The Failed Fon Master

❛  i’ve  got  a  bad  desire .  ❜

❛  is  s/he  good  to  you ?  ❜

❛  i  can  wish  all  that  i  want ,  but  it  won’t  bring  us  together .  ❜

❛  who  am  i  to  ask  for  more ,  more ,  more ?  ❜

❛  you’re  the  gun  in  my  lips  that  will  blow  my  brains  out .  ❜

❛  i’ll  be  the  best  you  ever  had  if  you  let  me .  ❜

❛  i  felt  alive  for  a  little  while .  ❜

❛  i  felt  your  love  for  a  little  while .  ❜

❛  i  said  that  i  could  just  be  what  you  wanted  as  if  i  could  keep  a  promise .  ❜

❛  you  won’t  see  me  walk  away .  ❜

❛  i  don’t  like  myself  when  i’m  awake .  ❜

❛  you  keep  your  love  just  out  of  reach .  ❜

❛  i  know  that  if  i  touch  it’ll  make  you  feel  weak .  i  think  you  can  take  it .  ❜

❛  what  has  this  all  done  to  you ?  ❜

❛  i  just  wanted  to  love  you .  ❜

❛  i  didn’t  want  all  this  trouble .  ❜

❛  i  just  wanted  to  be  your  baby  sometimes  too .  ❜

❛  i  just  wanted  to  love  you ,  i  didn’t  want  all  this  trouble .  ❜

❛  tell  me  about  the  others  and  i’ll  carry  the  weight .  ❜

❛  please  never  leave  me  alone .  ❜

❛  i’ll  never  leave  you  alone .  ❜

❛  i  think  i  need  you  to  make  my  body  work .  ❜

❛  a  year  from  now  we’ll  all  be  gone .  ❜

❛  nothing  is  as  it  has  been  and  i  miss  your  face  like  hell .  ❜

❛  i’m  afraid  of  change ,  guess  that’s  why  we  stay  the  same .  ❜

❛  tell  me  to  leave ,  i’ll  pack  my  bags ,  get  on  the  road .  ❜

❛  find  someone  that  loves  you  better  than  i  do .  ❜

❛  you  remind  me  every  day  i’m  not  enough  but  i  still  stay .  ❜

❛  feels  like  a  lifetime  just  tryna  get  by  while  we’re  dying  inside .  ❜

❛  i’ve  done  a  lot  of  things  wrong  loving  you  being  one ,  but  i  can’t  move  on .  ❜

❛  i  want  you  more  than  i  need  you .  i  need  you  so  bad .  ❜

❛  are  you  coming  back ?  ❜

❛  if  you  hadn’t  come  over  i  would  be  so  much  colder .  ❜

❛  without  you ,  i  am  surely  the  last  of  our  kind .  ❜

❛  you  catch  me  when  i’m  falling .  sometimes  i  wish  you  wouldn’t .  ❜

❛  i  know  there’s  something  waiting  for  us .  ❜

❛  i’m  sick  of  the  chase ,  but  i’m  stupid  in  love  and  there’s  nothing  i  can  do .  ❜

❛  i  mistakenly  called  them  by  your  name .  ❜

❛  i  feel  no  need  to  forgive  but  i  might  as  well .  ❜

❛  pay  for  my  coffee  and  leave  before  the  sun  goes  down .  ❜

❛  i’ll  never  see  you  again  if  i  can  help  it .  ❜

❛  please  stay  with  me .  ❜

❛  i  don’t  wanna  be  alone .  ❜

❛  i  won’t  stop  you  from  leaving .  ❜

❛  i  know  i’m  not  what  you  wanted ,  am  i ?  ❜

❛  i  don’t  argue ,  it’s  not  worth  the  effort  to  lie .  ❜

❛  nothing  turns  out  like  how  i  pictured  it .  ❜

❛  how  can  i  want  you  a  little  bit  more  than  i  did  before ?  ❜

❛  you  didn’t  need  me  no  more .  ❜

Syn’s face was hidden, shadowed by despair and loss. Why wouldn’t Syn look at him? Was he that ashamed of his older brother? Syi couldn’t blame him in the least. The bandages were wet at his wrist - the wounds had been cauterized, so not blood…

He watched Syn through drooping eyelids and squeezed his brother’s hand as tightly as he could. Time slipped; he drifted with it, grimaced as his body burned. His eyes fell to Syn’s clothed shoulder, searching for evidence of bandages. He couldn’t smell anything except herbs and medicines, wax and blood.

“The torch… he didn’t… right?” he asked, blinking slowly. “He…he didn't… are you…?”

Why was it so difficult to focus? He let his eyes drift shut, breathing hitched every few moments, before he suddenly laughed. He didn’t see Cantabile’s eye narrow at him.

“Uncle will be… be pleased…” he gasped. Each laugh pained him but he couldn’t stop. He squeezed his eyes shut hard, jaw clenched, little giggles bordering on hysteria crawling out of his throat. “We’ve got it, Syn! W-We have - ”

“Isaac!”

Syi flinched away from the authoritative tone beside him, the laughs abruptly ending. A Templar, no doubt! Someone intent on hurting his apprentice, his brother! Syi’s fingers jerked as if summoning a hidden blade and he snarled. His eyes flew open and he moved to smoothly end the threat’s life.

Except the threat pushed him back and pinned him without a struggle. His hidden blades were gone.

“No!” he shrieked, weakly fighting. Something in his shoulder twinged, his ribs protesting, his breaths strangled, but he wouldn’t stay down. They wouldn’t win!

“Isaac! We need the sleep draught now!” Those hands put slightly more pressure, avoiding his wounds (thank the gods), and he lashed out with his elbow, catching someone. A hand grabbed the back of his neck and he lashed out again only to be pinned.

“I won’t let you!” Syi snarled, wheezed. His eyes watered in the meager candlelight, boring into a worn eyepatch and a single eye. It didn’t matter that his voice was broken; he would die before he would let them lay a hand on Syn. “You won’t have my brother, Templar!”

A cup was pressed to his lips. He knew what came next: secrets desperate to escape from his lips, loss of awareness, of reality, of his brother at his side still clutching his hand - Syn needed to defend himself! Syi tried to turn away, feeling the cold press of a glass vial at his lips instead of the metal cup, and his eyes flashed to Syn. His brother was so close - why wasn’t he helping against their assailants? Syi’s brow tightened, a plea in his eyes:

Don’t let them take you.

“Syn, go!” he snapped before the hand at the back of his neck tightened, someone grabbed his jaw, and the contents of the cup were slid into his mouth. He expected either poison or sweet bitterness - the serum Quinn had - but it merely tasted of earth and herbs. Confusion replaced panic and he forgot about the hands holding him down, his gaze only on Syn, mind trying to understand fact from fiction, ally from enemy.

“He said…”

you’re so blind

you don’t see what your Master’s planning and you’re so close to him

you don’t see the hypocrisy you’re spouting, accepting his teachings as true

your Mentor is using you and every member of your Brotherhood to fulfill his own desires

he doesn’t care at all for your creed or your lives

why do you think he let you go and your brother die so easily

“Our Master… he…” This was worse, in some ways - he could feel his body relaxing, the hands holding his head still and supporting his neck gently lowering him back to the pillows. Still Syn’s hand gripped his own, knuckles white and desperate, and tears ran down his cheeks from eyes swimming with grief and pain. Syi shook his head slowly, but his tongue wouldn’t work. Just as a damp cloth was placed on his forehead, the bedding around him drenched in sweat, he closed his eyes and fell once more into darkness.

– – – – – – – –

“Find them! I don’t give a damn what you have to do, but find them!”

How many Templars did it take to find two Assassins in a city filled with nothing but Templars?! Mohs slammed his goblet onto the desk, ignoring the wine that splashed everywhere, and viciously swore in as many languages as he knew. He was going to strangle someone, something, anything if no results were brought to him within the hour. The stupid fool, Quinn! He used one of the only vials of Truth’s Speech they had left and had gotten nothing of use out of the Tempest.

He wanted to resurrect Quinn and kill him again.

“More the fool I,” Mohs muttered, rolling his eyes as he found a servant already cleaning up the wine and refilling the goblet all without a word. He swiftly lifted it and drank deeply, thinking through his next plans. He couldn’t burn the city down, not with the amount of citizens truly dedicated to his cause, but perhaps he could turn the people against the rats living among them. It would be foolish to assume the Assassins did not have some kind of base or group in Daath, though were unable to do much. Perhaps they had even managed to help the Tempest and his apprentice escape.

“Grand Maestro, a word if I may.”

Mohs raised an eyebrow and motioned for the Templar to enter. A higher ranking man without a name that Moh could place.

“Well?”

“Perhaps you should speak with the Fon Master,” the man suggested. “My men found him and Master Florian wandering about the Cathedral.”

“… Did they now.” Mohs placed the cup on the desk and sighed. “Very well, have them put in the lotus sitting room.” He met the guard’s steady gaze. “What of your main mission?”

“We have found few traces of them - blood and bodies are all within the Cathedral. There must have been another passage used.”

“It is certainly possible they escaped through one of the old passages, though I’d thought them all destroyed.”

All except the underground passages, but he couldn’t afford to get rid of those, not when the provided the best escape route for himself. Then again, if the Assassins knew of it, perhaps it was no longer safe.

“We will keep searching, Grand Maestro,” the man assured him.

“I’m certain. As soon as you have news, do bring it to me.” The man bowed and began to walk out, but Mohs spoke up once more, stopping the man in his tracks. “Send in a scribe on your way out.”

“Of course.”

As the scribe came in and set up shop at a desk, Mohs turned his back on the man and sipped continually from the goblet.

“You wished for me, Grand Maestro?”

“Yes. Take down a proclamation, if you would.” Mohs shifted the remainder of the liquid in this glass. “Good people of Daath, there is a plague among you that must be purged, lest it infect more…”

– – – – – – – –

Cantabile waited until Syi was quietly sleeping before she gently lifted each of his eyelids with the pad of her thumb. At her side, Isaac carefully lifted the lantern and peered down, watching the light play across Syi’s eyes. He frowned, glanced up at Cantabile, and backed away before placing the lantern back on its hook near the bedside.

“This isn’t the infection?” she said, sensing without action Isaac’s concern. Out of her entire crew, he was the best healer and certainly the most knowledgeable about the human body. His knowledge wasn’t infinite, but…

Isaac shook his head. His frown deepened as he stared down at Syi. Cantabile stayed silent, watching both him and Syn. Syn looked like he was about to break, but the Tempest held himself together if for no other reason than to break down away from prying eyes.

Beside her, Isaac sat down on a stool and picked up a nearby journal. Inside, neat notes were arranged by date and cause, along with symptoms. He had notes on herself, on Syn, on the two apprentices in the other room - all of them were studied meticulously. A match was used to hold a small bit of twine closed; if it needed to burn at a moment’s notice, it would.

He wrote down a few words with his quill, paused, scratched them out, and wrote new ones. Cantabile let him work for the moment and turned to Syn. She raised her head and stopped upon seeing their other guests in the doorway.

Luke’s face was pale, but his eyes were less feverish than they’d been the days before. Guy, too, was hardly hale. They both stood with determination and shaking legs and stared into the room at their Masters.

“Out,” she barked, her voice allowing for no argument. Luke and Guy froze like rabbits until Luke raised his head and jutted his chin out.

Cute. The rabbit thinks he can play.

“He was talking a little like that before, in the cell. When he broke me out,” Luke said, his voice strained but even. “I just thought it was because… well…” He nodded at the obvious injuries and closed his mouth. “He looked… confused when they brought me in and…” His breath hitched as he recalled them pushing him to his knees, his eyes boring into his Master’s, and heard the shift of leather as the whip was brought to bear. Guy’s hand on his arm brought him back as he visibly shuddered and swallowed unexpected tears and bile. “Like he was far away, or we were… or he was dreaming.”

“Thank you for the information,” Cantabile said flatly. “Now go rest. Immediately.”

“We don’t take - ” Luke started to argue angrily.

Guy gripped Luke around the arm. Quietly, he said, “Let Master Syn and Master Syi have some time to themselves, Luke.”

Luke clenched his jaw, glared at the floor, and turned away without a word. Behind them Cantabile closed the door and not for the first time wished it actually shut properly. With a sigh, she turned back and came to sit beside Syn.

Isaac began to sign to her when she looked up. Poison, but what kind unknown. Delusions likely. How long to fade, or how long in his system unknown. He frowned, paused, and glanced down at his hands before continuing. Doesn’t look like it’s a lethal poison. I don’t know what this is.

She nodded. Isaac let out a silent sigh and rose from his chair before placing the notebook on the bedside table. The pages fluttered briefly, revealing two portraits - Syn’s and Syi’s, on opposite pages, in almost perfect likenesses - before closing completely. He walked from the room, leaving Cantabile with Syn.

“I’ve heard tales of the Tempest,” Cantabile said softly, watching the flicker of the flame. “Blown out of proportion, of that I have no doubt, but tales of bravery on behalf of their brothers and sisters nevertheless. I had thought them mere legend until now.”

Isaac returned with several plates of food that he handed two to Cantabile before offering them both a little hopeful smile and disappearing once again from the room. She set one at Syn’s side and balanced the other on her lap, intending on keeping vigil with him as Syi slept. Her hidden blades at her wrists glinted in the lamplight.

Ion rehearsed this in his head over and over and over the minute he and Florian were called to the lotus sitting room. The lighting was dimmed, the carpets plush and the chairs comfortable. Ion remembered when Mohs had commissioned an artist to work on this room; the paintings on the stones were just as beautiful as when they had first been conceived, all yellows and oranges and maroons of a mountain-casted sunset. Somehow they had even found ventilation for this underground room, making it a wonderful place to think.

In this case it was wonderful for reflecting on anything that could be considered a slight to the man who gave you everything. Food, clothes, books, your brother…everything. Any mistake was taken with a calculating eye and a blade-like tongue, but Ion would live. He just wasn’t so sure about Florian. His brother hadn’t let go of his hand this entire time. He must be terrified. He looked it.

Ion was too, if he let himself admit it.

“It’s gonna be ok,” he quietly encouraged with a light squeeze of his fingers, “I promise. I don’t know why he wants to talk to us, but it’ll be fine.”

—-

“What good are stories, Cantabile?”

The lump in his throat hadn’t receded for the entirety of the show. The obvious recognition had lasted, but Syi’s mind had not - he soon had started spouting nonsense again, about an uncle, about finding something. The laughing. That sickly, crazed laughing that had bubbled up Syi’s throat and creaked out merely made him feel worse. He could hear it echoing through his ears, the high-pitched giggling accompanied by pained wheezing and physical threats of becoming ill…

…He knew this would haunt him. And if the Templars had broken his brother beyond repair, he would make sure to break as many of them as he could before going down as hard as possible. Not even Lorelei had the right to do this to his only blood.

Words and pain resounded, putting information together (“The torch” explained much, much more than he wanted to know). All of these things pieces, the picture coming into focus. Slowly. Slower, even. He just needed to sort the madness from the mysteries.

He knew nothing of an uncle; If Syn could be more certain about that, he would chop off his sword arm to prove it’s credibility. The meaning of the torch was obvious when paired with fear in Syi’s eyes. The fact that Syi could be so aware of a possible or perceived threat was a good sign, even if his fear there was unfounded.

What, though, could be so important about their Master, Mentor since birth, that would put hesitance in those green eyes?

Attempting to avoid being rude, Syn scooted away from the food subtly. Cantabile would catch the shift, of course, but that didn’t matter. Neither did the apprentices’ door being ever-so-slightly ajar, just enough to hear a conversation. “What good is a legend when it hurts my family? When only one of us stays standing?” Syn swallowed as he looked up, not bothering to hide whatever state his face may be in. It didn’t matter in the long run, now did it?

“My whole life has been the Brotherhood, saving others, keeping balance. That I’m fine with, it’s my purpose. My purpose is not,” he swallowed again, “To let those evil drek break my brother, my apprentice - who owes me nothing!” For the first time in hours, Syn rose, gently putting his brother’s arm on his torso. “Who followed me for Lorelei knows why, only to be struck down by an arrow and to have his friend get brutally tortured! I cannot stand, nor will I stand for it. If everything is permitted, then let it be permissible for me to bloody every Templar’s throat with my blade tonight. He clipped Syi’s wings, and if I cannot clip my own, then I will rip out the pulsing heart of their ENTIRE ORDER!”

“Do sit, Fon Master, Master Florian,” he said, motioning to the plush pillows at his feet. He waited until they were settled before he leaned forward to better see them. Nearby, birds twittered away in cages, feathers on display in a melange of color unavailable anywhere else.

“I was hoping to speak with you about your… wanderings, a few nights ago,” he said calmly. Beside him lay a bowl of grapes; he plucked several, studied them in his fingers, and ate meticulously. It wasn’t as good as the wine available in Daath, but it would do for the moment. “I was most concerned to hear of you being found out of your quarters. Was there a particular… reason?” He tilted his head to the side and his smile widened. “Did you perhaps hear anything? Or were you merely taking in the grand halls of the Cathedral?”

Placing the grapes aside, Mohs sat up a little further and sighed. “I had hoped your rooms, as many and fruitful as they are, would prove to be enough of a distraction for you. Clearly I was wrong to think such ways. Perhaps I should repurpose them, if they no longer suit you.”

– – – – – – –

“Sometimes, stories are all we have,” Cantabile said quietly, the plate carefully balanced on her lap. Her fingers briefly flitted over the eyepatch as her lips quirked slightly. Her cheek ached where Syi’s elbow had slammed into the side of her face, little more than weak flailing. She could hear the unadulterated fury in Syn’s voice, the helplessness and heartbreak. His brother would never be the same, and nor would he, regardless of the foolish hopes they had. Yet, without hope, Syi would be dead, and Syn… well, she suspected he would have killed himself fighting off the entirety of the Templar empire.

She didn’t feel pity - that would only enrage him further - but she could feel a sliver of sympathy, the echo of emotion she no longer allowed herself to have. She was the Master of this Brotherhood, forged in blood and steel and loss. If she allowed every death to bother her, she could not do what needed to be done. Gently she pulled the plate aside and rose in one fluid motion. Syi didn’t so much as stir, his breathing even and sleep calm.

“And what will happen when you’ve slit each of their throats and do not return?” Cantabile asked calmly. She dimmed the lantern light, throwing harsh shadows across all three of their faces. “When you die because of your fury and need for revenge? Yes, you will bloody yourself, bathe in crimson and fear, and to what end?”

