Malmaison, August 1799 - Pain

----------------------- outside Paris, Malmaison, August 1799 -------

Arno dragged his friend up the steps while groaning and sucking cool night air deep into his lungs, before finally reaching the end of the stairs. Verne stumbled and groaned as well softly.

"Hang in there. No one here is going to die today." Arno was not sure if he wanted to convince himself more, let alone his friend.

"Shut up and get her out of there..." Verne mumbled, powerless. Arno saved himself an answer to this impossible request. A glance at the guards, which kept the announced horses ready, implied that he couldn’t expect support from them regarding bandages. He leaned Verne against one of the horses and supported his back. "Hold on tight to the saddle. I must first see that we stop the bleeding."

 Verne followed the order only halfway, while he tried to push Arno away from him with the other arm, and replied weakly, "I said... you should..." 

"I know what you said, idiot. And you know as well as I do that we can’t do that right now. So stop fidgeting and let me take care of the wound." Arno kept his voice down that it sounded more like a hiss.

Without thinking about it, he tore the scraps of his shirt off his shoulders and used the strips to barely stop the bleeding. It was clear that this did not help much, but it was better than nothing. He groaned quietly and, with painfully protesting muscles, finally heaved his friend into the saddle. He felt his angry eyes burning as he ripped the reins of the second horse from another guard's hands. Barely sitting in the saddle as well, he took Verne's horse in tow and rode out of the property.

Even before he passed the gate, he spread his senses and sought in the shadows for his brothers. He did not have to wait long for a call. Francesco and LaHache broke away from bushes to the right and left of the path. Both escaped a curse as their eyes captured the situation.

"No questions. Later. First we need a doctor."

LaHache reacted first and whistled between the teeth, causing two more horses to trot along. Francesco tore the sound out of his shock-induced paralysis and smoothly swung himself into the saddle of a chestnut mare, while LaHache matched him with his gray steed. And indeed, the men used their spores to dig in the horses’ sides and pushed their mounts forward with hasty, short lutes. 

Arno sighed inwardly, relieved for the moment. He knew that the questions he had been able to stop for now would definitely follow later. He admitted he had missed working with these three men. This deep understanding and perfect coordination, he had never been able to achieve with other Assassins since those days. With all that had gone wrong so far in his life, the friendship with, yes, of all three, was definitely not one of his many mistakes.

The village, which they entered after a short time, did not even have a name, so small was it. LaHache tightened the reins a little too harshly, so that the gray horse rose protesting, neighing briefly in the forelegs. However, this proved advantageous when the door of the house, before which they had stopped, opened and a lamp lit a woman's face.

Miraculously, this woman did not ask questions either. Her eyes glided silently over the four men until it came to rest on Verne, who hung more on his horse than sat.  "Bring him in. Quick."

Arno swung himself out of the saddle and helped his friend to dismount. Groaning, Verne almost fell like a wet sack into the arms of his brothers. Francesco took one arm while Arno wrapped the other one around his own shoulders again, ignoring the painful welts on his back. Meanwhile LaHache took care of the horses.

In the house, the woman was already waiting at the top of the stairs, beckoning them to bring Verne up. When they had finally dropped their friend on a bed, who was now more unconscious than anything else, they were already being pushed insistently out of the room.

On the lower floor, they were awaited afterwards by LaHache, who had miraculously found a bottle of wine. Francesco inspected Arno briefly, who was sinking heavily into one of the chairs. Still wordless, he turned to a box, rummaged for a shirt and threw it to Arno.

Gratefully, Arno covered the fresh welts on his back. Hissing painfully, he flinched as the fabric touched the open wounds. He would probably have to endorse himself into the hands of the healer as well, after she had taken sufficient care of Verne. Sighing, he finally propped his elbows on his knees and massaged his forehead with one hand.

"All right, Dorian. End of the grace period. Start talking."

Arno could not blame LaHache for the biting tone. Not only for his taste, too many members of the team had been injured during this mission already.

"Very simple. We were busted. And stumbled blind into a trap. Joséphine knew from the beginning who and what we are. She knows me and my past inside out. And she seems to follow us since we started the mission. She just has to have her spies everywhere. It was just a game the whole time and she only waited for an opportunity to place the barrel of the gun on our chest."  Arno raised his eyes and studied Francesco, who was leaning against the wall beside the door, his arms crossed. 

