comrade could openly voice what he himself could not was irksome, and he searched the other assassin’s face for signs of mockery or contempt.
Machiavelli’s face remained as impassive as ever. “I imply nothing,” he said, turning to leave the room. Before disappearing into an adjacent chamber, he added, “Do what you will. But do not compromise the Brotherhood with your own goals.”
Ezio’s meetings with Leonardo now were brief, clandestine affairs, their conversations shrouded in secrecy.
Afterward, Leonardo would leave for his workshop in the Borgia’s stronghold, and though it pained Ezio every time they parted, he did nothing. In truth, while he had offered to free Leonardo from his fetters to the Spaniards, Ezio was unsure if he had the time or resources to do so and was certain Leonardo knew it too.
He had assassins to recruit and a Brotherhood to build, after all. And his pride forbade that he allow Machiavelli to take complete command.
Still, the mountain of tasks could not deter Ezio from wondering why Leonardo continued risking life and limb to see him. Was it was out of a sense of obligation? A way for the engineer to help liberate Roma by equipping the most capable person he knew? Or were there other reasons for their continued association?
Inevitably, Ezio would brood over the same, gnawing thought: whether Leonardo’s actions meant the assassin still had a place in his heart.
Ever since the destruction of the war machines and Ezio’s offer to free him, Leonardo’s behavior had gradually begun to mirror that of their days before Roma. He would shoot frequent, momentary glances Ezio’s way and even sidle close to the assassin, sometimes near enough for their fingers to brush. On other occasions, his hand would rest lightly on Ezio’s back or shoulder, before being quickly withdrawn. These mannerisms fanned the tiny flame of hope within Ezio’s heart, and often, he wished he could reach out, to touch—but feared the contact would leave him wanting more. So he followed the path he knew best: that of inaction.
While Leonardo used to disappear without looking back, he now cast lingering glances toward the assassin when he left. Despite his concern that this would lead to his friend’s demise, Ezio often felt a familiar pang of longing in response, which did nothing to help his plight.
Then again, perhaps he was reading too much into Leonardo’s absentminded habits, and all Ezio had were illusory hopes born of wishful thinking.
“What is it that troubles you, Ezio?”
It might have been the heaviness in the assassin’s voice or the tense posture of his shoulders, but it hardly surprised him that Leonardo could sense his discomfort. The man had always been attuned to his moods somehow.
“The other night, Niccolò appointed me to the position of the Mentore. Just after Claudia’s initiation into the Order.” Ezio clasped his hands under his chin as he shifted his weight forward on the bench. “I…I am not sure I can handle the responsibility that comes with that position.”
He felt a brief pat on his back, and turned in time to see Leonardo’s quick, tired smile. “I know of no other man who has risen to the challenges life throws him, conquering them with his own brand of resilience, as you have.” Leonardo paused, before quietly adding, “I am sure you are the right leader for the Order, Ezio.”
His self-doubt momentarily dispelled, Ezio gave a soft laugh. “Only time will tell that, Leonardo. I only wish you had been there for the ceremony.” He stopped, realizing the cruelty of his words. At the same time he had ascended to the rank of Mentore, warmed by the heat of the crackling brazier and the presence of his peers, Leonardo had been absent, still captive under the Borgia’s oppressive employ.
Leonardo seemed not to have taken offense, opting instead to lean forward and press close to the assassin, as if to share a momentous secret. “Ezio.”
The strength and surety in his voice made the assassin look up in surprise.
“Such moments will be ours, once you rid Roma of the Borgia’s influence. And if anyone can do it, it is you.”
The forces and power of Roma’s ruling family had been dwindling steadily due to the efforts of all the assassins of his Brotherhood. Nevertheless, Ezio was moved, humbled even, by the implicit faith Leonardo had in him alone. “Grazie, my friend,” he said, gripping Leonardo’s shoulder gratefully as he stood to leave. Those warm words of encouragement heartened the assassin in a way that nothing else could.
Later, as Ezio rode hard to the Basilica di San Pietro in a race to snatch the Apple from the Borgia’s grasp, those words and the feeling he garnered from them would strike him again. From this simple feeling Leonardo induced, of being able to accomplish anything, Ezio finally knew.
Knew he wanted Leonardo, by his side.
But after all that had happened—the lie he had lived in Venezia and all but abandoning Leonardo in Roma—Ezio knew he had no right. No right to barge back into his friend’s life, to demand his attentions and affection.
Not when he was the one who had turned Leonardo away.
With the Apple safely hidden in a pouch on his waist, Ezio leaped a little less heavily across the rooftops. Adding to his improved mood was the fact that Rodrigo, the instigator of the plot behind his family’s execution, was dead, and Cesare, ill with poison of his father’s design, had fled Roma for the safety of his allies. The young Captain General worried more for the state of his health and troops than the location of his engineer, with his power and position at stake.
Ezio was free to visit his artist now, with less fear of endangering him. Ever since Leonardo’s emancipation, the assassin had come to think of him as an artist again, instead of the engineer he had been coerced into being.
His expression relaxed into a smile at the thought of Leonardo, as he dropped down to a small terrace. When Ezio saw him now, it was as if a great burden had been lifted from the artist’s shoulders; his face was no longer clouded with constant worry, eyes no longer darting everywhere from paranoia. Just as Roma had been liberated from nearly all of the Borgia’s influence, so too had the haunted look been erased from Leonardo’s features.