She clasped her hands behind her back, keeping her expression without judgement. “You are no fool, Tempest. If I know anything to be true of you, I know that. Yes, you foolishly went without planning or recourse should it go wrong. Yet you escaped by your own weapon with your flesh and blood and apprentice.”

“I do not offer an answer, only a place of sanctuary. Your life is yours to do with what you will. Know only you leave those you saved behind for revenge, sweet poison that will forever stain your veins beneath your skin.” She moved until she stood in front of him. “Everything is permitted. Nothing is true. These are our tenets. Yet you and yours live by yet another.” Like a passing cool breeze, she slipped by him and opened the door leading into the apprentices’ room. Both were pretending to rest, but neither could truly hide their curiosity.

“For the Brotherhood, for the blood, for the life. For the good of man. For freedom.” She paused, hand on the doorframe, her back to Syn. “For family.”

“Do not lose sight of your truth.”

With that Cantabile headed deeper into the hideout and through the trapdoor back to the surface, the wood falling forward with a mighty clack.

Luke worked up his courage to sit up, though it clearly pained him to move. Nearby, Guy was not much better off. Neither turned their gazes from their furious Master.

The Fon Master sat down in a chair across from the larger man, hands nervously wringing themselves under the table as he spoke. Mohs always intimidated him, and Florian even more so. After all, Mohs always spoke with such sickly-sweet words, and Florian was much more receptive to those words of poison. Even though the two were technically equals in the religious hierarchy, and even though Ion held more public sway without even being seen…Mohs still ruled their lives completely.

It was hard holding back his nervous twitching as he spoke, but Ion tried his hardest. “We saw lots of things. Knights, fighting, blood.” The boy shuddered unwillingly at the sight of that man with his face slashing the necks of men in armor. “Blood all over the halls, the knights, the atrium. There wasn’t really much we could do, unfortunately.” —-

Eyes burning with fury watched the other Assassin as she walked in front of him, calmly quoted their tenants at him, then left with a thud of wood and two sets of concerned eyes staring at him. Of course she was right. He hadn’t known her but for a handful of days and still she was one of the most insightful people he’d ever met. She always spoke calm truth, smooth on the ears and cooling to the heart’s sorrows.

If she hadn’t have opened that door, he would have found something in the room to beat mercilessly into oblivion. If she had said anything different, he would be stepping out of the door to exact the revenge he so desperately craved. His subconscious praised her for not letting him stoop to the Templar’s level; His active mind still had blood at its fore-front.

But Luke and Guy were staring. He could see the sadness and pity in their eyes, the deep emotion for the situation that Syn was still surprised the two had. They didn’t need it in this case. They owed The Tempest nothing. Not a single thing. Yet they still followed, still enjoyed the twin’s company after all of this.

Syn felt the emotion welling up his throat, another lump in his throat (the same lump? He couldn’t tell anymore) making speech hard. His apprentices couldn’t see him like this. It would make things harder for them, their recovery.

His chest rose and fell with timed breaths. He closed his eyes, unclenching the fists he’d balled without noticing. It felt like an eternity before he opened them again and attempted to speak. “Go back to resting,” Syn eventually rasped out. A gloved hand grabbed the door handle and pulled, closing the door on those looks. If only he could do that for his thoughts, too.

“Isaac?” His raspy voice called as he made his way to where the mute resided. He’d never been into the room, but he had a good idea - he’d listened while the other moved about, mentally mapping what he could. When he found the room he thought was the correct one, he knocked on the door and waited for him to answer.

“A gald for your thoughts, Master Cantabile?” one of her guards said, sitting nearby and sharpening his blade.

“We have been out of contact for so long with the rest of the Brotherhoods,” she commented. “Survival has been our main goal in our tiny outpost, not communication. Yet… perhaps we are not as uninvolved as I thought.”

“Do you mean to say we should be more active? Killing Templars, storming the Cathedral?”

“No. We have too many to protect here and too few to do the protecting. War cannot be, nor will it ever be, our goal.” She shook her head. “I am perhaps… feeling. It is a strange thing to experience after so long.”

The man chuckled, his whetstone grinding against the edge of his sword. “You are not as heartless as you claim to be.”

Cantabile glanced in his direction, pipe smoke flitting around her head like a cloud. A small quirk of her lips said everything she didn’t. The man wisely closed his mouth and focused on his task.

Clashing, in the distance; screams, a red dawn…

She was on her feet in moments, wrapping herself in the swathes of fabric that hid her identity. Her guard stood up, sword already in its sheath, awaiting orders.

“Alert the others. Quietly.”

Then she was gone, disappearing through the empty streets. The screams were not far out; she could not afford them to be. If she was going to save a single soul, a single life, she needed to be there, among the people, the people she was sworn to keep safe.

– – – – – –

Isaac had been sitting in his dark rooms, staring at the journal he couldn’t read in his hands. No candles, no hint of light. To his fellows, he was merely sleeping, resting after helping those so badly injured. Yet he could not sleep; his mind was too active to do anything of the sort. Instead he fiddled with the pages, the worn leather, the twine holding it all together.

The knock at his door brought him out of his concentration. Quietly he rose and approached, opening the door a crack and finding the Tempest standing there. Isaac’s brow furrowed; had the brother awakened, needing more medical assistance? No… this Tempest was not flustered, merely serious.

And with that seriousness came his request, and Isaac’s face went white.

He wildly shook his head, refusing. How would more pain help the brothers? Even if Isaac did it to Syn, there was no way he would understand his brother’s pain in the same way that Syi had experienced it. As Syn pressed closer, Isaac opened his mouth as if to protest, but no sound emerged. Tilting his head up slightly showed the scarring around his throat and chin even in the dim light, the very thing that had stolen his voice.

How could he convince Syn? Isaac glanced down at the journal in his hands, the smooth leather scratched and dented, and gently pushed Syn back out the door. Without a sound he led Syn away, motioning for him to follow. Despite the size of the house on the upper surface, down here the passages were practically labyrinths in and of their own right.

The place he led Syn to was a library, stacked to the ceiling with books. It was empty for the moment save for two comfortable, worn chairs. Isaac took one and motioned for Syn to take the other. Only once they were both sitting did he produce his notebook, lift a quill from a nearby inkwell, and begin to write.

Feeling his pain won’t help, he wrote and showed the page to Syn. Once the other assassin finished reading, Isaac continued, You and your brother are close, anyone can see that, but injuring yourself? Here, now, in the enemy stronghold?

Isaac jumped at the sound of booted feet above them. He shrank in on himself, heart racing in his throat, and wondered what the commotion was about. Rarely was their Brotherhood so… frantic. Yet he needed to stay here, with Syn, if for no other reason than to protect Syn from himself and his guilt.

It hurts, he continued. It hurts to watch those we care about get hurt. But he will heal, with time. Isaac flipped back to a previous page and showed Syn what he had recorded. The words poison or tonic featured prominently in the latter passage. Hurting yourself will not make that pain any better. I know you feel… He paused, tapping his fingers on the page. Powerless.

More stomping above them. Isaac swallowed his fear and turned to the portraits he’d done of the brothers. Identical, though with differing scars and slightly different expressions, but almost perfect likenesses. He flipped to another blank page and added, You and your brother will survive, but he will need you and… I think you need him.

“Isaac!”

He was on his feet in moments, rushing for the door and notebook forgotten on the chair. Pulling the door open, he banged his fist on the edge, hoping to grab the newcomer’s attention before they went too far down the passageway.

“Cantabile’s out in the city along with half our crew. Something’s going on.”

Shaking his head, he motioned carefully with his hands to ask Are we in danger? What’s happening?

“Don’t know yet,” the man replied after following the movements. “Best to think we’re under attack, though. Safest thought process.”

Isaac looked back over his shoulder to Syn, his lips in a thin, tight line. This was yet another reason their conversation would have to wait, and any punishment Syn wanted would be put off - perhaps forgotten altogether, though Isaac doubted it. The guard looked to Syn and his grim expression did little to lighten Isaac’s worry.

“Tempest, right?” the man asked. “We could use your help, if you’re up for it.”

Worry in his eyes, Isaac watched Syn, wondering what the assassin would decide.

– – – – –

Mohs laughed at Ion’s admission; the boy could be so stupidly naive. Help? What could the Fon Master and his assistant do in the face of danger even Mohs’s guards could not?

“I imagine it was a frightening thing for you to deal with,” he said, voice oozing with sympathy. “Did you happen to encounter anyone besides the bloody corpses? I would so hate to think of you and your brother in danger.”

Did you see the Tempest? Encounter him or his crew? The question burned on his tongue, but Mohs wanted to see how Ion and Florian responded. He could see the wild fluttering of fingers and the fear in their eyes.

“I’m relieved you are both well,” Mohs said with a sigh. He carefully stood up, the guards stiffening at their posts as if in response. “Well, I’m afraid I must go deliver a speech to the crowds. They will want reassurances what with this threat so close to harming their precious Fon Master.”

“…Speech?” Florian said quietly, his voice breaking the tense silence.

“We have vermin in our streets,” Mohs said calmly. “It is about time we eradicated those vermin, yes?”

“Grand Maestro? Your stage is ready, sir.”

“Excellent! Do behave yourselves, my charges. Remember you are safe only within these walls and under my protection.” With that, he turned and left with a swish of his robes.

The guards followed after him, shutting and locking the doors behind them, leaving Florian and Ion alone. Florian whirled to face his brother, his fear making his entire body shake. He squeezed Ion’s hand almost to the point of pain.

“Ion, you don’t think…” Florian said, his voice strained. “The Grand Maestro wouldn’t hurt the innocent citizens, right? He isn’t a bad man… right?”

The doubt in his own voice made it crack. Around them the room continued to be beautiful, lush and welcoming, but it was all a facade. Their lives were a facade. Florian bit his lip, chewing viciously.

“What do we do?”

– – – – –

Cantabile stood atop a low roof, watching the entrance to the Cathedral where Mohs stood at a podium. He drummed his fingers lazily on the wood and stared over the crowd, studying the faces and blind devotion on those faces. So many people… it seemed the whole city was there. Some were clearly skeptical, but most watched Mohs with rapt attention, clearly excited and drawn in.

“This isn’t good,” one of her guards said quietly, his bow in hand and an arrow at the ready. “Whatever he’s announcing is big enough to warrant a presence this large.”

“Spread out. Make sure to not be seen,” Cantabile ordered. In moments, her people were scattered in the crowd and over the rooftops.

“Good people of Daath, there is a plague among you that must be purged, lest it infect more.” Mohs’s voice boomed over the crowd, almost instantly quieting everyone. Some scoffed aloud, others paid rapt attention. “I am, of course, talking of the heathens, the murderers, who live among you.” The crowd glanced around, at each other, as if sizing up their neighbors. “They go by many names, but the most widely spread is Assassin.”

Cantabile’s good eye narrowed at Mohs. She motioned for her people to stay in place, lest someone attempt an attack.

“Yes, good people, the Assassins live among you, festering and killing. Which one of you will be next? Will it be your child, your husband, your wife? Will you wait, allowing them to spread such bloodshed?” The crowd called out, some in fear, others in fury. “I am sending the soldiers of light, those who protect the Fon Master, to search and bring to justice those who would otherwise escape it! Are you with me!?”

The screams grew louder and Cantabile knew it was their time to retreat. She motioned for the other assassins to back off and head towards their headquarters; they needed time to move locations, get the wounded out.

“Two in particular are dangerous fiends!” Mohs shouted. “Beware the men with green hair, for they lead the Assassins in their bloody fanaticism! Bring them to me, so they may be brought to justice! Do not allow them to escape, for they no doubt will bring you nothing but harm and death!”

Yes, indeed - time to go. Cantabile fled with her group through the alleyways and streets, edging around crowded areas and stomping feet. The soldiers were moving far faster than she would have expected; Mohs had been planning this long before Syn and Syi had arrived. Perhaps their arrival had triggered the final motion into place, but…

Ion hugged himself as he thought. He couldn’t deal with this, this…obvious attempt at control. Ion didn’t want to see it, had closed his eyes to it for so long. Mohs has cared for them when they had been abandoned at birth. Had fed them, clothed them. Ion had been born into the role of a leader and had never had to lead anyone thanks to Mohs.

But he was starting to think that may be a problem. The question wasn’t should he lead at this point. Could he actually do it was.

“I…think that he IS going to hurt someone.” First it was that killer that looked so much like them that Ion still had burning questions. With all that had happened, he was starting to suspect that Mohs had done this to quite a few more people, but the first Ion had seen of it was that man. He had been kind, calm, collected, even when he had been killing the guards…but that all went out the window when he had heard a cry in defense of another. Maybe he killed for a reason.

Ion didn’t like to think people had to kill to do what they needed to, but what if it was all just self-defense after all?

“We need to go up to the balcony. The people need to hear the truth from the only other person they trust…me.”

—-

Clouded eyes stared up at the man who had become a bearer of bad news. His request had been denied. Issac wasn’t going to make him like Syi. Those words hurt almost as much as seeing Syi did. Syi was obviously in pain, and Syn could tell that he felt alone. Panicked. Helpless. What sort of brother was he if he couldn’t feel the way his twin did?

They had been inseparable since birth. They had lived their whole lives together, laughing and crying and killing together. They always knew what was in the other’s mind. But Syn was so far away from that shared mind now…How was he supposed to be the same? How was an eagle supposed to fly with only one wing?

A free hand lightly touched the shoulder that housed his half of the mark. The only surviving half. No.

No, he wouldn’t think of it like that. Syi would be ok. He would. 

“What sort of trouble are we talking?” He said as he flowed onto his feet from his chair. If there was something brewing with the Templars, it was probably his fault. He had a duty to see it through to the end and help out the Brotherhood in stomping it out. In a passing moment he realized that he had switched back to survival mode - it was the only way he had lived without Syi in his life as long as he did. 

That moment passed quickly as booted feet began to walk towards the open door towards the trouble. They lingered, however, in the doorway. Those eyes again turned to Issac, full of grief and sorrow. 

“You’re right, he does need me. And I do need him. And I know that the Brotherhood needs me, too. I will always do my job. But I will never be complete without my brother back to full health. Either way.” The green-haired man casually picked up a gold and red mask from off of a nearby bookcase, inspecting the work of art. It sparkled in the candle light, its end a point not unlike the beak of an eagle, red spiked motifs allowing sight. As someone who often wore masks, this particular one seemed to speak to him. So he put it on.

The switch was almost instantaneous. From mourning to merry, The Tempest’s mouth switched to an almost malicious grin. “I’ll be borrowing this, if you don’t mind, Doc. I’ll try not to smudge too much blood on it.”

Hurrying down the hallway and trying to not flinch at every sound above, notebook clutched under his arm, Isaac returned to the sick area. Luke and Guy, neither ready for real combat, were still standing of their own accords. In a way, Isaac was impressed; in another, he was very not happy with them moving around. He motioned for them to return to their beds while he headed for Syi’s.

The other half of the Tempest was shifting, brow bright with sweat and cheeks flushed with it. His breathing was shallow, quick, and Isaac frowned at the trembling in every part of Syi’s body. He didn’t honestly know if Syi would make a full recovery. Gods knew what the drug was that his body was still trying to process.

“Syn?” Syi’s voice croaked out. His eyes fluttered open revealing bloodshot, glassy emptiness. Gently Isaac took Syi’s hand and winced at the bandages wrapped around his wrist.

“What’s all that noise?” Syi asked. Slurred words, but at least semi-coherent. Isaac patted Syi’s fingers and squeezed. “Is it time to get up?” His brow furrowed and he blinked, clearly trying to see through the haze. “Did you find the Apple?”

What apple? Isaac frowned, trying to figure out why a piece of fruit was so important. He shook his head down at Syi but the Tempest seemed to not see it, or ignored it.

“One… five… twelve… twist to the left, right, left, then press the center - isn’t it beautiful, Syn?”

Isaac wished he had some way to quiet Syi, but with no words himself he could only squeeze Syi’s hand again. The Tempest’s head drifted to the side, eyes fluttering, and he stared out into space again, mumbling more numbers and equations to himself.

“Is he…”

His whole body jumped and Isaac nearly spun around only to find Luke and Guy nearby. They were fully dressed in the clothing the Brotherhood had managed to scrounge up for them. Both were wavering on their feet again and Isaac glared at them in an attempt at intimidating them.

“Is he… actually awake?” Luke asked. “Or…”

Isaac shook his head and glanced back down at Syi. The Tempest’s eyes had drifted closed, hand limp in Isaac’s, and his breathing returned to the shallow rasps Isaac was determined to fix.

“Isaac!” He looked to the woman standing in the doorway, clearly out of breath. “Cantabile’s on her way back. The ship’s ready to sail with the tide, and she says they need to be on it.” She glanced at Luke and Guy. “All of them.”

Nodding, Isaac motioned for the woman to gather a few of the others. He began putting together a pouch of herbs, teas, poultices, and spare bandages. Once it was done, he shoved it into Luke’s hands and got to work on another. Footsteps announced the arrival of those he’d called and he pushed another two satchels into Guy’s hands.

Carefully, he signed as the four moved to either side of Syi’s bed. They lifted him together while Isaac slid a litter underneath Syi himself. Then the four, two taking the litter and the other two acting as guards, began to make their way out. The woman from earlier paused and looked between Isaac and the other young apprentices.

Can you translate for me? he signed. She nodded and followed his hands before telling Guy and Luke, “Isaac says to follow those with the Tempest. They’re carrying him to a ship - all four of you are leaving as soon as possible. Neither of you are in any condition to fight so only engage as a last resort. Use the supplies to take care of each other.”

Isaac nodded and glanced at the two. Luke bowed his head, avoiding moving his back as much as possible, and said, “Thank you. I know it’s not much, but… thank you for helping us.”

With a smile, Isaac pushed them and the woman from the room. He began to clear off the beds, feeling the weight of the lives that would once again be on his shoulders. Soon enough his brothers and sisters would need his help. He would not fail them.

– – – – –

Mohs continued speaking, drumming his fingers on his belly. The crowd, for the most part, seemed to believe him, though he saw more than a few frowns among them. Did they need more proof? He hid his smile in his own shoulder as he motioned for his guards to drag the bodies out. Men and women alike screamed in horror at the bodies, drenched in more blood for better effect. Quinn himself was missing his head, which was rolled out to land next to his decimated body.

“See? See what cruelty they wrought? We are blessed that these men and women were brave enough to give their lives in defense of the Fon Master! Do you not believe your eyes now?”

– – – – –

Cantabile intercepted the group heading right for the Templars. She grabbed Syn’s arm and ignored any jerk reaction, instead staring into his eyes with her remaining one.

Syn ignored that sentiment as he stopped at the main door. A small number of men and women, all dedicated to the cause, pooled there; Blood would be their companions tonight, their family, their only solace in the world. All of them looked angry. If the whispers he was hearing were true, they had every reason to be. Madman Mohs was trying to flush them out.

There were a few glances his way as he heard the whispers. “How about we all talk as equals, since this massacre seems to have something to do with me?” The question was accompanied by a cocky grin. It, like the mask, were helping him hide the crushing depression he heart was sunken into. “I mean, you all were talking about me, right? So let’s share with the class.”

Oh, now there was no eye contact at all. As if they didn’t think he could gather insinuations from context. It took a minute for someone, the only brave soul it seemed, to pipe up that Mohs was trying to hunt Syn down. 

“And no-one thought that was pertinent information to share with their brother? That’s fine. I’m intimidating, I get it.” For emphasis, he brushed his shoulders, clearing off invisible dust. “But need I remind you that we’re family, regardless of who brings down the squeaky hammer the Templars try to weild? I’m willing to fight for you all. Glad to see that’s reciprocated...” Time to lay on the guilt. “...Even if it’s only because you’re boss is telling you to.”

Convenient timing rang out as the doors opened and Assassin’s began to head to their hiding places, crawling up walls and hiding in alleyways. There was sure to be some blood tonight. Syn sighed, closed his eyes and strode forward--

--Only to be stopped by Cantibile and told to flee the city. She thought he would take this lying down?!

Well, yes, he would, actually. Syi was going to be moved as well. Syi couldn’t fight, his apprentices couldn’t fight (even if they were still going to try), and there were only so many brethren that could defend them in transit. For the love of Lorelei...

With a curse, a snort, and a wave to the one-eyed Assassin, Syn walked back inside as a young voice began to ring out between alleys.

----

 It didn’t take all that much to get up to the balcony. Just like the night Ion met that...look-alike...everything was quiet in the halls. It seemed like the guards were all off on guard duty or something else while Mohs did his speech.

“Stick close to me, Florian,” Ion advised, just to be safe. So little resistance couldn’t mean anything good.

Slowly, and with great discrecion, the man moved through the catacombs, eventually making it to the actual Church Hall. Glass window sparkled in the daylight, casting colorful shadows onto the pews, the pulpit, the crowds that gathered near the deacon standing there. It seemed that he held an axe--

“Kill him!!” Chanted the crowds surrounding a man crouched on his knees. There was a bag over his head. Even over the roar of the people he could hear pleas for his life, sobbing, that he wasn’t an assassin, he swore, he swore!! The deacon was praying for the man, for his eternal soul...and as the deacon said amen, he handed to axe to a guardsmen who swung true.

The crowd cheered. Ion felt sick. They needed to hurry. 

Feet flew up a flight of stairs that lead to a low-hanging balcony. Before, when Ion was allowed to attend the sermons, he was able to come up here and watch the people go by. The view of the sea usually calmed him, made him happy with his station in life. The sight that he beheld this time, though, started with mobs of people tearing at anyone they could find. guards trying to corral men and women into make-shift pens. This wasn’t right.

“THIS ISN’T RIGHT!” He screamed, his scream amplified by tech embedded into the railing. Confusion soon set over the crowd, faces turning until most were staring up at the frightened face of the Fon Master.

“Why are you doing this? Why do you attack one another? There is no reason for this...this animosity! Please all of you, I implore you to stop this madness!”

“But the Assassins tried to kill you, Fon Master!”

“Yeah, we’re just defending you!”

“Assassins?” Confusion leaked into his voice shortly before the realization. Mohs was using that break in to frame his enemies - to turn the populace. “Assassins never came for me! There has only been one attack, and it was on the captors of a man’s brother, not on me! The man who I met was kind, hurt, and yes, he killed. But only in defense! He defended his brother from the Oracle Knights!” Small hands brought themselves up to his chest. 

Syn’s face was hidden, shadowed by despair and loss. Why wouldn’t Syn look at him? Was he that ashamed of his older brother? Syi couldn’t blame him in the least. The bandages were wet at his wrist - the wounds had been cauterized, so not blood…

He watched Syn through drooping eyelids and squeezed his brother’s hand as tightly as he could. Time slipped; he drifted with it, grimaced as his body burned. His eyes fell to Syn’s clothed shoulder, searching for evidence of bandages. He couldn’t smell anything except herbs and medicines, wax and blood.

“The torch… he didn’t… right?” he asked, blinking slowly. “He…he didn't… are you…?”

Why was it so difficult to focus? He let his eyes drift shut, breathing hitched every few moments, before he suddenly laughed. He didn’t see Cantabile’s eye narrow at him.

“Uncle will be… be pleased…” he gasped. Each laugh pained him but he couldn’t stop. He squeezed his eyes shut hard, jaw clenched, little giggles bordering on hysteria crawling out of his throat. “We’ve got it, Syn! W-We have - ”

“Isaac!”

Syi flinched away from the authoritative tone beside him, the laughs abruptly ending. A Templar, no doubt! Someone intent on hurting his apprentice, his brother! Syi’s fingers jerked as if summoning a hidden blade and he snarled. His eyes flew open and he moved to smoothly end the threat’s life.

Except the threat pushed him back and pinned him without a struggle. His hidden blades were gone.

“No!” he shrieked, weakly fighting. Something in his shoulder twinged, his ribs protesting, his breaths strangled, but he wouldn’t stay down. They wouldn’t win!

“Isaac! We need the sleep draught now!” Those hands put slightly more pressure, avoiding his wounds (thank the gods), and he lashed out with his elbow, catching someone. A hand grabbed the back of his neck and he lashed out again only to be pinned.

“I won’t let you!” Syi snarled, wheezed. His eyes watered in the meager candlelight, boring into a worn eyepatch and a single eye. It didn’t matter that his voice was broken; he would die before he would let them lay a hand on Syn. “You won’t have my brother, Templar!”

A cup was pressed to his lips. He knew what came next: secrets desperate to escape from his lips, loss of awareness, of reality, of his brother at his side still clutching his hand - Syn needed to defend himself! Syi tried to turn away, feeling the cold press of a glass vial at his lips instead of the metal cup, and his eyes flashed to Syn. His brother was so close - why wasn’t he helping against their assailants? Syi’s brow tightened, a plea in his eyes:

Don’t let them take you.

“Syn, go!” he snapped before the hand at the back of his neck tightened, someone grabbed his jaw, and the contents of the cup were slid into his mouth. He expected either poison or sweet bitterness - the serum Quinn had - but it merely tasted of earth and herbs. Confusion replaced panic and he forgot about the hands holding him down, his gaze only on Syn, mind trying to understand fact from fiction, ally from enemy.

“He said…”

you’re so blind

you don’t see what your Master’s planning and you’re so close to him

you don’t see the hypocrisy you’re spouting, accepting his teachings as true

your Mentor is using you and every member of your Brotherhood to fulfill his own desires

he doesn’t care at all for your creed or your lives

why do you think he let you go and your brother die so easily

“Our Master… he…” This was worse, in some ways - he could feel his body relaxing, the hands holding his head still and supporting his neck gently lowering him back to the pillows. Still Syn’s hand gripped his own, knuckles white and desperate, and tears ran down his cheeks from eyes swimming with grief and pain. Syi shook his head slowly, but his tongue wouldn’t work. Just as a damp cloth was placed on his forehead, the bedding around him drenched in sweat, he closed his eyes and fell once more into darkness.

– – – – – – – –

“Find them! I don’t give a damn what you have to do, but find them!”

How many Templars did it take to find two Assassins in a city filled with nothing but Templars?! Mohs slammed his goblet onto the desk, ignoring the wine that splashed everywhere, and viciously swore in as many languages as he knew. He was going to strangle someone, something, anything if no results were brought to him within the hour. The stupid fool, Quinn! He used one of the only vials of Truth’s Speech they had left and had gotten nothing of use out of the Tempest.

He wanted to resurrect Quinn and kill him again.

“More the fool I,” Mohs muttered, rolling his eyes as he found a servant already cleaning up the wine and refilling the goblet all without a word. He swiftly lifted it and drank deeply, thinking through his next plans. He couldn’t burn the city down, not with the amount of citizens truly dedicated to his cause, but perhaps he could turn the people against the rats living among them. It would be foolish to assume the Assassins did not have some kind of base or group in Daath, though were unable to do much. Perhaps they had even managed to help the Tempest and his apprentice escape.

“Grand Maestro, a word if I may.”

Mohs raised an eyebrow and motioned for the Templar to enter. A higher ranking man without a name that Moh could place.

“Well?”

“Perhaps you should speak with the Fon Master,” the man suggested. “My men found him and Master Florian wandering about the Cathedral.”

“… Did they now.” Mohs placed the cup on the desk and sighed. “Very well, have them put in the lotus sitting room.” He met the guard’s steady gaze. “What of your main mission?”

“We have found few traces of them - blood and bodies are all within the Cathedral. There must have been another passage used.”

“It is certainly possible they escaped through one of the old passages, though I’d thought them all destroyed.”

All except the underground passages, but he couldn’t afford to get rid of those, not when the provided the best escape route for himself. Then again, if the Assassins knew of it, perhaps it was no longer safe.

“We will keep searching, Grand Maestro,” the man assured him.

“I’m certain. As soon as you have news, do bring it to me.” The man bowed and began to walk out, but Mohs spoke up once more, stopping the man in his tracks. “Send in a scribe on your way out.”

“Of course.”

As the scribe came in and set up shop at a desk, Mohs turned his back on the man and sipped continually from the goblet.

“You wished for me, Grand Maestro?”

“Yes. Take down a proclamation, if you would.” Mohs shifted the remainder of the liquid in this glass. “Good people of Daath, there is a plague among you that must be purged, lest it infect more…”

– – – – – – – –

Cantabile waited until Syi was quietly sleeping before she gently lifted each of his eyelids with the pad of her thumb. At her side, Isaac carefully lifted the lantern and peered down, watching the light play across Syi’s eyes. He frowned, glanced up at Cantabile, and backed away before placing the lantern back on its hook near the bedside.

“This isn’t the infection?” she said, sensing without action Isaac’s concern. Out of her entire crew, he was the best healer and certainly the most knowledgeable about the human body. His knowledge wasn’t infinite, but…

Isaac shook his head. His frown deepened as he stared down at Syi. Cantabile stayed silent, watching both him and Syn. Syn looked like he was about to break, but the Tempest held himself together if for no other reason than to break down away from prying eyes.

Beside her, Isaac sat down on a stool and picked up a nearby journal. Inside, neat notes were arranged by date and cause, along with symptoms. He had notes on herself, on Syn, on the two apprentices in the other room - all of them were studied meticulously. A match was used to hold a small bit of twine closed; if it needed to burn at a moment’s notice, it would.

He wrote down a few words with his quill, paused, scratched them out, and wrote new ones. Cantabile let him work for the moment and turned to Syn. She raised her head and stopped upon seeing their other guests in the doorway.

Luke’s face was pale, but his eyes were less feverish than they’d been the days before. Guy, too, was hardly hale. They both stood with determination and shaking legs and stared into the room at their Masters.

“Out,” she barked, her voice allowing for no argument. Luke and Guy froze like rabbits until Luke raised his head and jutted his chin out.

Cute. The rabbit thinks he can play.

“He was talking a little like that before, in the cell. When he broke me out,” Luke said, his voice strained but even. “I just thought it was because… well…” He nodded at the obvious injuries and closed his mouth. “He looked… confused when they brought me in and…” His breath hitched as he recalled them pushing him to his knees, his eyes boring into his Master’s, and heard the shift of leather as the whip was brought to bear. Guy’s hand on his arm brought him back as he visibly shuddered and swallowed unexpected tears and bile. “Like he was far away, or we were… or he was dreaming.”

“Thank you for the information,” Cantabile said flatly. “Now go rest. Immediately.”

“We don’t take - ” Luke started to argue angrily.

Guy gripped Luke around the arm. Quietly, he said, “Let Master Syn and Master Syi have some time to themselves, Luke.”

Luke clenched his jaw, glared at the floor, and turned away without a word. Behind them Cantabile closed the door and not for the first time wished it actually shut properly. With a sigh, she turned back and came to sit beside Syn.

Isaac began to sign to her when she looked up. Poison, but what kind unknown. Delusions likely. How long to fade, or how long in his system unknown. He frowned, paused, and glanced down at his hands before continuing. Doesn’t look like it’s a lethal poison. I don’t know what this is.

She nodded. Isaac let out a silent sigh and rose from his chair before placing the notebook on the bedside table. The pages fluttered briefly, revealing two portraits - Syn’s and Syi’s, on opposite pages, in almost perfect likenesses - before closing completely. He walked from the room, leaving Cantabile with Syn.

“I’ve heard tales of the Tempest,” Cantabile said softly, watching the flicker of the flame. “Blown out of proportion, of that I have no doubt, but tales of bravery on behalf of their brothers and sisters nevertheless. I had thought them mere legend until now.”

Isaac returned with several plates of food that he handed two to Cantabile before offering them both a little hopeful smile and disappearing once again from the room. She set one at Syn’s side and balanced the other on her lap, intending on keeping vigil with him as Syi slept. Her hidden blades at her wrists glinted in the lamplight.

Ion rehearsed this in his head over and over and over the minute he and Florian were called to the lotus sitting room. The lighting was dimmed, the carpets plush and the chairs comfortable. Ion remembered when Mohs had commissioned an artist to work on this room; the paintings on the stones were just as beautiful as when they had first been conceived, all yellows and oranges and maroons of a mountain-casted sunset. Somehow they had even found ventilation for this underground room, making it a wonderful place to think.

In this case it was wonderful for reflecting on anything that could be considered a slight to the man who gave you everything. Food, clothes, books, your brother…everything. Any mistake was taken with a calculating eye and a blade-like tongue, but Ion would live. He just wasn’t so sure about Florian. His brother hadn’t let go of his hand this entire time. He must be terrified. He looked it.

Ion was too, if he let himself admit it.

“It’s gonna be ok,” he quietly encouraged with a light squeeze of his fingers, “I promise. I don’t know why he wants to talk to us, but it’ll be fine.”

—-

“What good are stories, Cantabile?”

The lump in his throat hadn’t receded for the entirety of the show. The obvious recognition had lasted, but Syi’s mind had not - he soon had started spouting nonsense again, about an uncle, about finding something. The laughing. That sickly, crazed laughing that had bubbled up Syi’s throat and creaked out merely made him feel worse. He could hear it echoing through his ears, the high-pitched giggling accompanied by pained wheezing and physical threats of becoming ill…

…He knew this would haunt him. And if the Templars had broken his brother beyond repair, he would make sure to break as many of them as he could before going down as hard as possible. Not even Lorelei had the right to do this to his only blood.

Words and pain resounded, putting information together (“The torch” explained much, much more than he wanted to know). All of these things pieces, the picture coming into focus. Slowly. Slower, even. He just needed to sort the madness from the mysteries.

He knew nothing of an uncle; If Syn could be more certain about that, he would chop off his sword arm to prove it’s credibility. The meaning of the torch was obvious when paired with fear in Syi’s eyes. The fact that Syi could be so aware of a possible or perceived threat was a good sign, even if his fear there was unfounded.

What, though, could be so important about their Master, Mentor since birth, that would put hesitance in those green eyes?

Attempting to avoid being rude, Syn scooted away from the food subtly. Cantabile would catch the shift, of course, but that didn’t matter. Neither did the apprentices’ door being ever-so-slightly ajar, just enough to hear a conversation. “What good is a legend when it hurts my family? When only one of us stays standing?” Syn swallowed as he looked up, not bothering to hide whatever state his face may be in. It didn’t matter in the long run, now did it?

“My whole life has been the Brotherhood, saving others, keeping balance. That I’m fine with, it’s my purpose. My purpose is not,” he swallowed again, “To let those evil drek break my brother, my apprentice - who owes me nothing!” For the first time in hours, Syn rose, gently putting his brother’s arm on his torso. “Who followed me for Lorelei knows why, only to be struck down by an arrow and to have his friend get brutally tortured! I cannot stand, nor will I stand for it. If everything is permitted, then let it be permissible for me to bloody every Templar’s throat with my blade tonight. He clipped Syi’s wings, and if I cannot clip my own, then I will rip out the pulsing heart of their ENTIRE ORDER!”

“Do sit, Fon Master, Master Florian,” he said, motioning to the plush pillows at his feet. He waited until they were settled before he leaned forward to better see them. Nearby, birds twittered away in cages, feathers on display in a melange of color unavailable anywhere else.

“I was hoping to speak with you about your… wanderings, a few nights ago,” he said calmly. Beside him lay a bowl of grapes; he plucked several, studied them in his fingers, and ate meticulously. It wasn’t as good as the wine available in Daath, but it would do for the moment. “I was most concerned to hear of you being found out of your quarters. Was there a particular… reason?” He tilted his head to the side and his smile widened. “Did you perhaps hear anything? Or were you merely taking in the grand halls of the Cathedral?”

Placing the grapes aside, Mohs sat up a little further and sighed. “I had hoped your rooms, as many and fruitful as they are, would prove to be enough of a distraction for you. Clearly I was wrong to think such ways. Perhaps I should repurpose them, if they no longer suit you.”

– – – – – – –

“Sometimes, stories are all we have,” Cantabile said quietly, the plate carefully balanced on her lap. Her fingers briefly flitted over the eyepatch as her lips quirked slightly. Her cheek ached where Syi’s elbow had slammed into the side of her face, little more than weak flailing. She could hear the unadulterated fury in Syn’s voice, the helplessness and heartbreak. His brother would never be the same, and nor would he, regardless of the foolish hopes they had. Yet, without hope, Syi would be dead, and Syn… well, she suspected he would have killed himself fighting off the entirety of the Templar empire.

She didn’t feel pity - that would only enrage him further - but she could feel a sliver of sympathy, the echo of emotion she no longer allowed herself to have. She was the Master of this Brotherhood, forged in blood and steel and loss. If she allowed every death to bother her, she could not do what needed to be done. Gently she pulled the plate aside and rose in one fluid motion. Syi didn’t so much as stir, his breathing even and sleep calm.

“And what will happen when you’ve slit each of their throats and do not return?” Cantabile asked calmly. She dimmed the lantern light, throwing harsh shadows across all three of their faces. “When you die because of your fury and need for revenge? Yes, you will bloody yourself, bathe in crimson and fear, and to what end?”

She clasped her hands behind her back, keeping her expression without judgement. “You are no fool, Tempest. If I know anything to be true of you, I know that. Yes, you foolishly went without planning or recourse should it go wrong. Yet you escaped by your own weapon with your flesh and blood and apprentice.”

“I do not offer an answer, only a place of sanctuary. Your life is yours to do with what you will. Know only you leave those you saved behind for revenge, sweet poison that will forever stain your veins beneath your skin.” She moved until she stood in front of him. “Everything is permitted. Nothing is true. These are our tenets. Yet you and yours live by yet another.” Like a passing cool breeze, she slipped by him and opened the door leading into the apprentices’ room. Both were pretending to rest, but neither could truly hide their curiosity.

“For the Brotherhood, for the blood, for the life. For the good of man. For freedom.” She paused, hand on the doorframe, her back to Syn. “For family.”

“Do not lose sight of your truth.”

With that Cantabile headed deeper into the hideout and through the trapdoor back to the surface, the wood falling forward with a mighty clack.

Luke worked up his courage to sit up, though it clearly pained him to move. Nearby, Guy was not much better off. Neither turned their gazes from their furious Master.

The Fon Master sat down in a chair across from the larger man, hands nervously wringing themselves under the table as he spoke. Mohs always intimidated him, and Florian even more so. After all, Mohs always spoke with such sickly-sweet words, and Florian was much more receptive to those words of poison. Even though the two were technically equals in the religious hierarchy, and even though Ion held more public sway without even being seen…Mohs still ruled their lives completely.

It was hard holding back his nervous twitching as he spoke, but Ion tried his hardest. “We saw lots of things. Knights, fighting, blood.” The boy shuddered unwillingly at the sight of that man with his face slashing the necks of men in armor. “Blood all over the halls, the knights, the atrium. There wasn’t really much we could do, unfortunately.” —-

Eyes burning with fury watched the other Assassin as she walked in front of him, calmly quoted their tenants at him, then left with a thud of wood and two sets of concerned eyes staring at him. Of course she was right. He hadn’t known her but for a handful of days and still she was one of the most insightful people he’d ever met. She always spoke calm truth, smooth on the ears and cooling to the heart’s sorrows.

If she hadn’t have opened that door, he would have found something in the room to beat mercilessly into oblivion. If she had said anything different, he would be stepping out of the door to exact the revenge he so desperately craved. His subconscious praised her for not letting him stoop to the Templar’s level; His active mind still had blood at its fore-front.

But Luke and Guy were staring. He could see the sadness and pity in their eyes, the deep emotion for the situation that Syn was still surprised the two had. They didn’t need it in this case. They owed The Tempest nothing. Not a single thing. Yet they still followed, still enjoyed the twin’s company after all of this.

Syn felt the emotion welling up his throat, another lump in his throat (the same lump? He couldn’t tell anymore) making speech hard. His apprentices couldn’t see him like this. It would make things harder for them, their recovery.

His chest rose and fell with timed breaths. He closed his eyes, unclenching the fists he’d balled without noticing. It felt like an eternity before he opened them again and attempted to speak. “Go back to resting,” Syn eventually rasped out. A gloved hand grabbed the door handle and pulled, closing the door on those looks. If only he could do that for his thoughts, too.

“Isaac?” His raspy voice called as he made his way to where the mute resided. He’d never been into the room, but he had a good idea - he’d listened while the other moved about, mentally mapping what he could. When he found the room he thought was the correct one, he knocked on the door and waited for him to answer.

“A gald for your thoughts, Master Cantabile?” one of her guards said, sitting nearby and sharpening his blade.

“We have been out of contact for so long with the rest of the Brotherhoods,” she commented. “Survival has been our main goal in our tiny outpost, not communication. Yet… perhaps we are not as uninvolved as I thought.”

“Do you mean to say we should be more active? Killing Templars, storming the Cathedral?”

“No. We have too many to protect here and too few to do the protecting. War cannot be, nor will it ever be, our goal.” She shook her head. “I am perhaps… feeling. It is a strange thing to experience after so long.”

The man chuckled, his whetstone grinding against the edge of his sword. “You are not as heartless as you claim to be.”

Cantabile glanced in his direction, pipe smoke flitting around her head like a cloud. A small quirk of her lips said everything she didn’t. The man wisely closed his mouth and focused on his task.

Clashing, in the distance; screams, a red dawn…

She was on her feet in moments, wrapping herself in the swathes of fabric that hid her identity. Her guard stood up, sword already in its sheath, awaiting orders.

“Alert the others. Quietly.”

Then she was gone, disappearing through the empty streets. The screams were not far out; she could not afford them to be. If she was going to save a single soul, a single life, she needed to be there, among the people, the people she was sworn to keep safe.

– – – – – –

Isaac had been sitting in his dark rooms, staring at the journal he couldn’t read in his hands. No candles, no hint of light. To his fellows, he was merely sleeping, resting after helping those so badly injured. Yet he could not sleep; his mind was too active to do anything of the sort. Instead he fiddled with the pages, the worn leather, the twine holding it all together.

The knock at his door brought him out of his concentration. Quietly he rose and approached, opening the door a crack and finding the Tempest standing there. Isaac’s brow furrowed; had the brother awakened, needing more medical assistance? No… this Tempest was not flustered, merely serious.

And with that seriousness came his request, and Isaac’s face went white.

He wildly shook his head, refusing. How would more pain help the brothers? Even if Isaac did it to Syn, there was no way he would understand his brother’s pain in the same way that Syi had experienced it. As Syn pressed closer, Isaac opened his mouth as if to protest, but no sound emerged. Tilting his head up slightly showed the scarring around his throat and chin even in the dim light, the very thing that had stolen his voice.

How could he convince Syn? Isaac glanced down at the journal in his hands, the smooth leather scratched and dented, and gently pushed Syn back out the door. Without a sound he led Syn away, motioning for him to follow. Despite the size of the house on the upper surface, down here the passages were practically labyrinths in and of their own right.

The place he led Syn to was a library, stacked to the ceiling with books. It was empty for the moment save for two comfortable, worn chairs. Isaac took one and motioned for Syn to take the other. Only once they were both sitting did he produce his notebook, lift a quill from a nearby inkwell, and begin to write.

Feeling his pain won’t help, he wrote and showed the page to Syn. Once the other assassin finished reading, Isaac continued, You and your brother are close, anyone can see that, but injuring yourself? Here, now, in the enemy stronghold?

Isaac jumped at the sound of booted feet above them. He shrank in on himself, heart racing in his throat, and wondered what the commotion was about. Rarely was their Brotherhood so… frantic. Yet he needed to stay here, with Syn, if for no other reason than to protect Syn from himself and his guilt.

It hurts, he continued. It hurts to watch those we care about get hurt. But he will heal, with time. Isaac flipped back to a previous page and showed Syn what he had recorded. The words poison or tonic featured prominently in the latter passage. Hurting yourself will not make that pain any better. I know you feel… He paused, tapping his fingers on the page. Powerless.

More stomping above them. Isaac swallowed his fear and turned to the portraits he’d done of the brothers. Identical, though with differing scars and slightly different expressions, but almost perfect likenesses. He flipped to another blank page and added, You and your brother will survive, but he will need you and… I think you need him.

“Isaac!”

He was on his feet in moments, rushing for the door and notebook forgotten on the chair. Pulling the door open, he banged his fist on the edge, hoping to grab the newcomer’s attention before they went too far down the passageway.

“Cantabile’s out in the city along with half our crew. Something’s going on.”

Shaking his head, he motioned carefully with his hands to ask Are we in danger? What’s happening?

“Don’t know yet,” the man replied after following the movements. “Best to think we’re under attack, though. Safest thought process.”

Isaac looked back over his shoulder to Syn, his lips in a thin, tight line. This was yet another reason their conversation would have to wait, and any punishment Syn wanted would be put off - perhaps forgotten altogether, though Isaac doubted it. The guard looked to Syn and his grim expression did little to lighten Isaac’s worry.

“Tempest, right?” the man asked. “We could use your help, if you’re up for it.”

Worry in his eyes, Isaac watched Syn, wondering what the assassin would decide.

– – – – –

Mohs laughed at Ion’s admission; the boy could be so stupidly naive. Help? What could the Fon Master and his assistant do in the face of danger even Mohs’s guards could not?

“I imagine it was a frightening thing for you to deal with,” he said, voice oozing with sympathy. “Did you happen to encounter anyone besides the bloody corpses? I would so hate to think of you and your brother in danger.”

Did you see the Tempest? Encounter him or his crew? The question burned on his tongue, but Mohs wanted to see how Ion and Florian responded. He could see the wild fluttering of fingers and the fear in their eyes.

“I’m relieved you are both well,” Mohs said with a sigh. He carefully stood up, the guards stiffening at their posts as if in response. “Well, I’m afraid I must go deliver a speech to the crowds. They will want reassurances what with this threat so close to harming their precious Fon Master.”

“…Speech?” Florian said quietly, his voice breaking the tense silence.

“We have vermin in our streets,” Mohs said calmly. “It is about time we eradicated those vermin, yes?”

“Grand Maestro? Your stage is ready, sir.”

“Excellent! Do behave yourselves, my charges. Remember you are safe only within these walls and under my protection.” With that, he turned and left with a swish of his robes.

The guards followed after him, shutting and locking the doors behind them, leaving Florian and Ion alone. Florian whirled to face his brother, his fear making his entire body shake. He squeezed Ion’s hand almost to the point of pain.

“Ion, you don’t think…” Florian said, his voice strained. “The Grand Maestro wouldn’t hurt the innocent citizens, right? He isn’t a bad man… right?”

The doubt in his own voice made it crack. Around them the room continued to be beautiful, lush and welcoming, but it was all a facade. Their lives were a facade. Florian bit his lip, chewing viciously.

“What do we do?”

– – – – –

Cantabile stood atop a low roof, watching the entrance to the Cathedral where Mohs stood at a podium. He drummed his fingers lazily on the wood and stared over the crowd, studying the faces and blind devotion on those faces. So many people… it seemed the whole city was there. Some were clearly skeptical, but most watched Mohs with rapt attention, clearly excited and drawn in.

“This isn’t good,” one of her guards said quietly, his bow in hand and an arrow at the ready. “Whatever he’s announcing is big enough to warrant a presence this large.”

“Spread out. Make sure to not be seen,” Cantabile ordered. In moments, her people were scattered in the crowd and over the rooftops.

“Good people of Daath, there is a plague among you that must be purged, lest it infect more.” Mohs’s voice boomed over the crowd, almost instantly quieting everyone. Some scoffed aloud, others paid rapt attention. “I am, of course, talking of the heathens, the murderers, who live among you.” The crowd glanced around, at each other, as if sizing up their neighbors. “They go by many names, but the most widely spread is Assassin.”

Cantabile’s good eye narrowed at Mohs. She motioned for her people to stay in place, lest someone attempt an attack.

“Yes, good people, the Assassins live among you, festering and killing. Which one of you will be next? Will it be your child, your husband, your wife? Will you wait, allowing them to spread such bloodshed?” The crowd called out, some in fear, others in fury. “I am sending the soldiers of light, those who protect the Fon Master, to search and bring to justice those who would otherwise escape it! Are you with me!?”

The screams grew louder and Cantabile knew it was their time to retreat. She motioned for the other assassins to back off and head towards their headquarters; they needed time to move locations, get the wounded out.

“Two in particular are dangerous fiends!” Mohs shouted. “Beware the men with green hair, for they lead the Assassins in their bloody fanaticism! Bring them to me, so they may be brought to justice! Do not allow them to escape, for they no doubt will bring you nothing but harm and death!”

Yes, indeed - time to go. Cantabile fled with her group through the alleyways and streets, edging around crowded areas and stomping feet. The soldiers were moving far faster than she would have expected; Mohs had been planning this long before Syn and Syi had arrived. Perhaps their arrival had triggered the final motion into place, but…

Ion hugged himself as he thought. He couldn’t deal with this, this...obvious attempt at control. Ion didn’t want to see it, had closed his eyes to it for so long. Mohs has cared for them when they had been abandoned at birth. Had fed them, clothed them. Ion had been born into the role of a leader and had never had to lead anyone thanks to Mohs.

But he was starting to think that may be a problem. The question wasn’t should he lead at this point. Could he actually do it was.

“I...think that he IS going to hurt someone.” First it was that killer that looked so much like them that Ion still had burning questions. With all that had happened, he was starting to suspect that Mohs had done this to quite a few more people, but the first Ion had seen of it was that man. He had been kind, calm, collected, even when he had been killing the guards...but that all went out the window when he had heard a cry in defense of another. Maybe he killed for a reason.

Ion didn’t like to think people had to kill to do what they needed to, but what if it was all just self-defense after all?

“We need to go up to the balcony. The people need to hear the truth from the only other person they trust...me.”

—-

Clouded eyes stared up at the man who had become a bearer of bad news. His request had been denied. Issac wasn’t going to make him like Syi. Those words hurt almost as much as seeing Syi did. Syi was obviously in pain, and Syn could tell that he felt alone. Panicked. Helpless. What sort of brother was he if he couldn’t feel the way his twin did?

They had been inseparable since birth. They had lived their whole lives together, laughing and crying and killing together. They always knew what was in the other’s mind. But Syn was so far away from that shared mind now...How was he supposed to be the same? How was an eagle supposed to fly with only one wing?

A free hand lightly touched the shoulder that housed his half of the mark. The only surviving half. No.

No, he wouldn’t think of it like that. Syi would be ok. He would. 

“What sort of trouble are we talking?” He said as he flowed onto his feet from his chair. If there was something brewing with the Templars, it was probably his fault. He had a duty to see it through to the end and help out the Brotherhood in stomping it out. In a passing moment he realized that he had switched back to survival mode - it was the only way he had lived without Syi in his life as long as he did. 

That moment passed quickly as booted feet began to walk towards the open door towards the trouble. They lingered, however, in the doorway. Those eyes again turned to Issac, full of grief and sorrow. 

“You’re right, he does need me. And I do need him. And I know that the Brotherhood needs me, too. I will always do my job. But I will never be complete without my brother back to full health. Either way.” The green-haired man casually picked up a gold and red mask from off of a nearby bookcase, inspecting the work of art. It sparkled in the candle light, its end a point not unlike the beak of an eagle, red spiked motifs allowing sight. As someone who often wore masks, this particular one seemed to speak to him. So he put it on.

The switch was almost instantaneous. From mourning to merry, The Tempest’s mouth switched to an almost malicious grin. “I’ll be borrowing this, if you don’t mind, Doc. I’ll try not to smudge too much blood on it.”

If he brought it up to Legretta, he was sure that he would be told to just get used to it. That it was part of who he was now, and that he’d have to learn to function with it. It was depressing that he was getting used to her demeanor already, even though he’d only been interacting with her while half-asleep.

Syn’s mind was still running one hundred miles a minute when he sat on the edge of his bed, watching Largo help his brother into bed. The boy bit the inside of his lip to refrain from frowning. Syi was still so weak, still needing help so badly. Syn wanted to be the only one who needed to help his twin, if at all. But with his own…handicaps…he wasn’t able to.

He pulled his leg onto the bed as he stared at it with disgust in his eyes. He’d thought he’d be ok, but Father just had to keep giving them gifts.

After Syi was settled, and the older man had draped the blankets over the older twin, he shook his head. It seemed he was ignoring the harsh tones of the other. “Just rest. A nurse will be here shortly to give you medicine.”

“I am afraid the request is non-negotiable,” Largo said. “Your bodies have suffered severe traumas for most of your lives and are just now being given time to heal. Take your medicines, eat your dinners, and rest. Training begins tomorrow.”

He left the room. Syi waited a few moments before speaking up, his voice quieter and tired but no less full of affection for his brother. Why hide it if they were being watched like hawks?

“The medicine might actually be for our benefit, Syn.” He wasn’t sure he believed his own words but he wanted to raise the point anyway. Though he figured he should be hungry or antsy, he was simply too exhausted to think much beyond his already consuming thoughts. “I don’t want to take it either, though… especially if it makes my head as swimmy as before…”

The nurse entered carrying two plates of food, glasses of water, and two sets of pills - one blue, one red, and one purple. Syi had no idea what any of them did, or why they were required to take them, but a glance at his brother told him whatever they were probably wasn’t good.

“Food first, then medicine,” the nurse said, not unkindly.

Probably the thought of the stranger’s surprising kindness. All of them had been firmly nice, testing them just enough to keep them entertained, but not enough to give things away. The younger boy wasn’t sure how to handle all of this…just treatment. It was almost as if they had parents instead of owners now.

“I really don’t want to,” He sighed as he stared at his food. The food itself looked good, and one tentative bite seemed to make him want to eat more. He decided to take several small bites as he spoke to Syi, looking somewhat weary himself.

“I don’t get how they’re being so nice to us. There has to be more of a motive to all this.” One hand, holding a bite of a bread roll, waved in the air as he spoke. “But I guess I can’t really argue, can I.”

Syn closed his eyes, sighed, and grabbed the cup with the pills, tipping it into his mouth and swallowing them all with one motion. He swiftly chased it all down with water, face contorting at the taste.

Here, it seemed to be par for the course. Syi didn’t trust any of it, but he also was in no position to really argue. He stared at the little cup of pills, his stomach churning at even the thought of one hitting the back of his throat. So innocuous, in and of themselves… Would these people poison them? How could they be kinder than Syn and Syi’s own flesh and blood?

“I agree,” Syi said, wincing as he saw Syn down all three pills. He’d gotten very good at taking medicine recently; Syi could remember a time when it was agony to take a single painkiller. That also might have been because their father had choked Syn after a meeting gone slightly wrong…

Syi ate a few bites of food if only to appease his brother. A good portion was still left when he lifted his own cup of pills, stared dubiously at them, and finally swallowed them down. Now would they be allowed to rest? A chance at normal, not drug induced sleep?

“I guess if they put a sugar coating on it, people might eat it like candy?” Syi suggested, laying back down. He still felt annoyingly fragile, like a china doll, but he hoped he would be well enough to at least start weight training or exercising while Syn was put through the ringer.

Then there was the issue of Syn’s leg. What if it never moved right again? What if…

No. He wouldn’t let them do more damage to Syn, not if he could help it.

But he’d have to start taking them this time. Legretta had, at his first tiny rebellion, told him that it was either pills or the IV. She was calm, collected, and somewhat scolding, but he had persisted, saying he wasn’t going to take them.

For a week, he was on the IV. Legretta had asked him again after a week if he would take the pills, and again he had denied her, staying on the IV. Every time he’d taken pills for as long as he could remember, it had been painful, the swallowing of any hard foods a knife down his throat.

The only difference now was that Syi was awake. He wouldn’t fight this time, even if he had in the past. What if Syn rebelled and they made Syi go back in the IV too?

He wouldn’t subject him to that again. So he downed them as quickly as he could, feeling tiny knives in his throat. Curiously, not as bad as he expected.

“Syn,” he said quietly, his brother’s name barely a breath on his lips, and his eyes completely slid shut. He clawed at his awareness, desperate to keep it close; his mind fell down through the endless darkness until there was nothing left.

It was a mere few minutes before Legretta entered the room, looking just as proper as before. She gave Syn a brief nod and walked over to Syi. Fragile still, despite his healing - easy to destroy and easy to save. She took the plate of food from his lap and placed it carefully on the tray at his bedside. Despite the pain he was clearly still in, he appeared almost peaceful as he lay and slept. She had wanted to speak with Syn alone, away from his brother’s prying, and was glad to see her plan had worked.

“I will not keep you for too long,” she remarked as she drew a blanket over Syi’s body and tucked him in around the shoulders. No fever, no return to the delusions or power he had displayed not long ago. No doubt Syn was capable of such things as well; she aimed to find out how much he knew and understood when they began training him.

The entire time she was in the room, his eyes were on her. Watching her hands, watching her steps. She was so gentle, so kind, so…was motherly the word? Syn didn’t know. But it was so very, very foreign.

“Stop touching him.” The words were calm, even as they were spoken through gritted teeth. His composure was definitely slipping - but it always did when it came to Syi. “I understand your thinly veiled threats, and I’m getting tired of them. I’m doing what you want of me. I was a good little boy and took the medication. Ate. I’m going to learn to fight and keep my promise.

Syi stirred in his sleep, murmuring quietly before settling down again and scooting further under the blankets. No doubt they would be askew in the morning; Syi was not exactly a still sleeper. Legretta glanced over at him as if to check on him.

“You and your brother are ours now,” she said plainly. “We take care of our own.”

Her hand rested for a few moments on Syn’s shoulder before she headed for the door. “Try to get some rest. We begin training you in the morning.”

With that, she flicked the lights off, leaving only a small lamp at their bedsides on. A few books rested on the bedside table.

Outside the door, Legretta paused, seeing a tall, brown haired man standing and waiting for her at the end of the hallway. She hurried along, her footsteps fading, and stopped in front of him.

“Van,” she greeted him. “I’m surprised to see you here in person.”

“I wished to confirm Asch and his own did not sabotage our use of their facilities,” Van explained with a small smile. “I see the move was successful.”

“They are resting, yes. And San Druin?”

“No idea where they are. I have no doubt he has those in his ranks frantically searching. It is not as if he can produce other heirs at this point.”

Legretta nodded for lack of a better reaction. “We begin training tomorrow.”

“Go easy on them for the moment, Legretta,” Van requested in that same calm voice. “From your report and Largo’s, those two will not be up and ready to actually serve us for some weeks yet.”

“I will get them ready as quickly and efficiently as I can.”

“I am certain Largo will help you as well,” Van agreed. He hesitated only a moment to brush a strand of blond hair from her face before turning away and heading back down the hallway. “I have other business to attend to. Keep me informed.”

“Understood.”

Syi groaned as he woke. More smells - food must have arrived - and more aches, but at least it was manageable now. He still needed help to sit up and stared down at the plate in his lap. How much of this was a dream? What would they need to pay in blood or theirselves in recompense for these ‘gifts’? Nothing came free, and certainly not their tentative freedom.

Glancing over at Syn told him his younger twin was still asleep. Good - he would need all the rest he could get. Syi flexed his fingers in the lighter cast and frowned. He wouldn’t be up and about for a while, and he wouldn’t be able to keep up with Syn…

He wanted to ask what training would really entail since he had to use this damn brace, but Legretta was out the door before he could gather the words. He wanted to protest, he honestly did, but all his rebelliousness had been spent on scolding her for touching Syi; Now he just wanted to get his mind off of her being here.

As the door handle latched into place, the boy looked over to the books and skimmed their titles. All of them seemed to have some sort of strategical perspective, with words like ‘war’ or ‘tactics’ strewn about. His own book on poisons was nowhere in sight. Did this underground organization not want its new recruits poisoning their superiors? Or had they just seen it as unaligned with their cause?

What even was their cause? Everyone fought for something, or in his own case, someone. What sort of mission statement would require the smuggling of children? Unless…

Had they actually wanted to help the twins from the beginning, like Guy had said? If so, why would they have to make a deal with Syn for his life? It all still didn’t make sense to him, and he hated when things didn’t make sense.

With a sigh of defeat, Syn turned off the bedside light and pulled up his covers. He was sure he had a long day ahead of him.

—-

It was bacon. Bacon and…something sweet that woke him up the next morning with it’s delicious smells. The hospital fed them bacon quite often. It was almost as if someone had noticed Syn liked the stuff and would always eat it.

“Mmmmgghhhh…” Syn groaned, cracking an eye open to see Syi already awake, sitting up and eating his own breakfast. Groggily he pulled the pillow out from under his head and hugged it to his head, trying to block out the delicious smell, the light, and everything else. Had he tried this at their parent’s home, he would have been severely punished. But here he had the luxury of being just a little lazy.

Syn was… well, adorable? Happy? Either was strange to see. At least Syn managed to rest and sleep deeply enough to regain his energy. Syi chewed on his bacon and egg and watched Syn mumble and curl back into his sheets. Was this what normal people did? Sleep in?

“Are you inventing a new language?” Syi asked with a soft chuckle.

Though he felt groggy still, his mind was clear, his goal even clearer. He clenched his hand in the cast, moved his toes under the blanket - it hurt, but it was definitely more manageable than it had been. Perhaps he would at least be allowed to accompany Syn in the training rooms.

“If you’re trying to find a way back to sleep, I doubt you’ll succeed.” His smile remained. Yes, Syn would recover, and become stronger. Syi was so proud of his brother, of the strength he displayed. While Syi was certain Syn would have been a helluva businessman, he was glad to see another path was available, even if meant being under the thumb of a new boss.

Carefully Syi slid out of bed and into his hoverchair and maneuvered himself over to his brother’s bedside. Syn was still under his pillow and blankets, but his ear was partially visible. Chuckling to himself, he leaned over to tug on Syn’s ear, then grabbed the pillow and yanked it away. He sat back and watched Syn.

Legretta - the sneaky woman who laid down the law and the truth with a calm consideration.

Largo - the large man who held power like a loaded weapon, threatening but unwielded...for the moment.

And then the man who bought them. Not with coin, per se, but with promises. It was a currency that Syn had seen so many times traded yet never usually with such effect. This mystery man had immediately shown the twins that he used that currency with a lazy grace. Perhaps too easy.

“Mmmmmmmm...” Mumbled the teen as the tug happened, a playful smirk hidden under the pillow. The motion felt tight on his face; Unused muscles would do that. The pillow soon fled into his brother’s arms and the younger twin had to work to hide his amusement.

“Oh, I know what I’m doing. Give me more credit than that.”

Sync shrugged his shoulders and tapped a tune on his biceps, arms crossed again as he spoke to Guy. It was almost as if he didn’t understand the plot of the whole agenda. Killing everyone was the idea; One couldn’t be free of their fate without being dead. If there had been a way to keep people alive and destroy their fates, Van would have already done it. But there wasn’t. Van had seen through original’s lies and knew the truth about this whole business. It didn’t matter if it was part of his motives or not. This was the only way to get rid of fate and kill Lorelei. 

“Yeah, he’s got an agenda. Yeah, he’s brazen about it. But that’s not the point. Tools don’t get to choose that.” The smirk on Sync’s face only widened. “Tools just do what they’re told. You’d think you’d have understood that when you were being controlled by me.”

(昇) – Guy continued to shake his head slowly. It would seem that his coming here was a lost cause. They were too war gone, wrapped up into the illusion of a madman who would cast them aside without a moment’s notice. “Tools, huh?” He spoke slowly, meeting Sync’s gaze. “I thought the whole point of this was to do away with tools. If humans are tools of fate, what makes you different? Human’s follow Lorelei, and you follow Vandesdelca. According to your own logic, you’re no better than the originals you claim to hate,” he let out a long sigh, well aware that his words were falling on deaf ears.

“Originals, Replicas, Monsters… Every living thing has their own role to play in life. Not everything needs a reason to live. Simply living is reason enough.” His shoulders slumped, and he let his guard down. All of the desire he had to fight was now gone. In place of rage, he felt pity for these people.

Well Yeah, it did. Trash, tools, replicas, they were all synonymous, and none of them got a choice. They didn’t choose to live, but they were free of Lorelei’s shackles.

But, ultimately, would the shackles of a goddess replaced by shackles of an original? The only original that would be left, in fact. Sync’s frown deepened as he snorted disdain, trying to clear his thoughts though they were clearer now then they had been in a long time.

Syn’s face was hidden, shadowed by despair and loss. Why wouldn’t Syn look at him? Was he that ashamed of his older brother? Syi couldn’t blame him in the least. The bandages were wet at his wrist - the wounds had been cauterized, so not blood…

He watched Syn through drooping eyelids and squeezed his brother’s hand as tightly as he could. Time slipped; he drifted with it, grimaced as his body burned. His eyes fell to Syn’s clothed shoulder, searching for evidence of bandages. He couldn’t smell anything except herbs and medicines, wax and blood.

“The torch… he didn’t… right?” he asked, blinking slowly. “He…he didn't… are you…?”

Why was it so difficult to focus? He let his eyes drift shut, breathing hitched every few moments, before he suddenly laughed. He didn’t see Cantabile’s eye narrow at him.

“Uncle will be… be pleased…” he gasped. Each laugh pained him but he couldn’t stop. He squeezed his eyes shut hard, jaw clenched, little giggles bordering on hysteria crawling out of his throat. “We’ve got it, Syn! W-We have - ”

“Isaac!”

Syi flinched away from the authoritative tone beside him, the laughs abruptly ending. A Templar, no doubt! Someone intent on hurting his apprentice, his brother! Syi’s fingers jerked as if summoning a hidden blade and he snarled. His eyes flew open and he moved to smoothly end the threat’s life.

Except the threat pushed him back and pinned him without a struggle. His hidden blades were gone.

“No!” he shrieked, weakly fighting. Something in his shoulder twinged, his ribs protesting, his breaths strangled, but he wouldn’t stay down. They wouldn’t win!

“Isaac! We need the sleep draught now!” Those hands put slightly more pressure, avoiding his wounds (thank the gods), and he lashed out with his elbow, catching someone. A hand grabbed the back of his neck and he lashed out again only to be pinned.

“I won’t let you!” Syi snarled, wheezed. His eyes watered in the meager candlelight, boring into a worn eyepatch and a single eye. It didn’t matter that his voice was broken; he would die before he would let them lay a hand on Syn. “You won’t have my brother, Templar!”

A cup was pressed to his lips. He knew what came next: secrets desperate to escape from his lips, loss of awareness, of reality, of his brother at his side still clutching his hand - Syn needed to defend himself! Syi tried to turn away, feeling the cold press of a glass vial at his lips instead of the metal cup, and his eyes flashed to Syn. His brother was so close - why wasn’t he helping against their assailants? Syi’s brow tightened, a plea in his eyes:

Don’t let them take you.

“Syn, go!” he snapped before the hand at the back of his neck tightened, someone grabbed his jaw, and the contents of the cup were slid into his mouth. He expected either poison or sweet bitterness - the serum Quinn had - but it merely tasted of earth and herbs. Confusion replaced panic and he forgot about the hands holding him down, his gaze only on Syn, mind trying to understand fact from fiction, ally from enemy.

“He said…”

you’re so blind

you don’t see what your Master’s planning and you’re so close to him

you don’t see the hypocrisy you’re spouting, accepting his teachings as true

your Mentor is using you and every member of your Brotherhood to fulfill his own desires

he doesn’t care at all for your creed or your lives

why do you think he let you go and your brother die so easily

“Our Master… he…” This was worse, in some ways - he could feel his body relaxing, the hands holding his head still and supporting his neck gently lowering him back to the pillows. Still Syn’s hand gripped his own, knuckles white and desperate, and tears ran down his cheeks from eyes swimming with grief and pain. Syi shook his head slowly, but his tongue wouldn’t work. Just as a damp cloth was placed on his forehead, the bedding around him drenched in sweat, he closed his eyes and fell once more into darkness.

– – – – – – – –

“Find them! I don’t give a damn what you have to do, but find them!”

How many Templars did it take to find two Assassins in a city filled with nothing but Templars?! Mohs slammed his goblet onto the desk, ignoring the wine that splashed everywhere, and viciously swore in as many languages as he knew. He was going to strangle someone, something, anything if no results were brought to him within the hour. The stupid fool, Quinn! He used one of the only vials of Truth’s Speech they had left and had gotten nothing of use out of the Tempest.

He wanted to resurrect Quinn and kill him again.

“More the fool I,” Mohs muttered, rolling his eyes as he found a servant already cleaning up the wine and refilling the goblet all without a word. He swiftly lifted it and drank deeply, thinking through his next plans. He couldn’t burn the city down, not with the amount of citizens truly dedicated to his cause, but perhaps he could turn the people against the rats living among them. It would be foolish to assume the Assassins did not have some kind of base or group in Daath, though were unable to do much. Perhaps they had even managed to help the Tempest and his apprentice escape.

“Grand Maestro, a word if I may.”

Mohs raised an eyebrow and motioned for the Templar to enter. A higher ranking man without a name that Moh could place.

“Well?”

“Perhaps you should speak with the Fon Master,” the man suggested. “My men found him and Master Florian wandering about the Cathedral.”

“… Did they now.” Mohs placed the cup on the desk and sighed. “Very well, have them put in the lotus sitting room.” He met the guard’s steady gaze. “What of your main mission?”

“We have found few traces of them - blood and bodies are all within the Cathedral. There must have been another passage used.”

“It is certainly possible they escaped through one of the old passages, though I’d thought them all destroyed.”

All except the underground passages, but he couldn’t afford to get rid of those, not when the provided the best escape route for himself. Then again, if the Assassins knew of it, perhaps it was no longer safe.

“We will keep searching, Grand Maestro,” the man assured him.

“I’m certain. As soon as you have news, do bring it to me.” The man bowed and began to walk out, but Mohs spoke up once more, stopping the man in his tracks. “Send in a scribe on your way out.”

“Of course.”

As the scribe came in and set up shop at a desk, Mohs turned his back on the man and sipped continually from the goblet.

“You wished for me, Grand Maestro?”

“Yes. Take down a proclamation, if you would.” Mohs shifted the remainder of the liquid in this glass. “Good people of Daath, there is a plague among you that must be purged, lest it infect more…”

– – – – – – – –

Cantabile waited until Syi was quietly sleeping before she gently lifted each of his eyelids with the pad of her thumb. At her side, Isaac carefully lifted the lantern and peered down, watching the light play across Syi’s eyes. He frowned, glanced up at Cantabile, and backed away before placing the lantern back on its hook near the bedside.

“This isn’t the infection?” she said, sensing without action Isaac’s concern. Out of her entire crew, he was the best healer and certainly the most knowledgeable about the human body. His knowledge wasn’t infinite, but…

Isaac shook his head. His frown deepened as he stared down at Syi. Cantabile stayed silent, watching both him and Syn. Syn looked like he was about to break, but the Tempest held himself together if for no other reason than to break down away from prying eyes.

Beside her, Isaac sat down on a stool and picked up a nearby journal. Inside, neat notes were arranged by date and cause, along with symptoms. He had notes on herself, on Syn, on the two apprentices in the other room - all of them were studied meticulously. A match was used to hold a small bit of twine closed; if it needed to burn at a moment’s notice, it would.

He wrote down a few words with his quill, paused, scratched them out, and wrote new ones. Cantabile let him work for the moment and turned to Syn. She raised her head and stopped upon seeing their other guests in the doorway.

Luke’s face was pale, but his eyes were less feverish than they’d been the days before. Guy, too, was hardly hale. They both stood with determination and shaking legs and stared into the room at their Masters.

“Out,” she barked, her voice allowing for no argument. Luke and Guy froze like rabbits until Luke raised his head and jutted his chin out.

Cute. The rabbit thinks he can play.

“He was talking a little like that before, in the cell. When he broke me out,” Luke said, his voice strained but even. “I just thought it was because… well…” He nodded at the obvious injuries and closed his mouth. “He looked… confused when they brought me in and…” His breath hitched as he recalled them pushing him to his knees, his eyes boring into his Master’s, and heard the shift of leather as the whip was brought to bear. Guy’s hand on his arm brought him back as he visibly shuddered and swallowed unexpected tears and bile. “Like he was far away, or we were… or he was dreaming.”

“Thank you for the information,” Cantabile said flatly. “Now go rest. Immediately.”

“We don’t take - ” Luke started to argue angrily.

Guy gripped Luke around the arm. Quietly, he said, “Let Master Syn and Master Syi have some time to themselves, Luke.”

Luke clenched his jaw, glared at the floor, and turned away without a word. Behind them Cantabile closed the door and not for the first time wished it actually shut properly. With a sigh, she turned back and came to sit beside Syn.

Isaac began to sign to her when she looked up. Poison, but what kind unknown. Delusions likely. How long to fade, or how long in his system unknown. He frowned, paused, and glanced down at his hands before continuing. Doesn’t look like it’s a lethal poison. I don’t know what this is.

She nodded. Isaac let out a silent sigh and rose from his chair before placing the notebook on the bedside table. The pages fluttered briefly, revealing two portraits - Syn’s and Syi’s, on opposite pages, in almost perfect likenesses - before closing completely. He walked from the room, leaving Cantabile with Syn.

“I’ve heard tales of the Tempest,” Cantabile said softly, watching the flicker of the flame. “Blown out of proportion, of that I have no doubt, but tales of bravery on behalf of their brothers and sisters nevertheless. I had thought them mere legend until now.”

Isaac returned with several plates of food that he handed two to Cantabile before offering them both a little hopeful smile and disappearing once again from the room. She set one at Syn’s side and balanced the other on her lap, intending on keeping vigil with him as Syi slept. Her hidden blades at her wrists glinted in the lamplight.

Ion rehearsed this in his head over and over and over the minute he and Florian were called to the lotus sitting room. The lighting was dimmed, the carpets plush and the chairs comfortable. Ion remembered when Mohs had commissioned an artist to work on this room; the paintings on the stones were just as beautiful as when they had first been conceived, all yellows and oranges and maroons of a mountain-casted sunset. Somehow they had even found ventilation for this underground room, making it a wonderful place to think.

In this case it was wonderful for reflecting on anything that could be considered a slight to the man who gave you everything. Food, clothes, books, your brother…everything. Any mistake was taken with a calculating eye and a blade-like tongue, but Ion would live. He just wasn’t so sure about Florian. His brother hadn’t let go of his hand this entire time. He must be terrified. He looked it.

Ion was too, if he let himself admit it.

“It’s gonna be ok,” he quietly encouraged with a light squeeze of his fingers, “I promise. I don’t know why he wants to talk to us, but it’ll be fine.”

—-

“What good are stories, Cantabile?”

The lump in his throat hadn’t receded for the entirety of the show. The obvious recognition had lasted, but Syi’s mind had not - he soon had started spouting nonsense again, about an uncle, about finding something. The laughing. That sickly, crazed laughing that had bubbled up Syi’s throat and creaked out merely made him feel worse. He could hear it echoing through his ears, the high-pitched giggling accompanied by pained wheezing and physical threats of becoming ill…

…He knew this would haunt him. And if the Templars had broken his brother beyond repair, he would make sure to break as many of them as he could before going down as hard as possible. Not even Lorelei had the right to do this to his only blood.

Words and pain resounded, putting information together (“The torch” explained much, much more than he wanted to know). All of these things pieces, the picture coming into focus. Slowly. Slower, even. He just needed to sort the madness from the mysteries.

He knew nothing of an uncle; If Syn could be more certain about that, he would chop off his sword arm to prove it’s credibility. The meaning of the torch was obvious when paired with fear in Syi’s eyes. The fact that Syi could be so aware of a possible or perceived threat was a good sign, even if his fear there was unfounded.

What, though, could be so important about their Master, Mentor since birth, that would put hesitance in those green eyes?

Attempting to avoid being rude, Syn scooted away from the food subtly. Cantabile would catch the shift, of course, but that didn’t matter. Neither did the apprentices’ door being ever-so-slightly ajar, just enough to hear a conversation. “What good is a legend when it hurts my family? When only one of us stays standing?” Syn swallowed as he looked up, not bothering to hide whatever state his face may be in. It didn’t matter in the long run, now did it?

“My whole life has been the Brotherhood, saving others, keeping balance. That I’m fine with, it’s my purpose. My purpose is not,” he swallowed again, “To let those evil drek break my brother, my apprentice - who owes me nothing!” For the first time in hours, Syn rose, gently putting his brother’s arm on his torso. “Who followed me for Lorelei knows why, only to be struck down by an arrow and to have his friend get brutally tortured! I cannot stand, nor will I stand for it. If everything is permitted, then let it be permissible for me to bloody every Templar’s throat with my blade tonight. He clipped Syi’s wings, and if I cannot clip my own, then I will rip out the pulsing heart of their ENTIRE ORDER!”

“Do sit, Fon Master, Master Florian,” he said, motioning to the plush pillows at his feet. He waited until they were settled before he leaned forward to better see them. Nearby, birds twittered away in cages, feathers on display in a melange of color unavailable anywhere else.

“I was hoping to speak with you about your… wanderings, a few nights ago,” he said calmly. Beside him lay a bowl of grapes; he plucked several, studied them in his fingers, and ate meticulously. It wasn’t as good as the wine available in Daath, but it would do for the moment. “I was most concerned to hear of you being found out of your quarters. Was there a particular… reason?” He tilted his head to the side and his smile widened. “Did you perhaps hear anything? Or were you merely taking in the grand halls of the Cathedral?”

Placing the grapes aside, Mohs sat up a little further and sighed. “I had hoped your rooms, as many and fruitful as they are, would prove to be enough of a distraction for you. Clearly I was wrong to think such ways. Perhaps I should repurpose them, if they no longer suit you.”

– – – – – – –

“Sometimes, stories are all we have,” Cantabile said quietly, the plate carefully balanced on her lap. Her fingers briefly flitted over the eyepatch as her lips quirked slightly. Her cheek ached where Syi’s elbow had slammed into the side of her face, little more than weak flailing. She could hear the unadulterated fury in Syn’s voice, the helplessness and heartbreak. His brother would never be the same, and nor would he, regardless of the foolish hopes they had. Yet, without hope, Syi would be dead, and Syn… well, she suspected he would have killed himself fighting off the entirety of the Templar empire.

She didn’t feel pity - that would only enrage him further - but she could feel a sliver of sympathy, the echo of emotion she no longer allowed herself to have. She was the Master of this Brotherhood, forged in blood and steel and loss. If she allowed every death to bother her, she could not do what needed to be done. Gently she pulled the plate aside and rose in one fluid motion. Syi didn’t so much as stir, his breathing even and sleep calm.

“And what will happen when you’ve slit each of their throats and do not return?” Cantabile asked calmly. She dimmed the lantern light, throwing harsh shadows across all three of their faces. “When you die because of your fury and need for revenge? Yes, you will bloody yourself, bathe in crimson and fear, and to what end?”

She clasped her hands behind her back, keeping her expression without judgement. “You are no fool, Tempest. If I know anything to be true of you, I know that. Yes, you foolishly went without planning or recourse should it go wrong. Yet you escaped by your own weapon with your flesh and blood and apprentice.”

“I do not offer an answer, only a place of sanctuary. Your life is yours to do with what you will. Know only you leave those you saved behind for revenge, sweet poison that will forever stain your veins beneath your skin.” She moved until she stood in front of him. “Everything is permitted. Nothing is true. These are our tenets. Yet you and yours live by yet another.” Like a passing cool breeze, she slipped by him and opened the door leading into the apprentices’ room. Both were pretending to rest, but neither could truly hide their curiosity.

“For the Brotherhood, for the blood, for the life. For the good of man. For freedom.” She paused, hand on the doorframe, her back to Syn. “For family.”

“Do not lose sight of your truth.”

With that Cantabile headed deeper into the hideout and through the trapdoor back to the surface, the wood falling forward with a mighty clack.

Luke worked up his courage to sit up, though it clearly pained him to move. Nearby, Guy was not much better off. Neither turned their gazes from their furious Master.

The Fon Master sat down in a chair across from the larger man, hands nervously wringing themselves under the table as he spoke. Mohs always intimidated him, and Florian even more so. After all, Mohs always spoke with such sickly-sweet words, and Florian was much more receptive to those words of poison. Even though the two were technically equals in the religious hierarchy, and even though Ion held more public sway without even being seen...Mohs still ruled their lives completely.

It was hard holding back his nervous twitching as he spoke, but Ion tried his hardest. "We saw lots of things. Knights, fighting, blood." The boy shuddered unwillingly at the sight of that man with his face slashing the necks of men in armor. "Blood all over the halls, the knights, the atrium. There wasn't really much we could do, unfortunately." ----

Eyes burning with fury watched the other Assassin as she walked in front of him, calmly quoted their tenants at him, then left with a thud of wood and two sets of concerned eyes staring at him. Of course she was right. He hadn't known her but for a handful of days and still she was one of the most insightful people he'd ever met. She always spoke calm truth, smooth on the ears and cooling to the heart's sorrows.

If she hadn't have opened that door, he would have found something in the room to beat mercilessly into oblivion. If she had said anything different, he would be stepping out of the door to exact the revenge he so desperately craved. His subconscious praised her for not letting him stoop to the Templar's level; His active mind still had blood at its fore-front.

But Luke and Guy were staring. He could see the sadness and pity in their eyes, the deep emotion for the situation that Syn was still surprised the two had. They didn't need it in this case. They owed The Tempest nothing. Not a single thing. Yet they still followed, still enjoyed the twin's company after all of this.

Syn felt the emotion welling up his throat, another lump in his throat (the same lump? He couldn't tell anymore) making speech hard. His apprentices couldn't see him like this. It would make things harder for them, their recovery.

His chest rose and fell with timed breaths. He closed his eyes, unclenching the fists he'd balled without noticing. It felt like an eternity before he opened them again and attempted to speak. "Go back to resting," Syn eventually rasped out. A gloved hand grabbed the door handle and pulled, closing the door on those looks. If only he could do that for his thoughts, too.

"Isaac?" His raspy voice called as he made his way to where the mute resided. He'd never been into the room, but he had a good idea - he'd listened while the other moved about, mentally mapping what he could. When he found the room he thought was the correct one, he knocked on the door and waited for him to answer.

Syn’s face was hidden, shadowed by despair and loss. Why wouldn’t Syn look at him? Was he that ashamed of his older brother? Syi couldn’t blame him in the least. The bandages were wet at his wrist - the wounds had been cauterized, so not blood…

He watched Syn through drooping eyelids and squeezed his brother’s hand as tightly as he could. Time slipped; he drifted with it, grimaced as his body burned. His eyes fell to Syn’s clothed shoulder, searching for evidence of bandages. He couldn’t smell anything except herbs and medicines, wax and blood.

“The torch… he didn’t… right?” he asked, blinking slowly. “He…he didn't… are you…?”

Why was it so difficult to focus? He let his eyes drift shut, breathing hitched every few moments, before he suddenly laughed. He didn’t see Cantabile’s eye narrow at him.

“Uncle will be… be pleased…” he gasped. Each laugh pained him but he couldn’t stop. He squeezed his eyes shut hard, jaw clenched, little giggles bordering on hysteria crawling out of his throat. “We’ve got it, Syn! W-We have - ”

“Isaac!”

Syi flinched away from the authoritative tone beside him, the laughs abruptly ending. A Templar, no doubt! Someone intent on hurting his apprentice, his brother! Syi’s fingers jerked as if summoning a hidden blade and he snarled. His eyes flew open and he moved to smoothly end the threat’s life.

Except the threat pushed him back and pinned him without a struggle. His hidden blades were gone.

“No!” he shrieked, weakly fighting. Something in his shoulder twinged, his ribs protesting, his breaths strangled, but he wouldn’t stay down. They wouldn’t win!

“Isaac! We need the sleep draught now!” Those hands put slightly more pressure, avoiding his wounds (thank the gods), and he lashed out with his elbow, catching someone. A hand grabbed the back of his neck and he lashed out again only to be pinned.

“I won’t let you!” Syi snarled, wheezed. His eyes watered in the meager candlelight, boring into a worn eyepatch and a single eye. It didn’t matter that his voice was broken; he would die before he would let them lay a hand on Syn. “You won’t have my brother, Templar!”

A cup was pressed to his lips. He knew what came next: secrets desperate to escape from his lips, loss of awareness, of reality, of his brother at his side still clutching his hand - Syn needed to defend himself! Syi tried to turn away, feeling the cold press of a glass vial at his lips instead of the metal cup, and his eyes flashed to Syn. His brother was so close - why wasn’t he helping against their assailants? Syi’s brow tightened, a plea in his eyes:

Don’t let them take you.

“Syn, go!” he snapped before the hand at the back of his neck tightened, someone grabbed his jaw, and the contents of the cup were slid into his mouth. He expected either poison or sweet bitterness - the serum Quinn had - but it merely tasted of earth and herbs. Confusion replaced panic and he forgot about the hands holding him down, his gaze only on Syn, mind trying to understand fact from fiction, ally from enemy.

“He said…”

you’re so blind

you don’t see what your Master’s planning and you’re so close to him

you don’t see the hypocrisy you’re spouting, accepting his teachings as true

your Mentor is using you and every member of your Brotherhood to fulfill his own desires

he doesn’t care at all for your creed or your lives

why do you think he let you go and your brother die so easily

“Our Master… he…” This was worse, in some ways - he could feel his body relaxing, the hands holding his head still and supporting his neck gently lowering him back to the pillows. Still Syn’s hand gripped his own, knuckles white and desperate, and tears ran down his cheeks from eyes swimming with grief and pain. Syi shook his head slowly, but his tongue wouldn’t work. Just as a damp cloth was placed on his forehead, the bedding around him drenched in sweat, he closed his eyes and fell once more into darkness.

– – – – – – – –

“Find them! I don’t give a damn what you have to do, but find them!”

How many Templars did it take to find two Assassins in a city filled with nothing but Templars?! Mohs slammed his goblet onto the desk, ignoring the wine that splashed everywhere, and viciously swore in as many languages as he knew. He was going to strangle someone, something, anything if no results were brought to him within the hour. The stupid fool, Quinn! He used one of the only vials of Truth’s Speech they had left and had gotten nothing of use out of the Tempest.

He wanted to resurrect Quinn and kill him again.

“More the fool I,” Mohs muttered, rolling his eyes as he found a servant already cleaning up the wine and refilling the goblet all without a word. He swiftly lifted it and drank deeply, thinking through his next plans. He couldn’t burn the city down, not with the amount of citizens truly dedicated to his cause, but perhaps he could turn the people against the rats living among them. It would be foolish to assume the Assassins did not have some kind of base or group in Daath, though were unable to do much. Perhaps they had even managed to help the Tempest and his apprentice escape.

“Grand Maestro, a word if I may.”

Mohs raised an eyebrow and motioned for the Templar to enter. A higher ranking man without a name that Moh could place.

“Well?”

“Perhaps you should speak with the Fon Master,” the man suggested. “My men found him and Master Florian wandering about the Cathedral.”

“… Did they now.” Mohs placed the cup on the desk and sighed. “Very well, have them put in the lotus sitting room.” He met the guard’s steady gaze. “What of your main mission?”

“We have found few traces of them - blood and bodies are all within the Cathedral. There must have been another passage used.”

“It is certainly possible they escaped through one of the old passages, though I’d thought them all destroyed.”

All except the underground passages, but he couldn’t afford to get rid of those, not when the provided the best escape route for himself. Then again, if the Assassins knew of it, perhaps it was no longer safe.

“We will keep searching, Grand Maestro,” the man assured him.

“I’m certain. As soon as you have news, do bring it to me.” The man bowed and began to walk out, but Mohs spoke up once more, stopping the man in his tracks. “Send in a scribe on your way out.”

“Of course.”

As the scribe came in and set up shop at a desk, Mohs turned his back on the man and sipped continually from the goblet.

“You wished for me, Grand Maestro?”

“Yes. Take down a proclamation, if you would.” Mohs shifted the remainder of the liquid in this glass. “Good people of Daath, there is a plague among you that must be purged, lest it infect more…”

– – – – – – – –

Cantabile waited until Syi was quietly sleeping before she gently lifted each of his eyelids with the pad of her thumb. At her side, Isaac carefully lifted the lantern and peered down, watching the light play across Syi’s eyes. He frowned, glanced up at Cantabile, and backed away before placing the lantern back on its hook near the bedside.

“This isn’t the infection?” she said, sensing without action Isaac’s concern. Out of her entire crew, he was the best healer and certainly the most knowledgeable about the human body. His knowledge wasn’t infinite, but…

Isaac shook his head. His frown deepened as he stared down at Syi. Cantabile stayed silent, watching both him and Syn. Syn looked like he was about to break, but the Tempest held himself together if for no other reason than to break down away from prying eyes.

Beside her, Isaac sat down on a stool and picked up a nearby journal. Inside, neat notes were arranged by date and cause, along with symptoms. He had notes on herself, on Syn, on the two apprentices in the other room - all of them were studied meticulously. A match was used to hold a small bit of twine closed; if it needed to burn at a moment’s notice, it would.

He wrote down a few words with his quill, paused, scratched them out, and wrote new ones. Cantabile let him work for the moment and turned to Syn. She raised her head and stopped upon seeing their other guests in the doorway.

Luke’s face was pale, but his eyes were less feverish than they’d been the days before. Guy, too, was hardly hale. They both stood with determination and shaking legs and stared into the room at their Masters.

“Out,” she barked, her voice allowing for no argument. Luke and Guy froze like rabbits until Luke raised his head and jutted his chin out.

Cute. The rabbit thinks he can play.

“He was talking a little like that before, in the cell. When he broke me out,” Luke said, his voice strained but even. “I just thought it was because… well…” He nodded at the obvious injuries and closed his mouth. “He looked… confused when they brought me in and…” His breath hitched as he recalled them pushing him to his knees, his eyes boring into his Master’s, and heard the shift of leather as the whip was brought to bear. Guy’s hand on his arm brought him back as he visibly shuddered and swallowed unexpected tears and bile. “Like he was far away, or we were… or he was dreaming.”

“Thank you for the information,” Cantabile said flatly. “Now go rest. Immediately.”

“We don’t take - ” Luke started to argue angrily.

Guy gripped Luke around the arm. Quietly, he said, “Let Master Syn and Master Syi have some time to themselves, Luke.”

Luke clenched his jaw, glared at the floor, and turned away without a word. Behind them Cantabile closed the door and not for the first time wished it actually shut properly. With a sigh, she turned back and came to sit beside Syn.

Isaac began to sign to her when she looked up. Poison, but what kind unknown. Delusions likely. How long to fade, or how long in his system unknown. He frowned, paused, and glanced down at his hands before continuing. Doesn’t look like it’s a lethal poison. I don’t know what this is.

She nodded. Isaac let out a silent sigh and rose from his chair before placing the notebook on the bedside table. The pages fluttered briefly, revealing two portraits - Syn’s and Syi’s, on opposite pages, in almost perfect likenesses - before closing completely. He walked from the room, leaving Cantabile with Syn.

“I’ve heard tales of the Tempest,” Cantabile said softly, watching the flicker of the flame. “Blown out of proportion, of that I have no doubt, but tales of bravery on behalf of their brothers and sisters nevertheless. I had thought them mere legend until now.”

Isaac returned with several plates of food that he handed two to Cantabile before offering them both a little hopeful smile and disappearing once again from the room. She set one at Syn’s side and balanced the other on her lap, intending on keeping vigil with him as Syi slept. Her hidden blades at her wrists glinted in the lamplight.

Ion rehearsed this in his head over and over and over the minute he and Florian were called to the lotus sitting room. The lighting was dimmed, the carpets plush and the chairs comfortable. Ion remembered when Mohs had commissioned an artist to work on this room; the paintings on the stones were just as beautiful as when they had first been conceived, all yellows and oranges and maroons of a mountain-casted sunset. Somehow they had even found ventilation for this underground room, making it a wonderful place to think.

In this case it was wonderful for reflecting on anything that could be considered a slight to the man who gave you everything. Food, clothes, books, your brother…everything. Any mistake was taken with a calculating eye and a blade-like tongue, but Ion would live. He just wasn’t so sure about Florian. His brother hadn’t let go of his hand this entire time. He must be terrified. He looked it.

Ion was too, if he let himself admit it.

“It’s gonna be ok,” he quietly encouraged with a light squeeze of his fingers, “I promise. I don’t know why he wants to talk to us, but it’ll be fine.”

—-

“What good are stories, Cantabile?”

The lump in his throat hadn’t receded for the entirety of the show. The obvious recognition had lasted, but Syi’s mind had not - he soon had started spouting nonsense again, about an uncle, about finding something. The laughing. That sickly, crazed laughing that had bubbled up Syi’s throat and creaked out merely made him feel worse. He could hear it echoing through his ears, the high-pitched giggling accompanied by pained wheezing and physical threats of becoming ill…

…He knew this would haunt him. And if the Templars had broken his brother beyond repair, he would make sure to break as many of them as he could before going down as hard as possible. Not even Lorelei had the right to do this to his only blood.

Words and pain resounded, putting information together (“The torch” explained much, much more than he wanted to know). All of these things pieces, the picture coming into focus. Slowly. Slower, even. He just needed to sort the madness from the mysteries.

He knew nothing of an uncle; If Syn could be more certain about that, he would chop off his sword arm to prove it’s credibility. The meaning of the torch was obvious when paired with fear in Syi’s eyes. The fact that Syi could be so aware of a possible or perceived threat was a good sign, even if his fear there was unfounded.

What, though, could be so important about their Master, Mentor since birth, that would put hesitance in those green eyes?

Attempting to avoid being rude, Syn scooted away from the food subtly. Cantabile would catch the shift, of course, but that didn’t matter. Neither did the apprentices’ door being ever-so-slightly ajar, just enough to hear a conversation. “What good is a legend when it hurts my family? When only one of us stays standing?” Syn swallowed as he looked up, not bothering to hide whatever state his face may be in. It didn’t matter in the long run, now did it?

“My whole life has been the Brotherhood, saving others, keeping balance. That I’m fine with, it’s my purpose. My purpose is not,” he swallowed again, “To let those evil drek break my brother, my apprentice - who owes me nothing!” For the first time in hours, Syn rose, gently putting his brother’s arm on his torso. “Who followed me for Lorelei knows why, only to be struck down by an arrow and to have his friend get brutally tortured! I cannot stand, nor will I stand for it. If everything is permitted, then let it be permissible for me to bloody every Templar’s throat with my blade tonight. He clipped Syi’s wings, and if I cannot clip my own, then I will rip out the pulsing heart of their ENTIRE ORDER!”

Syi would finally get to sleep after the doctor did his work.

Syn held in his sigh of relief when he saw the light at the end of the tunnel. He knew there was more footing it to do after this yet it was still a wonderful thing to know they were close. Closer than he realized when Cantible stepped into the opening, features obscured in shadow.

He’d thought that she’d gone back to the hide-out. Perhaps she heard the ruckus they motley crew had started and returned? That was likely. Much, much more likely than her being an enemy like Luke thought. Syn smirked as his eyes follows the red-head’s movements, hidden blades drawn and ready for a fight.

Luke would have no chance against this woman. Syn could say that definitively. “I told you I’d not be leaving until I got my brother,” he retorted with a light chuckle. Calming from a jog to a trot, Syn moved around Luke as they followed the female assassin.

“Guy is… alright?” Luke asked between gritted teeth.

“Yes. He insisted on coming along, but when he collapsed getting out of bed he perhaps saw the error of his ways.” She kept her gaze locked ahead, her shoulders strong and true under Luke’s arm. “He is stubborn, much like your Master.”

A smile came unbidden to Luke’s lips. If Guy was well enough to fight his way out of bed and attempt to follow their Master, then his friend was certainly alive. He had no business trying to get up and go, though, and was going to get an earful from Luke.

“Thank you for helping him,” Luke muttered, still uncomfortable with her presence but unable to help leaning on her more heavily with every step.

“You can thank me by staying conscious and keeping your feet beneath you,” she said pointedly and shifted his arm further onto her shoulders.

Each step was agony by the time they reached a nondescript building. Luke glanced over at the Tempest and his heart fell. Syi was barely moving in his brother’s hold, though his chest shakily rose and fell. How badly off was his Master? He had hoped, with Syi showing his strength and breaking out both from his own chains and cell, his Master was doing better than Luke had originally seen, but…

“Look ahead,” the woman at his side murmured. Luke’s head swung back just in time to see the door creak open. His hands clenched, ready to call his blades, but it was merely an older looking man. He glanced at each of them, eyebrow raised.

“More, Cantabile?” he said, his lips twitching in a hidden smile.

“We collect strays - why change our ways now?”

She passed Luke to the man and turned to glance at Syn. Her eye softened just a little at the sight of the brothers reunited, but she doubted Syn knew what to expect beyond this point. The brothers clearly had never experienced anything quite like this before.

“Cantabile, this one needs his back looked at immediately.”

She nodded and led the way in, keeping the door open for Syn. Once all of them were inside, she shut the door behind her. It took a little planning and careful movements, but eventually all of them were down the rabbit hole and back in the main hideaway of the Daath Brotherhood.

“Master! Luke!”

The redhead’s head shot up and he broke away from the person helping him to dash into one of the adjoining rooms. In bed, propped up with pillows, lay Guy on his front while a young man worked on changing the bandages on his back. The room smelled of herbs and poultices, with an underlying scent of cleansing ointments. Luke found himself falling to lean against the doorframe, his legs weak in the knees, and smiled as bright as he could towards Guy.

“Hey,” he said before his legs gave out.

“Stupid,” the man behind him said as he caught Luke. The redhead’s eyes were rolled up, his body shaking in exhaustion and pain. Guy had shifted as if to get up, but one look from the standing man had him laying back down.

“Get him settled. Isaac, once you’re done there, we’ve got two more for you to look at,” Cantabile said. Gone was her hood and the various fabrics covering her face. She stood in simple leather armor and tight leggings, her bare feet hardly making a sound as she turned and Syn and his brother to a room right next door to their apprentices.

Guy let out a sigh of relief as Luke was laid out on a cot beside him, but blanched at the sight of his friend’s back. Blood, congealed and blackened in places, covered every inch of visible skin as Isaac gently pulled the shirt up with ample applications of water. Soon enough the destroyed, stained fabric lay off to the side, and Guy’s heart fell. Luke had endured severe torture; how long had it lasted?

Isaac offered Guy a small, reassuring smile as he got to work. He cleaned out the wounds, ignoring Luke’s soft protests and grunts of pain, and soon began applying much the same materials to the lash marks. Many of them were inflamed, no doubt fighting infection and filth, but Guy had no doubt Luke would be alright. He had to be; he would allow nothing less from his dearest friend.

In the other room, Cantabile helped Syn lay Syi out on the bed on his back. His eyes briefly fluttered open, glassy and dazed, taking too long to focus on Syn at his side. Syi’s hand spasmed, his thumb swollen around the joint, and reached out to grasp Syn’s clenched fist. His lips quirked upwards into a shaking smile.

“Alive,” he muttered, his throat choking on the word and turning the word into barely more than a rasp. “Syn… alive…”

Cantabile ignored him, working instead of removing his clothing quickly and efficiently. She frowned at the sight of the strangely cleaner fabric of his pants - pants that were clearly not originally his - and cut the shirt from his body. All of it was left in a pile nearby to be burned later. Her jaw clenched at the sight of the bruising on his chest: some were recent enough to be still red and blue, others yellowing or layered. Handprints were clear at his throat as was the collar bruising, fingerprints stark against the pale skin. His wrists were bloodied and filthy, rust and dirt clear in the exposed wounds, his ankles showing much the same damage. Her entire body stiffened at the sight of the jagged scars, clearly cauterized shut, torn into his wrists. Had his enemies done this, or…

“This could have been far worse,” she murmured, though a frown still graced her lips. Gently she investigated his chest, finding the ribs one at a time. “No broken ribs, though a few might be fractured… Isaac will know better than I.”

She tilted his head to the side, letting the torchlight reveal his face and lips, cuts covering his cheeks and bruises so thick she was shocked he was able to speak at all. Once the swelling went down she hoped most of it would heal into faded scars. Syi’s body trembled, sweat dripping down his face. Cantabile’s frown deepened: he seemed to be in more pain than he should have been. She zeroed in on his upper shoulder - it looked like a burn, the skin shiny and taut.

“He’s cleaner than I would have expected,” she said distractedly as she began to lift Syi onto his side… and got a look at his shoulder.

His back was bad enough, covered in what looked like claw marks and broken skin, but his shoulder… He would be lucky to get full range of motion back. A small hole without any indication of origin, puckered and inflamed much like the rest of his wounds, but she could practically see the infection oozing from the untreated wound. The skin near it was stretched and weblike, shiny and awful, clawed through and reopened numerous times by what had to have been a beast. Beneath it, she thought she saw some kind of black lines, perhaps a design of some kind. Had that too been forced on him before his skin was flayed from his back?

“Isaac,” she said firmly, her voice carrying. In a few moments, he ducked his head through the door and saw the dark look on her face. His brows snapped together, concern on his face, but as she nodded to Syi who simply flopped onto his back and writhed as his wounds came in contact with the bed, Isaac’s eyes widened. He nodded vigorously, motioned to the two in the room behind him, and hurried off.

Though Cantabile had a good point, nodding as he realized that she was speaking of his twin’s wounds. These weren’t that bad. Yet Syi had been operating as if he had much more damage on him than this. Perhaps they had been keeping him from sleeping, or they had kept food from him.

All probably what happened, but not what turned out to be the most infuriating cause of it all.

At first, Syn didn’t see it. He only saw the look on Cantabile’s face, tension mixing with worry. She was calling for Isaac when Syn saw what she was staring at - tears. Cuts. Pus and blood and torture. What they had done could only be described as that. For what had laid on that shoulder had been an eagle, the symbol of the Tempest’s freedom and will.

And they had shredded it repeatedly over the weeks. Syn had seen torture before, knew the signs and their marks. Their scars. There was so very little of their mark left on him. Perhaps a couple of lines? Nothing that would signify the bird of prey that had been there, for certain.

Cold shivers of anger made their way down his body and he had to fight not to clench his fists. They hadn’t just taken Syi. They had taken his mind and body to play with, but there was so much more to it than that. They’d taken his freedom. The one thing that every Assassin was proud of, next to their Brotherhood.

Stripped away like thread from a tapestry, over and over and over again. Suddenly, having murdered Quinn wasn’t enough. He wanted to have done so much more to the backstabber in this moment. Syn’s grief beat at him relentlessly while Cantabile and Isaac did what they needed to, the twin never letting go of the hand that clenched his. Is this why he was saying he should be left behind? That he thought he was a failure?

“Brother, I failed you,” Syn said in Ancient Ispanian, eyebrows unconsciously knitting together. “Not the other way around.”

Using the smallest and most precise knife he had, Isaac cut away dead and infected skin little by little, swallowing back his own discomfort. This was where he shined even if he could not say anything; here, there was no need for words. Instead he relied upon a steady hand and a gentle smile, though neither could be applied to the assassin before him. Isaac had seen worse wounds, but this had meant to hurt this Tempest mentally more so than physically, and the wound was indeed debilitating if it went untreated… It had been untreated for what looked like weeks, perhaps longer…

The assassin kept trying to move, to pull away from the pain, but Cantabile’s steel grip kept him steady and as stable as they could get him. Syi’s infected blood rolled down his back in first drops, then rivulets, growing steadier as Isaac did what he could to leech the infected blood. The hole was more healed than he originally thought, though he had no doubt there would be some permanence to the injury.

Syi thrashed, his hand clutched so tight in his brother’s that Syn’s knuckles were white, but it was weak, like the death throes of a wounded animal. Isaac soothed Syi’s back with salves and creams and watched as some of the tension faded from the no doubt exhausted body. He bound the wound, washed his hands, and moved on.

Here, cuts on his face and a busted lip. There, fingerprints and bruises and little Isaac could do anything about. He studied the ribs after Cantabile carefully turned Syi onto his back, poking and prodding as gently as he could to see what was broken. He felt the wounds, would have swore under his breath if he’d been able to - things had healed, though the ribs were bruised still at the very least. He doubted the fractures were completely good either. No internal bleeding, as far as he could tell. Perhaps just a little luck was on his side.

He placed a soft, damp cloth on Syi’s forehead as sweat beaded and rolled down his cheeks. His whole body was like a furnace, exuding heat it had no business feeling, but Isaac knew it would break. He moved down the chest, placing additional cooling salves where he could to ease the pain of bruises. The sharp tang of calendula soon permeated the room, mixing with the already pungent smells of blood, sweat, and aloe.

Isaac studied the left arm, as Syn was still holding to Syi’s hand, and for the first time during his entire exam he blanched. The wrist was slashed open with a poorly healed, jagged wound. Someone had treated it with something, or he was certain the wound would have been fatal. Isaac hesitated in touching the scarred skin, his hands trembling, and he found each breath harder and harder to draw.

“It’s alright,” Cantabile murmured and he jumped at her close proximity. With practiced patience she drew the arm away and rubbed the sweet-smelling poultice into the wrist. She bandaged it carefully, much as he would have, and hid away the evidence of what he suspected to be self-inflicted. Isaac’s eyes darted to the other arm, its wrist hidden in shadow.

“Keep checking his other wounds,” Cantabile ordered, not unkindly, before she gently pried Syi’s limp arm from Syn’s hands despite his immediate jolting protest and repeated the gesture there.

Isaac’s hands drifted over his own sleeves, reassuring him he had his shirt, and yes, that he was here. He closed his eyes, breathing in little hitched noises until it eventually calmed and only Syi’s weak gasps were audible. Back under control, Isaac rose from his hunched position at Syi’s bedside.

Cantabile had returned Syi’s hand to Syn’s desperate grasp and stood at his side, a shadow of support and understanding. Isaac hurried to address other wounds - mostly minor, shallow cuts and bruises on the legs. He was careful with cleaning out the ankle wounds, removing slivers of rust and metal before carefully bandaging it up too. He switched out the cloth on Syi’s head as a final gesture.

He dropped the cloths into one of the now empty buckets. The other remained, still half full, and he put it aside for later - no sense in wasting clean water. Hands still shaking lightly, he looked up at Cantabile and made a few gestures.

“Isaac said Syi is stable for now,” Cantabile said quietly, as if to not break the fragile peace in the room. “We have a few herbal tonics we’ll need to feed him, but he mostly needs sleep and nutrients. Based on what we see now, I believe it is safe to say he did not eat much during his hospitable stay with the Templars.”

“For now, I will go keep watch. The cot over there - ” She gestured to one in the corner. “ - is for your use. I suggest you rest.”

Cantabile clasped Syn’s shoulder briefly before nodding to Isaac and heading out. Isaac lingered, fingers twitching as they grasped the hem of his own shirt, before they found a better method of calming himself down. He grabbed a nearby blanket and carefully spread it over Syi’s body and allowed himself a small smile.

He couldn’t offer words of comfort, but he could save this young man’s life, and the lives of those in the other room. Hopefully it was enough to renew Syn’s hope. After giving Syn a small bow, he carried the dirtied cloths and empty bucket away, his hands stained but his heart light.

– – – – –

Wading through dreams was almost impossible. Nothing to tether him, nothing to guide him, and nothing to draw him away from the voices calling to him at every turn. He wanted to follow those calls, voices he didn’t know yet wished he did. Every time he turned towards them, something yanked him back, and more than once he had to stop before he cried out in agony. How many times did he need to fall to his knees?

Where is Luke?

It was the clearest thought he’d had in… well, certainly while he was here. He swam through it all, dragged himself forward through the mire.

Where is…

Where…

Syn…?

His brother could be bleeding to death, could be gone, could be all a lie, a ghost, a fragment -

Syi jolted awake, gasping like a stuck fish. His entire being hurt so badly; moving even to breathe was agony. Yet on he breathed, throat parched and body shaking and- and it didn’t matter that he was engulfed in warmth, that a cool cloth was spread over his forehead, that he had soft candlelight around him -

orchard - the orchard - together - orchard book orders find it find it find -

“Syn,” he whispered, croaked, begged, “Syn.”

Why had they captured Syi in the first place, when it seemed to give them no benefit? He didn’t put it past the snakes to capture one of their enemies just to play with them, but Syn didn’t think it the case. If they had truly wanted to play, they would have made sure Syi had no infection. They’d want to have kept him alive as long as possible, and with how deeply-rooted that infection had seemed to be, Syn didn’t think they had that in the long run.

So, then, why was Mohs so interested in the pair? When he’d been mowing down his enemies, Syn had noticed the Grand Maestro’s desperation to have him in shackles. Did that have anything to do with why he didn’t know about Syi’s imprisonment? Or why the news of it hadn’t spread like wildfire to the Brotherhoods?

The thoughts came to him in fragments, all over two days of pain at seeing his brother ill in bed. Unwillingly Syn fell asleep shortly after His twin had been worked on. That, however, was only because he was firmly holding Syi’s hand clasped in his. It was proof he was there with him.

After night turned to day, and day to night again, Syn felt restless. Impatient. All their lives they’d been taught patience, yet in this moment his lessons could be damned. Around and around and around the rooms he paced, thoughts as fidgety as his body. As he circled he caught snippets of conversation from Luke to Guy, even if it went in one ear and out the other.

“…Hurt so bad, I hate these bandages! I wish they weren’t…”

“…Picked the lock on my chains and just passed…”

“…ard to be an Assassin with an eyepatch? How does that eve…”

—-

The evening of the second night, Syn went back to he tunnels. He needed to pre-occupy himself with something more than thoughts and worry, needed somewhere to get out his anger, and research could, perhaps, fill that gap in his serenity.

It did. Surprisingly enough. The mosaic tiles were somehow soothing to the touch, like a worry stone well-worn with wayward thoughts. The twin took time to memorize all of the missing tiles, their locations and what needed to be painted on them. This place had helped him get back to his brother, so he needed to do it a service too.

It was when he saw a piece of the mosaic that only had one eagle in flight, not two like it should, that he returned back to the hideout. And he was glad he did. When he heard the whimpering, the desperation, he only knew who that could be. He was at Syi’s side in an instant, holding his hand and smiling tiredly.

Syi couldn’t figure it out. Parsing together what little remained of his memory, he tried to puzzle it through: a room, fireplace crackling away, with a stringent smell mixing with something sweet. No one else was there - no, that wasn’t true.

At first he tried to pull away, mind torn in half. A Templar? No… no, this man was not a Templar. His body didn’t move far, certainly not far enough to yank away from the warm, calloused hands that clasped his own so tightly. He almost asked who are you but he knew, he knew!