LaHache had straddled one of the chairs in the usual manner and handed Arno the wine bottle at eye contact. Thankfully, he took a deep sip from the not really good red.

"Obvious question with hopefully not the most obvious answer I'm afraid of. Where is Adeláire?" Francesco's tone was anything but warm.

Arno lowered the bottle between his knees and propped up his elbows again. He felt muscles in his face twitch painfully and his jaw cramp. He did not dare to meet one of the two glances resting on him at the moment.

"She... is still there. Practically as a pledge." He hated how his voice sounded in his ears. Pressed, dull, helpless. A long, deep silence followed his words until, surprisingly, it was Francesco who started to speak again.

"She ... is ... what now?"

Arno hung his head a little more to finally tighten and straighten up. He knew he could not help but face it.  "She serves as Joséphine's assurance that we will not disrupt her plans. If we, the Council or anyone else do anything that does not suit Joséphine, then..." He swallowed hard and could not force himself to finish the sentence. Silently he raised his eyes to meet Francesco’s. 

The expression in his dark eyes hit him almost as hard as the whip’s lashes.  "... then... she dies, right?" 

Arno just nodded silently.

Energetically, Francesco pushed away from the wall and crossed the room with two long strides. Arno knew what followed and did nothing to protect himself. He braced himself for the pain as Francesco's fist crashed into his jaw. It made him stumble on the chair and sent stars into his view. Panting, he propped his hand against the wall beside him and sat up slowly. Once again, he met the gaze of the man, whom he later hopefully could still call his friend.

The anger that flashed deep in Francesco's eyes reflected his own. And Arno understood him too well. He shrugged his shoulders when it looked like Francesco was about to hit him again. Instead, the other one turned away from him with a frustrated sound.  "You promised. Me and all of us. No unnecessary dangers. And? What happened? One of ours is trapped and we have not the slightest chance of getting her out of there." Francesco paced the room furiously. 

Considering that he was usually the quiet guy in the group of four, Arno did not want to know how LaHache felt right now, which was amazingly quiet right now. He did not look at the older man, but once again met Francesco gaze as he stopped.

"What is it with you and women? Do you just fall in love to lose them again through tragic death?"

Something in Arno snapped and he felt angry fire flare up in him. Hastily he set the wine bottle aside, rose and bridged the distance to Francesco. However, the latter seemed less willing than he himself to simply accept the attack. He ducked under Arno's blow against his chin and landed a powerful punch with his elbow on his part. Battered, as he already was, Arno stumbled and sank heavily to his knees.

"She's like a damn little sister to me! You should take care of her and not leave her like a sheep on the slaughterhouse!! And it almost cost Verne his damned life!! I have not seen so much bungling during a mission for a long time. Did you scumbag really forget everything you've been taught? "

Arno did not even have to use his senses to capture Francesco's desperate anger. If only he could make it comprehensible to him that he did not fare much differently himself. It squeezed all air out of his lungs as Francesco pursued and his knee rammed painfully into Arno's stomach. Rattling collapsing on the ground, Arno struggled to gather himself as he kept track of Francesco's footsteps, which were striding up and down beside him.

"Enough, Cesco. He already has more than enough pain and injuries. If you break all of his bones now, we'll be stuck here for weeks."

LaHache's words were just acknowledged with an angry snort. The up and down wander did not stop though. Groaning and with painful protesting muscles, Arno began to scramble up onto his hands and knees. LaHache handed him a hand and helped pull himself to his feet. Arno did not dare to look one of them in the eye. Too much of the charges reflected his own inner reproaches.

"At least did you find out something?" 

Arno winced at the question and felt himself more than ever like a beaten dog.  "Nothing really tangible, which would bring us forward regarding Bonaparte. He seems to have definitely gotten the artifact from Saint-Denis. And the plans to help him to power seem closer to their goal. Joséphine asked for eight weeks peace." Arno said nothing, and pulled himself another chair; massaged the aching chin.  "Sieyés was at one of Joséphine's soirees. I think if her plans have something to aim, then he definitely has something to do with it."

Silence entered the room. Arno looked at his hands in his lap and tried to
displace the image in front of his eyes. The green eyes in the face stiff in desperation. The effort to give him confidence that she would actually succeed. Silently he buried his eyes in one hand and urged back the burning in them.

"All right then. I ride to Paris and apprise the council about the developments. And I will go to the Marquis to discuss weather, and if so, how we get to Sieyés. Joséphine did not forbid this contact, did she?" Francesco's voice had something caustic at the end, that it made Arno shrug his shoulders again guiltily.

"To be honest... I do not know. She mentioned that we should leave ‘her plans’ alone. And they probably have something to do with Sieyés." Arno finally looked up at Francesco. "I would not risk it. In..." he swallowed hard, "... Adeláires behalf."

This time it was Francesco who turned away from him. He seemed to have read Arno's pain and accept it. Silently he fumbled his gloves out of his belt and slipped them over. His hood followed, overshadowing his features.  "Good, we keep distance to Sieyés. On the way to Paris, I'll think about what alternatives we might have." His gaze was invisible in the shadows of his hood as he fixed Arno.  "And you... my friend... will swing your ass back to the mansion and keep a watch with your gift that they actually let Adeláire live. Do you understand me? If I come back and hear that she's dead, then... I guarantee nothing..." The normally quiet voice growled menacingly. 

Arno felt helplessness threaten him again, as in this cellar.  "Cesco, my gift doesn’t reach thus far. I..." 

Francesco interrupted him with a domineering gesture.  "Then train it, Goddamn it. You once told me that in the past it was even less pronounced than it is now. So do something for it this time and manage that you push the limits. This is about something." The dark look of the Assassin brother jerked to LaHache. "Jean, take care that he does not hang up and get drunk. Would not be the first time."

Arno felt as anger slowly re-mingled with the shame. As rightful as Francesco was with his words and reproaches, something in him wanted to rebel so much against all this guilt. He forced himself to silence and pressed his lips together mutely. Out of the corner of his eye he perceived LaHache's confirming gesture.

Without another word Francesco turned away and headed for the outside. A short time later, they heard him mounting his horse and giving it the heels. Only when no further sound was heard did LaHache get up from his chair and approach Arno.

"Come on. The healer should nearly be done with Verne. Time it she looked at those nasty marks on your back." Jean grabbed him under the armpit and pulled him relentlessly to his feet.

Climbing the stairs seemed like an almost too difficult task, but Arno somehow mastered it. Jean was right, Verne was doctored and drugged in his sheets, and the healer was just washing out instruments and cloths. She nodded briefly to LaHache, who silently set Arno down to straddle one of the chairs. Unexpectedly gentle, he helped peel him out of the shirt, which had already begun to soak up blood. It was only with difficulty that the younger man bit off painful sounds.

"Diable, what did they do to you?" LaHache snarled. The healer joined him.

"If I should guess, bullwhip. No other instrument leaves such marks." Arno took the opportunity to cross his arms on the back of the chair and lay his forehead on it. The recent experiences danced again before his closing eyes. And the green of a desperate glance.

"Bastards. What antediluvian lunatics live on this estate." LaHache's growling voice did not seem to expect or even want an answer. Silently, he assisted the healer, as she devoted herself to the care of the welts. The pain distracted Arno at least from the pictures of the night. And when he felt his senses buzz and he threatened to collapse, LaHache who held him upright. Not too long ago, Arno would have laughed hard at anyone who told him that they would once again find their way back to friend status. Now he was grateful for the strong arm, which then helped him into the sheets of a bed. In spite of everything, Arno did not really wonder that he was actually falling asleep. His body demanded rest and took it relentlessly.

„“ ----------------- „“

Adeláire did not really find sleep in her uncomfortable position. What's more, any noise in the darkness of the cellar startled her, fearing that Joséphine would return. And when her eyes closed, the images of events danced before them. And the sight of angry helplessness in the man who, by now, had become such a figure of support and strength to her.

Hour after hour passed, without Adeláire having even a rudimentary idea whether days or just a few moments had passed. In this absolute darkness, she lost all sense of time. However, what she perceived very clearly was infinite thirst and human needs. Still, her pride kept her from worse. But she was already beginning to wonder how long she would be able to endure this.

It did not surprise her that her eyes felt painfully blinded when the heavy door opened and a person with a torch appeared. It was neither Joséphine nor one of the girls. One of the guards entered the room while two others secured the door. One of the two at the door drew his pistol, charged, released, and pointed the barrel at Adeláire. Stubbornly she raised her chin and started the attempt to stare down his fixing gaze. Unsuccessful. The torch guard left them in a holder before he approached her.  "So my pretty, we'll facilitate your situation a little bit now. But only if you cooperate. A wrong move or the slightest indication of attempting to escape and my buddy back there will shoot you down without warning." 

Adeláire averted her gaze from the pistol barrel and turned to the speaker.  "I doubt you have permission to shoot me like that. There is an agreement. And Joséphine knows exactly what will happen if she breaks it. So do not try to talk big so much here, Conard[1]."

She could have guessed that this insult would not be without consequences. However, her ears rang as his back of the hand pervade and left her cheek burning.

"You are the one here who is not in the position to talk big. And if you continue like this, you will stand on this wall for another night. Your choice." 

Adeláire looked up at the guard and could feel the green burning and poisoning. But she was silent. For now.

Which gave her a nasty grin on the guard, while he now clearly ludicrous mustered her.  "Too bad that Madame Bonaparte has banned everything that could be a bit fun with you. Absolute waste. What do you guys think?" He did not even look at his buddies in the back. Adeláire made sure briefly that the pistol barrel was still where she had last found it. Sighing resignedly, she had to admit that the prospects of using the situation for herself here did not go so well.

"Hurry up, Pierre. We have other things to do. And besides, she would bite off your cock before you even have a minute of fun with her. So, let's get out of here. Otherwise, the best pieces of lunch are already gone." 

The guard standing next to her watched Adeláire again from top to bottom and finally shrugged.  "You are right. I'm more into blonde hair anyway.”

Whereupon he began to open her handcuffs and then gave her a rough nudge that caused Adeláire to stumble after hours standing against the wall. Her weight landed on her cracked ankle and she collapsed. Only a grip on the chains saved her from sinking completely to her knees before the guards. Inwardly, her burning rage and arrogant pride helped. She would not begrudge them this triumph.

Another nudge pushed her toward a barred door, which the guard unlocked and invited her with a mocking gallant gesture. Adeláire could not recognize much. Only when the guard took the torch again and put a pitcher, cup and some food on the table for her, Adeláire looked around. Apparently Joséphine was serious about not letting her die. There was no bed, just a sack full of straw. And for relief, a bucket stood in one of the corners. Sighing softly, Adelaire flinched as the door closed behind her.

"Make yourself comfortable sweetheart. You will not see the light of day again so soon."

The Assassin fought the urge to look back at the nauseating guard.  Thirsty and hungry, she lunged for the food.  After using the bucket, she finally sank into the straw sack, sighing. Despite aching bones and uncomfortable underlay, she finally fell into a deep sleep, hoping to gather enough strength for what was yet to come.

If she had had the slightest premonition of the coming events, she would not have been able to sleep so easily.

„“ ----------------- „“

As soon as he woke up, Arno groaned and moaned as his back vehemently protested against any movement. It took him a while to persuade his muscles to cooperate and to lift himself up. Cursing softly, he finally swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stroked the tangled hair from his forehead. Tired, he felt the scratching of the beard stubbles that had become too long as he glanced over at his friend in the other bed.

Verne was still sound asleep. Apparently, the healer had given him some anesthetic drugs, so he did not get up too early. Arno nodded as if to himself before rising up, heavy and tedious, from the bed. Slipping on the shirt almost forced him to sink back onto the bed‘s edge. Growling, he gritted his teeth and cursed the slowness of his movements. It would take days to return to his normal shape.

Carefully, he set out to descend the stairs to the lower floor. His stomach growled loudly when he was greeted by a clear smell of food. Once down there, he found only the healer stirring a rustic stew over the fire.

"Bonjour, Madame,“ Arno greeted with a slight tilt of the head.

"Bonjour ... mon frère,“ she replied as she straightened from the stooped posture and wiped her hands on the apron.

Arno blinked in surprise. And yet, he could have guessed that his brothers would not deliver him and Verne in just some strange house. Friends of the Brotherhood were really everywhere. He was used to this mainly in Paris, where it happened a few times before he was eventually greeted by name on every corner.

"Sorry, I did not know..."

"...that you are in a Brotherhood Safehouse? How could you. Yesterday was not the time to explain this. But rest assured, you are in no danger.  Such things..." she pointed in the direction of his back,"...will not happen here."

Arno just nodded silently and bowed his head again thankfully.  "Merci, Madame."

She nodded silently as well.  "De rien. Now let me take a look at that again."

Whereupon Arno began the cumbersome process of peeling himself again out of the shirt, accompanied by one or the other quiet curse. Patiently the healer waited until he had made himself comfortable astride a chair again. 

Gently and carefully, she palpated the fresh scars.  “Unfortunately, you will definitely be left with signs of this treatment. Especially two of the welts were already quite deep. Sadly, that can’t be prevented." 

Arno felt his jaw clench whether the memory of those to whom he owed this. He clearly heard the growl in his voice.  "That’s all right. You have done what you have been able to do. I thank you for that. And the rest, well, will make me remember for a while who I still have to drive a blade into a throat." 

A gentle hand fell on his shoulder.  "You have my blessing." A short silence followed. "Even if the Council will see it quite differently." 

Arno felt his shoulder stiffen under her delicate hand and he started to rise.  "I am still exiled from the Brotherhood. I do not have to give an account to the council." 

The gentle hand stayed where it was and held him in the chair.  "I know... Arno... But be careful not to drag your brothers too much into some abyss with you." 

He felt a muscle twitch in his facial expressions before he half-turned his gaze to her. "Merci, Madame. I'll keep that in mind." There were so many more words on his tongue that he was trying hard to pinch. He was all the more relieved when LaHache pushed the door open and, with both arms balancing a large stack of firewood, entered the house.  "Ahh, our soft-tapped something is awake. Very nice." 

Arno and the healer cast sour-eyed glances at him, while LaHache let the wood crash down in the designated spot. 

He grinned broadly through his beard.  "Too early for jokes?" 

 

Neither of them answered, Arno got up groaning from the chair. 

"Alright, ok. I apologize. Tell me when the tense phase is over." The older man steered toward the table, poured some of the coffee, which was steaming in a jug, and finally turned one of the chairs to his favorite position.

"Arno, you should have something to eat before you rush back to something breakneck.”  She put a plate of bread, sausage, and cheese in front of his nose and demonstratively adjusted the just left chair. Sighing, Arno let himself sink back on it and again took up the challenge to put on his shirt. LaHache watched him silently. He knew Arno well enough to know how hostile he sometimes could respond to help he deemed inappropriate. Silently, he poured his younger friend a cup of coffee as well and waited for him that he decided to talk.

"Verne is still asleep. He seems to be feeling better,” Arno mumbled thoughtfully. 

LaHache nodded silently.  "You should freshen up before we leave. I put together some food. Do you think you can manage one, two nights in the open?" 

Arno chewed and took a sip of coffee.  "Got to. I... I can’t leave her… alone..." His throat closed briefly, and his hands clenched into fists. LaHache was silent for a moment before responding.

"You and the women you let in your heart. You're really an unlucky fellow regarding that." LaHache's voice sounded neither mocking nor accusing. He had a calm and understanding tone, as Arno would never have thought possible of Jean. Silently, the two men finished the small breakfast.

After all, LaHache was the first to rise. He searched the chests scattered throughout the room and seemed to find what he was looking for. Still silent, he finally put complete gear in front of Arno on the table. At the top even, a hidden blade including phantombow construction.

"Like now you can’t run around outside. What should one think about us Assassins?" This time the tone was clearly teasing.

This made Arno smile.  "Thank you, Jean... honestly..."

The older man nodded shortly down to him.  "Come on, get ready. The morning is already well advanced."

Arno got up and made his way upstairs. As expected, the freshening was more complicated and took longer than usual. But then he had the feeling that his head had become a little clearer as well. In fact, the equipment on the fresh welts hurt, but nothing in the world would make him want to go without it. Although the coat was not his and the rapier felt strange, as well as the gun. But when he applied the blade, he finally felt like what he was: an Assassin.

"Very good, you're done. The horses are saddled and ready to leave." LaHache's voice blew in from the door, and Arno nodded silently as he tested the blade off and on again. How much he had missed this metallic sound, he realized just then. With a determined tightening of his shoulders, he pulled his hood to his forehead and turned to go with his friend.

Arno and LaHache resumed the camp, which the latter had pitched with Francesco. They still did not relieve the horses of saddles and bridles if they needed them ready for use. After stowing their things, Arno looked around.

"The estate is in that direction,” LaHache said, pointing. He squatted beside the extinguished fire and began to prepare it for later. Arno nodded silently and rubbed his sore, left wrist. Blade and glove scoured, but like hell he would get rid of both.

Seeking, his eyes glanced over the surroundings. Finally he came to a decision and climbed one of the trees near the camp. His back ached horribly and his muscles protested, but he forced himself to grab one branch after the next. And he was right. Once at the top he could see the estate through the trees. They were closer to the outside fence than Arno had suspected.

Examining, he tried to find a comfortable seat to some degree in the branches. He intended to start exercising his senses up here. Perhaps it facilitated the project, if he at least had eye contact with the target. He tried to banish the quiet, pessimistic, doubting voice in his head. He settled in and began to concentrate.

What he anticipated to happen, happened. In his usual radius he could perceive everything that happened at a great distance from him. He saw and felt the guards patrolling the gardens. But his outspread senses did not even scratch the exterior of the villa. He held the Pulse upright, trying to force it to spread out with his sheer willpower. Only when he felt like it was about to blow his head off did he take a break. Sighing softly, he rubbed his forehead and gently changed his position. This would be a damn long day.

It was already dark when Arno finally resigned to take a break for the time being and carefully climbed down the tree again. If he were not injured, he would simply have taken the leap and rolled away elegantly. But the very thought of it made his back hurt.

LaHache kept the campfire small and covered the flame with his broad back. Something told Arno, however, that Joséphine knew well that they would not move too far from the estate. It tingled between his shoulder blades and it felt like a thousand eyes lurking in the darkness. Did their victims always feel that way just before they put a hidden blade in their throats?

"And?” LaHache inquired simply.

Arno sighed and sat down by the fire, silently shaking his head. "Nothing. I just do not have enough reach. Is it possible to get closer to the house somewhere?" He took some of the warmed-up stew.

"No, unfortunately not. Francesco and I completely rode off the fence when we arrived here. As if drawn with a compass, the distances are the same everywhere." Depressed silence set in between the two men.

"Do you know why your gift is better and stronger today than it was back then?" LaHache handed him a bottle of schnapps, from which Arno gratefully took a deep draft.

"No, not the slightest idea. If you remember, no one could ever really say or explain something about this strange ability. The libraries always said that many assassins were known over the centuries to have such abilities. But where they come from or how to influence them, nothing could be found about that."

LaHache chewed on a piece of sausage.  "Mm, I remember. At the time, you crowned quite nicely that even Mentor Auditore and La-Ahad had this gift. And you made guesses if you're descended from them in a long line of ancestors."

Arno pushed the hood of the foreign assassin's coat in the neck and massaged it, embarrassed. Until finally he rested his elbows on his knees and gazed thoughtfully into the flames.  "I said and did some very stupid things back then." The silence between the two men expanded. "Sometimes I still wonder if the disasters were not even more… drastic… than they already had been." Flaming red hair smeared with blood spread out on a stone floor buzzed in front of his inner eye. Arno swallowed the lump in his throat and rubbed his eyes wearily.

"You should rest. I'll take the first watch."

Arno shook his head silently.  "I have to get this done. And as fast as possible." 

LaHache's broad hand lay down on his forearm and the distinct pressure forced the younger one to turn his gaze to him.  "You're no use to us… nor to her… when you're so exhausted you topple from the tree and break your neck. So, lie down for two or three hours. I’ll wake you up. And then you can go on with… whatever you are doing...” A grin flickered over the older Assassin's facial expressions, and Arno smiled back and nodded.

"All right then. But really… only two, three hours. I do not want to leave her in the feeling of being on her own for longer than necessary." Tired, Arno rubbed his forehead. "Even if I can’t really reach her." 

LaHache nodded and threw a log on the fire, while Arno stretched out on one of the beds.  "Oh, Dorian, before I forget again..." Before Arno could close his eyes, he braced himself on one elbow and caught the object which LaHache threw at him. The familiar shape of his father's pocket watch snuggled into his palm. As always, he gently actuated the opening mechanism and stared in the flickering of the fire at the clock stopped to the eternal at the time of death.

"Was a good idea not to take it with you. Otherwise, she would probably be lost now." 

Arno swallowed hard on Jean‘s again surprisingly sensitive words and nodded silently. Wordlessly, he stowed the watch in his coat and finally stretched out on the bed.

In his restless dreams, red hair mixed with brown-reddish and gray-blue eyes with deep green. As different as they were, their passionate fire, with which they sought to intervene in fortunes, was very much like each other. Was this what always attracted him magically to such women? Arno decided to think about it another time.

Though if he knew the events that would unfold, he wouldn’t have wasted his time on something so trivial as sleep.

„“ ----------------- „“

Adeláire awoke from her deadlike sleep as a heavy key turned in the lock of her cell door and the bright light of a torch ate the darkness. Protecting, she raised a hand over her eyes and squinted into the twilight.

"Get up pretty. You are expected,“ said one of the guards while the other put something on the table, which looked like a meager breakfast.

With difficulty she scrambled to her feet and hobbled over to the table, sparing her injured ankle. The guards only treated her with a few bites of bread and cheese before each grabbing one of her upper arms. Handcuffs they did not seem to want to put on her. Well, maybe that opened up certain possibilities.

Adeláire, however, soon had to bury her recent budding hope soon enough when she was escorted to the room where she had last seen her two brothers. Joséphine, Genevieve and Constanze were already waiting for her. The former turned to her with a smug smile as she entered.  "Ah, there is our illustrious guest. I hope you have taken the time to recover a little, my dear." 

Adeláire saved an answer and pinched her lips doggedly, which once again led Joséphine to that viper-like smile.

"Believe me, it will be my pleasure to break that stubborn silence. And I will, rely on it." A nod to the guards and Adeláire was led to one of the tables in the room. With a significant nudge they gave her to understand that she should probably stretch out on it. Dozens of scenarios that might well follow this "wish" shot through her mind. None of them pleased her.

As fast as lightning her eyes slid through the room, she sent her senses to make a decision. She knew her chances were more than bad. But she would not give up without a fight. In a fraction of a second, her left elbow rammed into the guard's face, then she dropped into a squat and with a circling around her own axis swept the legs of the second guard under his body. Her ankle ached like hell, but she forced herself up and put on an elegant slide across the table. In the middle of the jump she heard the hissing of the whip, but was too unprepared to counteract the result. The tail wrapped relentlessly around her throat and tore her in the middle of the movement that she crashed her back hard on the table. More than a choking, breathless gasp did not escape her throat. The pain brought tears to her eyes. Grimly suppressing that, she desperately tried to get rid oft he choke around her neck. Her resistance stopped when a third guard approached her and his fist crashed into her temple. Stars danced again in front of Adeláire's eyes, and she felt herself sagging limply.

"Why do you Assassins always have to make it so difficult for yourself?" Still stars danced in front of Adeláires eyes and she blinked hard to make out more than shadows. She sought strength to be able to face what has just happened. But her treacherous body failed her. She felt helplessly as hands and ankles were laid in iron and she lay stretched out on the back on the table. Why did she just feel that this here would not end well?

"So my dear, do not panic. As promised to your bed companion, we will let you live." Adeláire heard only by the steps that Joséphine rounded the table. "However, we did not promise him not to arch your little hairs." The helpless Assassin could smell the perfume of her jailer as she leaned over her and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. "And I'm so sorry, but that's exactly what we'll have to do here and now."

Adeláire slowly regained her sight, fixing the face in front of her eyes floating over her face. With a stinging curse, she braced herself against the shackles, only to find that this helped next to nothing. The more she shamed the mocking smile of her counterpart.

"Defend yourself...", again, Joséphine leaned over her and something ugly dangerous urged through her features, "…as long as you still can..."

She stepped back from the table and nodded at Genevieve and Constanze. They immediately started building strange equipment right and left of the table. With a steadily growing, threatening feeling, Adeláire watched the proceedings, wishing nothing more than a breakneck rescue operation. But as expected, everything remained silent, no smoke filled the corridors, no combat noise reached her ears. And as sharp needles penetrated her skin and were driven into her veins, she bit back adamantly every sound of pain. With senseless strength Adeláire tried to fight against further torture, unsuccessfully.

"Strap her tighter on the table. The remedies must not be wasted by demolishing or destroying the inlets." Said, done. Genevieve and Constanze tied the Assassin, struggling like a snarling cat, more and more motionless to the table until it was almost hard to breathe. Eventually even Adelàire's head was fixed, and with a good deal of hopelessness and a silent plea to whatever higher power may be listening, she closed her eyes.

"Everything‘s ready."

"Good, then let’s begin."

Adeláire's eyes searched, what those were able to reach. She watched as Genevieve and Constanze spun and operated threads at the apparatuses. Liquids twined through glass pipes, moving serpentine toward the needles that anchored deep in her arms. She had been able to pull herself together when these were forced into her skin, this was no longer possible as the liquids began to flood her veins. The burning under her skin seemed to tear her to shreds and no mastery of the world could hold back her tormented screaming.