Ezio’s thoughts were interrupted by the shatter of glass and a broken shout that rang out up ahead. The voice sounded so much like the artist he was to meet with that he scanned the area below for the source of the outburst.
“Not a woman, but you’ll do,” came a harsh bark of laughter.
“Looks like your assassin friend is not here to save you.” Another voice, cruel and jeering.
Ezio froze as he spotted the source of the noise. Three guards, one carrying a flag emblazoned with the Borgia’s red bull, had surrounded Leonardo in a secluded alleyway. His satchel of scrolls and supplies had been dashed to the ground, and broken vials and brushes littered the stones. A tight flicker of anger rose to Ezio’s face as a guard slammed Leonardo against a wall, but when another stepped forward to tear at his collar with what was clearly lustful intent, the flicker burst into flame.
Leonardo was his.
His paralysis broken by the anger that heated his face, Ezio raced across the wooden beams, wondering when he had grown possessive of Leonardo. He shook his head quickly to dispel the thought; he was not being possessive, only protective.
The flaunting of the fallen family’s insignia suggested that the guards were only common thugs masquerading as Borgia soldiers. Regardless, two of them tore viciously at Leonardo’s clothes while another reached out to cup the artist’s face and lick it in a lecherous manner. Leonardo thrashed about, his flailing fists connecting with flesh, and in the short moment he was free, he ran.
He made one, two, three steps—before a guard tackled him to the ground, twisting his arm behind his back and drawing a thin line of blood with a dagger to his throat. Now within range, Ezio leapt down from his ledge, a flurry of white robes and uncloaked animal fury, like a bird of prey fighting another predator for its prize.
Red.
Red was the enemy, in the Vision that Ezio had activated; red for the rage that boiled inside him, and red was the lifeblood that sprayed across his face as he slashed open the throat of the guard restraining Leonardo. Another guard suffered a brutal kick to the groin, followed by a quick, jabbing strike that tore through his bowels. As more blood spattered on the assassin’s face, he tasted iron, the vilely rich liquid coloring his robes as screams rent the air, of the dying, the fearful.
A panicked trampling of boots caught his attention, and the assassin’s gaze snapped upward. The last guard was running away, shedding his armor as he went. So it was true: the thugs had only donned the soldiers’ garb in order to extort favors and incite fear in the general populace. Ezio seized one of the spears they had been wielding, reared his arm back and let it fly, relishing the piercing scream that issued as the spear found its mark.
He turned quickly, searching for Leonardo. He had to have arrived in time—they could not have gotten to him, could not have killed him because he refused to comply. Everything Ezio had done until now would have been for naught, so Leonardo could not die, could not be dead—
“Ezio.” A hand was shaking his shoulder. “Ezio!”
Still keen with an assassin’s instinct for danger, Ezio sprang toward the sound, his blade sweeping down in a deadly arc, stopping just short
(Leonardo, the blue is Leonardo, but for that glimmer of gold)
of the perimeter of a soft, blue glow. Visibly shaken at how close he had been to death, Leonardo hesitated for a moment, before wrapping his arms around Ezio’s shoulders, pulling him into a comforting hug even as the assassin stumbled against him. Ezio wound his hands over Leonardo’s ears, into his hair, then slid them to his shoulders, gripping tightly as he held the artist at less than arm’s length. Their foreheads were close enough to touch, and as he felt the warmth of Leonardo’s breath upon his cheek, Ezio breathed out in a rush of relief. He wanted to hold Leonardo, to kiss and mark him as his own, and secret him away to a place where no one could touch him, but…
His friend did not deserve to be caged like that.
“Ezio?” Concern, worry. All in that one word.
“Leonardo.” For a moment, his voice caught in his throat. “I cannot lose you, Leonardo,” Ezio said forcefully, the raw honesty in his words surprising him. “Do you understand?”
Even as he nodded, Leonardo’s expression was a mixture of shock, confusion, and even fear, but Ezio hardly cared. All that mattered was that Leonardo was safe—from harm, from guards and even from Templars. It was only when the artist slid his arms around Ezio’s shoulders again, murmuring soft, soothing words to calm him that Ezio recognized the most prominent threat was himself.
Still, he drew Leonardo in desperately, arms closing tight around the lithe waist. He would allow himself this one instant of selfishness.
Ezio breathed deep, inhaling the comforting scent of oil paints, and enveloped in the long-missed warmth of Leonardo’s arms, pulse slowing, he realized what the flash of gold he had seen in the Vision meant.
That his target had always been Leonardo’s heart.
(tbc - Chapter Eight.)
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Date: 2012-03-13 01:58 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-03-13 05:27 pm (UTC)From:Yay!
Date: 2012-03-13 09:03 pm (UTC)From:Re: Yay!
Date: 2012-03-17 03:13 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-03-18 07:40 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-03-22 04:08 am (UTC)From:I love you, period.
Date: 2012-03-23 05:43 am (UTC)From:I just hope you continue this, it has become one of my favorite fanfics in this fandom. And you're talented, m'dear.
Re: I love you, period.
Date: 2012-03-23 07:12 pm (UTC)From:This will be continued, I just need to polish up latest installments before posting. I'm glad it's made it into your favorites, thank you for reading!
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Date: 2012-03-29 11:20 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-03-31 05:06 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-04-18 07:21 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-04-18 06:43 pm (UTC)From: