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He’d never liked traveling by sea. Feet too unstable under him, strong winds threatening to serve him on a plate to the myriad of sea creatures he was not even sure really existed. He held on close to the prow nevertheless, facing the salty winds with determination that bordered on defiance. He didn’t have to like it; he only had to survive it.
Disembarking might have meant sharp relief, had he gazed upon the unwelcome territory as a safer location than his previous one. No such luck – he was not walking away from danger; he was walking towards it.
He walked alone.
*
He travelled mostly through the desert, avoiding as much population as he could and for as long as his supplies allowed him to. He’d never imagined the desert to be so implacable. Good thing he had prepared extensively for this journey, taking advice from far more knowledgeable people than himself. They had supplied maps, information and even suggested more suitable garments for the unforgiving cold that he had had trouble associating to the desert. Not anymore though, not when his bones felt frozen and his skin burned like cold fire as soon as he stopped moving.
Sometimes he travelled for days without seeing a person or hearing a human voice and he felt a strange kind of loneliness. It was not the companionship of his brothers he missed, nor the throng of human life vibrating in the city. It was something else, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Perhaps he missed his younger self, so sure of where to go next, driven by feelings of vengeance and the need to protect his remaining family. So sure of what he was meant to do and be. Other times he thought it was just age weighing him down, robbing him of a sense of purpose, looming over his every step, slithering through these dark times.
But on those nights when he was able to find shelter, dry and empty enough to protect him from immediate danger, he faced the issue for what it was. Ever since he’d gathered all of the Codex’s pages and read Altaïr’s thoughts and reflections, he’d never been the same again. All of his faith on the way society worked and his beliefs on the natural order of things – even God himself – had been badly shaken. And as had happened with Altaïr after travelling to Cyprus, something sprung within his soul, a hunger for knowledge and for a deeper understanding of how man had come to be and the purpose of his existence on this planet.
He’d read Altaïr’s words so many times and mused over them for so many days of his life that when his bluish-white form came to him for the first time, during a particularly starless night, he smiled at it and thought, this is what getting old must be like.
*
It took him a while to start questioning the nature of the specter-like appearances of the Eagle of Masyaf. At first it came only in his darkest hours and he dismissed the vision as his own wishful thinking or a failure of his aging mind. But then it started to get more frequent and he’d figured he wasn’t that far gone that he would hallucinate even in broad daylight.
And he was fairly sure his mind wouldn’t have the creativity to conjure Altaïr growling in a language he didn’t understand and piercing his eyes with his own golden ones. Definitively, his mind would not be able to come up with eyes that exquisite, not for a heartless assassin. Eyes that pierced but didn’t acknowledge.
He’d learned to close his eyes and wish it away. It usually worked well enough. It wasn’t like Altaïr was really there.
*
When he entered Masyaf, it took him a moment to recognize the Assassins’ stronghold. All covered in snow, it took effort to locate its defining lines, its otherwise familiar shape. But it was there, he knew. After a while his mind’s eye could see the historic building that the snow concealed, the fortress that held the information he was after.
He retreated immediately, he knew he would have to be well rested before he faced his enemies.
*
Altaïr appeared again that night and did not vanish when he wished him away. He sat against the opposite wall and watched back.
“Altaïr,” he called softly, half afraid of being heard.
“Ezio Auditore da Firenze,” Altaïr replied, eyes trained on his general direction like he was having a hard time focusing.
Ezio’s breath froze in his lungs. He could no longer dismiss the vision as a twisted hallucination. Not when it responded. “A ghost,” he whispered, eyes wide with fright. His hand tightened around his dagger, getting ready for the unknown the only way he knew.
“I’m not a ghost,” Altaïr replied, looking around, “though I am as lost as one.”
“It’s impossible,” Ezio said, still clinging to the familiar feel of his dagger, “You lived many centuries ago. How do you know who I am?”
“How indeed,” was the answer, the blue-white glow of Altaïr’s figure less otherworldly then it had been in the past. “Though I have learnt throughout my life that there are many things we cannot explain yet are as real as the mountains that surround us.”
Ezio just sat there, observing as Altaïr took in his refuge. He had so many questions, so many things he yearned to know, things only Altaïr could answer. But he couldn’t bring himself to settle on one long enough to actually voice it, so he just stayed where he was, half praying that his sanity was still intact.
“Perhaps the Apple,” he said, after a while. “It has strange powers.”
Altaïr got up. “I see you know about the Apple. Perhaps not all is lost to the Assassins Order, then. Why are you in Masyaf?”
Ezio considered how to answer for a moment and settled for the simple truth. “I’m… following your footsteps.”
Altaïr’s expression changed, his gaze softened, like he was smiling with his eyes. A condescending smile. “If you’re following my footsteps, I can assure you that you’ll find more questions than answers. Far less answers than you expect.”
That made Ezio smile as well. “At this age my expectations are as low as they can get. But if my past experience is worth anything… so far it has paid off to find out what I can about you,” he said, getting up as well and extending both his arms to indicate his hidden blades.
Something lit up in Altaïr’s eyes as he came closer, hands holding his wrists still as he observed the blades closely.
They felt warm and strangely soft. Not ghostly at all.
“You did it. Two blades and all of your fingers intact. I knew it had to be possible. I just didn’t know how.” Altaïr turned both wrists in his hands. “How did you do it?”
“I wish I could tell you, but I wasn’t the one who did it. It was a trusted friend.”
“Very impressive,” Altaïr said, finally letting go. “You’ll need them.”
Ezio slept badly that night.
*
He should have been ready for it; found out too late that he wasn’t.
Taking an arrow to the shoulder had been a rough start to the fight but he had shed his cape and jumped on the closest Templar without a second thought. He fought fiercely, all his focus on ripping the lives out of the enemy with his bare hands; and when that wasn’t enough, with his hidden blades.
Only he hadn’t anticipated another appearance right in the middle of battle.
He was distracted for just so long. When he tried to engage the Templars again he barely managed to avoid a fatal blow and lost one of his hidden blades in the process, succumbing under the sheer strength behind the attacking sword.
Staring at the spears pointed at his face, he surrendered to the Templars, and thought for the tenth time that he was just too old, too broken, too lost for this.
*
They destroyed the other hidden blade just as they threw him into one of the many rooms in the Assassins’ fortress. They didn’t even go through the trouble of biding his hands and feet. Clearly not necessary, since he had to be dragged across the snow, leaving a red trail of humiliating failure behind him, and tossed into the stone wall like a bag of sand without even a token protest. He could barely open his eyes. The chilled air made him shiver, awakening the many aches and wounds covering his body.
Altaïr sat there with him.
“Masyaf in the hands of the Templars,” Altaïr growled quietly. “You need to expel them. Send them to the final judgment of that God of theirs.”
Ezio wanted to say something, to move a hand, to acknowledge his words somehow, but he couldn’t do much more than shiver in his weakness. His body’s strength was fading like he knew it would. He opened his eyes as far as they would go, the agonizing whiteness filtering through the window almost blinding him. He tried to say with his eyes what he couldn’t with his voice.
I’ve failed. I’m sorry, I’ve failed.
Altaïr held his gaze steadily, expression strangely unreadable, and crouched by his side. He slid a hand under his neck and touched warm fingers to his face.
“This is not your end, Ezio Auditore. This is just the beginning, the beginning of something much bigger than you can imagine.” His eyes travelled across his chest and his free hand touched his stomach. “Let this be a rebirth for you.”
Altaïr raised his left hand slightly and drew his hidden blade. Ezio’s eyes widened, panic forcing his limbs to trash, though he managed only to fist a hand on Altaïr white tunic, rasping a broken “No, please, no.” But Altaïr’s hand on his neck simply gripped harder, unforgiving, holding him still. And then the hidden blade sunk into his stomach on a smooth, excruciating motion, with Altaïr’s four fingered hand pressing into his clothes until he stopped struggling.
He remembered hearing a murmured “sleep of the dead” before slipping into oblivion.
*
When they came for him again, he didn’t move. They bound his hands with coarse rope and hoisted him by his armpits, again dragging him somewhere else. Was he still alive? Had he dreamt Altaïr’s blade claiming his life or was this just how hell was like? If he was being taken to his own final judgment there was no point in fighting or trying to escape.
Only the man to whom he was presented was way too ugly to be God.
He jolted out of Templar’s hands with a surge of indignation and pride. If he was still alive, he would walk by himself even if he was walking towards his death. He was shoved onto the ledge by their leader, his head stripped of the hood; and a hanging rope was carefully placed around his neck.
He considered letting himself go, then. He considered all the reasons why he should live and all the obstacles to his success in this – perhaps – final mission and he knew the odds were against him.
But as the rope tightened around his throat, he was there again, walking alongside him and then leaping into the abyss to become the glorious Eagle the fables spoke of.
He understood it, then. He understood that Altaïr was there to help him follow his path, to show him what he hesitated to see and to make him live to understand.
He understood it perfectly.
And he fought back.