Adeláire felt tears streaming down her cheeks unabated, and her screams of pain gradually cost her the voice until only a hoarse moan remained. Her whole body trembled uncontrollably, and it felt like her inward was turning to the outside. What are these witches doing with her?

"What do you think, is it enough?" 

Adeláire sensed more than she saw the three torturers gather around the table.

"Hm, let's try it."

The Assassin's gaze wandered as far as possible. Genevieve and Constanze were waiting to the side of the table while Joséphine approached the table. A glistening, golden light suddenly filled the view that Adeláire's eyes were once again squinting. She felt something touch her vertex as Joséphine put her hands to her temples.

"Who are you? Tell us your name." Joséphine's voice in her ear sounded like a summoning rite.

"You... know my name..." Adeláire gasped hoarsely.

"Who are you? Show yourself!"

Adelaire breathed heavily and tried to stir in the shackles. Once again a shriek of pain escaped her as a sensation penetrated her head, as if someone were tearing her skull. She reared up in the shackles, uncontrolled and knowing that it did not help anything at all.

"Who are you? Show yourself! I know you're here!" Joséphine's voice was unyielding, and that pungent, drifting, nagging feeling in Adeláire's head seemed to want to penetrate deeper and deeper. For now, she was no longer capable of giving any reasonably articulated answer.

"Show yourself... Assassin... I know you're here. You see everything. You hear everything. You feel everything. Let it end. Show yourself and tell us your name."

Adeláire's mind had not the slightest idea whereupon Joséphine wanted to go. Her thinking, feeling, being was only a single pain. And not even unconsciousness was granted to her. At Joséphine's nod, liquid spurted through her veins again, leaving the Assassin panting, trembling, writhing.

Adeláire lost all sense of time. She registered blurry that she were left alone. Apparently gave her time to rest and allowed her to regain strength. They washed and fed her. But unlatching her from the table did not seem to be an option.

At regular intervals, one of the three tormentors returned. But they always checked only the equipment and if the needles were still in place. A new inquiry was not conducted.

Adeláire did not even know how much time had passed before all three returned together. As with the first interrogation, they took their positions and their victim tensed in the shackles in anticipation of what would follow.

And she was right. Again, this pain pierced her head and seemed to want to tear it. Shivering, Adeláire did not have much left to counter that.

"Show yourself! Name us your name!" A haunting, deep, golden drill in her head, which Adeláire went through to the core. She felt something break inside her and she collapsed in the shackles.

"Bishop! Abort, stop! Get her out of there!"

"Damn... Initiate... what happened?"

"I don’t know. But they will find her. If they continue like this, they will find US. No idea what's going on. But they are hot on our heels. Bishop, get her out of there!"

"Cancel sequence. Shut down the Animus. We have to risk it."

"Ava, can you hear us? Ava?!"

"Initiate, how is she? Is she safe and sound?"

"I do not know Bishop. She is unconscious. She has got all the pain of her ancestor. No idea what she had to endure back then. But that seems to have been pretty tough stuff."

"Alright, take care of her. And brief me as soon as she wakes up. I want to know what happened there and what Joséphine did to her."

"Bishop, it seemed to me that Joséphine was looking for Ava. And for us. As if she knew that Ava is in her ancestor and lives their memory. But ... how can that be?"

"I do not know Initiate. That's exactly what we have to find out.”

Joséphine's fist crashed down on the table next to Adeláire's head with a frustrated sound. The golden glow disappeared, and she rose from her chair.  "Damn it! She is gone. I was so close."

"Did you see a place, a time... or a face?" Genevieve's voice sounded cautious.

"No, nothing like that. They seem to have pulled the plug before I could reach her." Silence returned, during which the three women, who apparently had some knowledge no one should own at the end of the 18th century, looked down at the unconscious assassin.  "Take care of her. Turn the dose down a bit so it will not kill her. And then we'll try again tomorrow." 

Silent nod of the two girls.

Then, Constance spoke, "The Assassins are expecting her first letter soon." 

Joséphine stopped walking and half turned back to Constanze.  "Well, then I hope you have become perfect in her handwriting now, my love." A dangerous smile played around the corners of her mouth. "We do not want to keep the poor, amorous jerk waiting unnecessarily." A soft laugh followed her as she climbed the steps to the light.

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[1] french. for „Dumbass“