With his other hand, arm trembling with the effort and pain, he rested his fingers in Syn’s hair. Soft, even a little damp - had his brother come in from practice? Is that how he’d ended up in this bed, wounded? Practice gone wrong, or perhaps they’d fallen out of the trees again. This was worse than a skinned knee though. He flexed his knee as if to find out and let out a hiss as every other wound in his body announced their presence.

“Syn,” he whispered again, barely a murmur. His eyes were open to thin slits, unfocused and glassy with fever. How long had he been resting? It felt as though he was sinking into mud too thick and heavy to escape. Even the blanket was enough to simply keep him still.

“Sy-” Choking on air, Syi coughed, harsh and high and too many times. He couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t breathe, and it - too much - too much damn it all - !

A cup was pressed to his lips, his head supported by a steady hand, and he drank between gasps of air until there was nothing left. He licked his lips, chasing the droplets, and let out a soft noise as the cup was returned to his mouth with more. Maybe he was drowning in a desert, or he’d choked on an apple piece while trying to climb. Syn would be furious, but…

“I got you… an apple…” he murmured, caught in the reality of his mind rather than the surety of the present. Absently his hand continued to tangle in the green strands, gently, stroking Syn’s head despite the tremble in those fingers. The bandages around his hand and wrist kept catching on the strands.

“This isn’t right,” he suddenly said, his eyes as focused as they could be on his brother. Syn wasn’t holding him up; the hands had to belong to another. Who, he had no idea.

The gauntlet, stained red and rusting but its owner refuses to clean it, wearing the trophy of someone damned by him, for him -

The words, all lies - nothing is true - and a mentor’s distance - everything is permitted…

An empty graveyard, full of - of nothing, of dirt, of secrets and artifacts, and lies -

drowning in hands and claws and teeth but it’s peace peace peace and there is no freedom - their wings are shorn, pinned, and they are flightless, blind, but with it - with the Apple, their Apple -

“-ack to us…”

Who?

“Come back… us…”

Who are you?

His fingers halted in Syn’s hair. Syn was older, not the small child who had played in the orchard. When had they grown? When had they become what they were? Where were the books and stories and heroes they grew up with? Where were they, a dark and lantern-lit place full of those same grasping hands and whispered secrets…?

“Stay with us,” the same voice - feminine, he noticed vaguely - repeated to him. The cup returned to his lips and he drank and immediately made a disgusted face. It tasted awful, though it cleared the blood from his tongue and soothed his scattered mind. He began dragging his fingers through Syn’s hair again as if forgetting he had been doing so before.

“Are you a ghost?” he asked, perfectly serious, as he stared at his brother still clutching to his hand. “My brother… are you here for my sins?” His unfocused eyes did not clear, remaining half lidded, and each croak was harder to get out than the last. His back burned. Did they reapply the torch again? It seemed to be Quinn’s favorite pasttime when he wasn’t beating people half to death the more conventional way.

It was flesh and blood, hair and bone, beneath his fingertips, not ghostly incorporeal existence. His heart skipped a beat, and another, and he forgot how to breathe as he stared at Syn and saw Syn.

“Bro… brother…?”

He dared not hope. He dared not. Escape from the Templars, seeing his brother again, Luke bleeding but still holding to his high spirits…

The first one, of course, was shock. He could feel the hand he held stiffen, almost sense a recoil mentally from Syi as he worked out what might have happened or - more likely - where he was. Was his mind still stuck in that hell of a prison, or was it somewhere else? Hopefully Syn's grip could anchor him here, in the correct timeline. It was where he belonged.

That was when Syi began to scratch his head, lightly patting and smoothing the damp strands of his hair with clumsy fingers. He seemed to come to his senses a bit. But only a bit, unfortunately, as Syn watched the senses turn to a coughing fit of panic (Over what? Who? Was something torturing Syi's mind?) before Cantabile pressed a cup of water to Syi's lips. His twin drank, and drank, and drank again. How much had his brother gone through? And why was he mentioning apples?

Syn had to agree at the fever-spoken comment; This wasn't right. His brother lying in a cot with a broken body and mind wasn't right. His apprentices bloody and bruised, unable to run, wasn't right. His frustration and anger were only growing, the fears and sorrow also becoming paramount.

Now there was more speaking of a thing that made no sense, about Syn being a ghost. There for his sins? That made no sense either. If anyone would be punished for sins, it would be Syn. He abandoned his mirror image. Let the devils beat him and turn him into...a rag doll. A punching bag. The realization that this was all his fault began to hit him in waves, his shaking increasing, as Syi finally saw Syn. Not just with his eyes, but with mental comprehension that Syn sat there, holding his hand.

Anger and relief tinged his words as he spoke around the lump in his throat, glancing up and smiling painfully. "Let the devil come for me if he comes for anyone, Syi. I...I'm so sorry."

Syi would finally get to sleep after the doctor did his work.

Syn held in his sigh of relief when he saw the light at the end of the tunnel. He knew there was more footing it to do after this yet it was still a wonderful thing to know they were close. Closer than he realized when Cantible stepped into the opening, features obscured in shadow.

He’d thought that she’d gone back to the hide-out. Perhaps she heard the ruckus they motley crew had started and returned? That was likely. Much, much more likely than her being an enemy like Luke thought. Syn smirked as his eyes follows the red-head’s movements, hidden blades drawn and ready for a fight.

Luke would have no chance against this woman. Syn could say that definitively. “I told you I’d not be leaving until I got my brother,” he retorted with a light chuckle. Calming from a jog to a trot, Syn moved around Luke as they followed the female assassin.

“Guy is… alright?” Luke asked between gritted teeth.

“Yes. He insisted on coming along, but when he collapsed getting out of bed he perhaps saw the error of his ways.” She kept her gaze locked ahead, her shoulders strong and true under Luke’s arm. “He is stubborn, much like your Master.”

A smile came unbidden to Luke’s lips. If Guy was well enough to fight his way out of bed and attempt to follow their Master, then his friend was certainly alive. He had no business trying to get up and go, though, and was going to get an earful from Luke.

“Thank you for helping him,” Luke muttered, still uncomfortable with her presence but unable to help leaning on her more heavily with every step.

“You can thank me by staying conscious and keeping your feet beneath you,” she said pointedly and shifted his arm further onto her shoulders.

Each step was agony by the time they reached a nondescript building. Luke glanced over at the Tempest and his heart fell. Syi was barely moving in his brother’s hold, though his chest shakily rose and fell. How badly off was his Master? He had hoped, with Syi showing his strength and breaking out both from his own chains and cell, his Master was doing better than Luke had originally seen, but…

“Look ahead,” the woman at his side murmured. Luke’s head swung back just in time to see the door creak open. His hands clenched, ready to call his blades, but it was merely an older looking man. He glanced at each of them, eyebrow raised.

“More, Cantabile?” he said, his lips twitching in a hidden smile.

“We collect strays - why change our ways now?”

She passed Luke to the man and turned to glance at Syn. Her eye softened just a little at the sight of the brothers reunited, but she doubted Syn knew what to expect beyond this point. The brothers clearly had never experienced anything quite like this before.

“Cantabile, this one needs his back looked at immediately.”

She nodded and led the way in, keeping the door open for Syn. Once all of them were inside, she shut the door behind her. It took a little planning and careful movements, but eventually all of them were down the rabbit hole and back in the main hideaway of the Daath Brotherhood.

“Master! Luke!”

The redhead’s head shot up and he broke away from the person helping him to dash into one of the adjoining rooms. In bed, propped up with pillows, lay Guy on his front while a young man worked on changing the bandages on his back. The room smelled of herbs and poultices, with an underlying scent of cleansing ointments. Luke found himself falling to lean against the doorframe, his legs weak in the knees, and smiled as bright as he could towards Guy.

“Hey,” he said before his legs gave out.

“Stupid,” the man behind him said as he caught Luke. The redhead’s eyes were rolled up, his body shaking in exhaustion and pain. Guy had shifted as if to get up, but one look from the standing man had him laying back down.

“Get him settled. Isaac, once you’re done there, we’ve got two more for you to look at,” Cantabile said. Gone was her hood and the various fabrics covering her face. She stood in simple leather armor and tight leggings, her bare feet hardly making a sound as she turned and Syn and his brother to a room right next door to their apprentices.

Guy let out a sigh of relief as Luke was laid out on a cot beside him, but blanched at the sight of his friend’s back. Blood, congealed and blackened in places, covered every inch of visible skin as Isaac gently pulled the shirt up with ample applications of water. Soon enough the destroyed, stained fabric lay off to the side, and Guy’s heart fell. Luke had endured severe torture; how long had it lasted?

Isaac offered Guy a small, reassuring smile as he got to work. He cleaned out the wounds, ignoring Luke’s soft protests and grunts of pain, and soon began applying much the same materials to the lash marks. Many of them were inflamed, no doubt fighting infection and filth, but Guy had no doubt Luke would be alright. He had to be; he would allow nothing less from his dearest friend.

In the other room, Cantabile helped Syn lay Syi out on the bed on his back. His eyes briefly fluttered open, glassy and dazed, taking too long to focus on Syn at his side. Syi’s hand spasmed, his thumb swollen around the joint, and reached out to grasp Syn’s clenched fist. His lips quirked upwards into a shaking smile.

“Alive,” he muttered, his throat choking on the word and turning the word into barely more than a rasp. “Syn… alive…”

Cantabile ignored him, working instead of removing his clothing quickly and efficiently. She frowned at the sight of the strangely cleaner fabric of his pants - pants that were clearly not originally his - and cut the shirt from his body. All of it was left in a pile nearby to be burned later. Her jaw clenched at the sight of the bruising on his chest: some were recent enough to be still red and blue, others yellowing or layered. Handprints were clear at his throat as was the collar bruising, fingerprints stark against the pale skin. His wrists were bloodied and filthy, rust and dirt clear in the exposed wounds, his ankles showing much the same damage. Her entire body stiffened at the sight of the jagged scars, clearly cauterized shut, torn into his wrists. Had his enemies done this, or…

“This could have been far worse,” she murmured, though a frown still graced her lips. Gently she investigated his chest, finding the ribs one at a time. “No broken ribs, though a few might be fractured… Isaac will know better than I.”

She tilted his head to the side, letting the torchlight reveal his face and lips, cuts covering his cheeks and bruises so thick she was shocked he was able to speak at all. Once the swelling went down she hoped most of it would heal into faded scars. Syi’s body trembled, sweat dripping down his face. Cantabile’s frown deepened: he seemed to be in more pain than he should have been. She zeroed in on his upper shoulder - it looked like a burn, the skin shiny and taut.

“He’s cleaner than I would have expected,” she said distractedly as she began to lift Syi onto his side… and got a look at his shoulder.

His back was bad enough, covered in what looked like claw marks and broken skin, but his shoulder… He would be lucky to get full range of motion back. A small hole without any indication of origin, puckered and inflamed much like the rest of his wounds, but she could practically see the infection oozing from the untreated wound. The skin near it was stretched and weblike, shiny and awful, clawed through and reopened numerous times by what had to have been a beast. Beneath it, she thought she saw some kind of black lines, perhaps a design of some kind. Had that too been forced on him before his skin was flayed from his back?

“Isaac,” she said firmly, her voice carrying. In a few moments, he ducked his head through the door and saw the dark look on her face. His brows snapped together, concern on his face, but as she nodded to Syi who simply flopped onto his back and writhed as his wounds came in contact with the bed, Isaac’s eyes widened. He nodded vigorously, motioned to the two in the room behind him, and hurried off.

Though Cantabile had a good point, nodding as he realized that she was speaking of his twin’s wounds. These weren’t that bad. Yet Syi had been operating as if he had much more damage on him than this. Perhaps they had been keeping him from sleeping, or they had kept food from him.

All probably what happened, but not what turned out to be the most infuriating cause of it all.

At first, Syn didn’t see it. He only saw the look on Cantabile’s face, tension mixing with worry. She was calling for Isaac when Syn saw what she was staring at - tears. Cuts. Pus and blood and torture. What they had done could only be described as that. For what had laid on that shoulder had been an eagle, the symbol of the Tempest’s freedom and will.

And they had shredded it repeatedly over the weeks. Syn had seen torture before, knew the signs and their marks. Their scars. There was so very little of their mark left on him. Perhaps a couple of lines? Nothing that would signify the bird of prey that had been there, for certain.

Cold shivers of anger made their way down his body and he had to fight not to clench his fists. They hadn’t just taken Syi. They had taken his mind and body to play with, but there was so much more to it than that. They’d taken his freedom. The one thing that every Assassin was proud of, next to their Brotherhood.

Stripped away like thread from a tapestry, over and over and over again. Suddenly, having murdered Quinn wasn’t enough. He wanted to have done so much more to the backstabber in this moment. Syn’s grief beat at him relentlessly while Cantabile and Isaac did what they needed to, the twin never letting go of the hand that clenched his. Is this why he was saying he should be left behind? That he thought he was a failure?

“Brother, I failed you,” Syn said in Ancient Ispanian, eyebrows unconsciously knitting together. “Not the other way around.”

Using the smallest and most precise knife he had, Isaac cut away dead and infected skin little by little, swallowing back his own discomfort. This was where he shined even if he could not say anything; here, there was no need for words. Instead he relied upon a steady hand and a gentle smile, though neither could be applied to the assassin before him. Isaac had seen worse wounds, but this had meant to hurt this Tempest mentally more so than physically, and the wound was indeed debilitating if it went untreated… It had been untreated for what looked like weeks, perhaps longer…

The assassin kept trying to move, to pull away from the pain, but Cantabile’s steel grip kept him steady and as stable as they could get him. Syi’s infected blood rolled down his back in first drops, then rivulets, growing steadier as Isaac did what he could to leech the infected blood. The hole was more healed than he originally thought, though he had no doubt there would be some permanence to the injury.

Syi thrashed, his hand clutched so tight in his brother’s that Syn’s knuckles were white, but it was weak, like the death throes of a wounded animal. Isaac soothed Syi’s back with salves and creams and watched as some of the tension faded from the no doubt exhausted body. He bound the wound, washed his hands, and moved on.

Here, cuts on his face and a busted lip. There, fingerprints and bruises and little Isaac could do anything about. He studied the ribs after Cantabile carefully turned Syi onto his back, poking and prodding as gently as he could to see what was broken. He felt the wounds, would have swore under his breath if he’d been able to - things had healed, though the ribs were bruised still at the very least. He doubted the fractures were completely good either. No internal bleeding, as far as he could tell. Perhaps just a little luck was on his side.

He placed a soft, damp cloth on Syi’s forehead as sweat beaded and rolled down his cheeks. His whole body was like a furnace, exuding heat it had no business feeling, but Isaac knew it would break. He moved down the chest, placing additional cooling salves where he could to ease the pain of bruises. The sharp tang of calendula soon permeated the room, mixing with the already pungent smells of blood, sweat, and aloe.

Isaac studied the left arm, as Syn was still holding to Syi’s hand, and for the first time during his entire exam he blanched. The wrist was slashed open with a poorly healed, jagged wound. Someone had treated it with something, or he was certain the wound would have been fatal. Isaac hesitated in touching the scarred skin, his hands trembling, and he found each breath harder and harder to draw.

“It’s alright,” Cantabile murmured and he jumped at her close proximity. With practiced patience she drew the arm away and rubbed the sweet-smelling poultice into the wrist. She bandaged it carefully, much as he would have, and hid away the evidence of what he suspected to be self-inflicted. Isaac’s eyes darted to the other arm, its wrist hidden in shadow.

“Keep checking his other wounds,” Cantabile ordered, not unkindly, before she gently pried Syi’s limp arm from Syn’s hands despite his immediate jolting protest and repeated the gesture there.

Isaac’s hands drifted over his own sleeves, reassuring him he had his shirt, and yes, that he was here. He closed his eyes, breathing in little hitched noises until it eventually calmed and only Syi’s weak gasps were audible. Back under control, Isaac rose from his hunched position at Syi’s bedside.

Cantabile had returned Syi’s hand to Syn’s desperate grasp and stood at his side, a shadow of support and understanding. Isaac hurried to address other wounds - mostly minor, shallow cuts and bruises on the legs. He was careful with cleaning out the ankle wounds, removing slivers of rust and metal before carefully bandaging it up too. He switched out the cloth on Syi’s head as a final gesture.

He dropped the cloths into one of the now empty buckets. The other remained, still half full, and he put it aside for later - no sense in wasting clean water. Hands still shaking lightly, he looked up at Cantabile and made a few gestures.

“Isaac said Syi is stable for now,” Cantabile said quietly, as if to not break the fragile peace in the room. “We have a few herbal tonics we’ll need to feed him, but he mostly needs sleep and nutrients. Based on what we see now, I believe it is safe to say he did not eat much during his hospitable stay with the Templars.”

“For now, I will go keep watch. The cot over there - ” She gestured to one in the corner. “ - is for your use. I suggest you rest.”

Cantabile clasped Syn’s shoulder briefly before nodding to Isaac and heading out. Isaac lingered, fingers twitching as they grasped the hem of his own shirt, before they found a better method of calming himself down. He grabbed a nearby blanket and carefully spread it over Syi’s body and allowed himself a small smile.

He couldn’t offer words of comfort, but he could save this young man’s life, and the lives of those in the other room. Hopefully it was enough to renew Syn’s hope. After giving Syn a small bow, he carried the dirtied cloths and empty bucket away, his hands stained but his heart light.

– – – – –

Wading through dreams was almost impossible. Nothing to tether him, nothing to guide him, and nothing to draw him away from the voices calling to him at every turn. He wanted to follow those calls, voices he didn’t know yet wished he did. Every time he turned towards them, something yanked him back, and more than once he had to stop before he cried out in agony. How many times did he need to fall to his knees?

Where is Luke?

It was the clearest thought he’d had in… well, certainly while he was here. He swam through it all, dragged himself forward through the mire.

Where is…

Where…

Syn…?

His brother could be bleeding to death, could be gone, could be all a lie, a ghost, a fragment -

Syi jolted awake, gasping like a stuck fish. His entire being hurt so badly; moving even to breathe was agony. Yet on he breathed, throat parched and body shaking and- and it didn’t matter that he was engulfed in warmth, that a cool cloth was spread over his forehead, that he had soft candlelight around him -

orchard - the orchard - together - orchard book orders find it find it find -

“Syn,” he whispered, croaked, begged, “Syn.”

Why had they captured Syi in the first place, when it seemed to give them no benefit? He didn't put it past the snakes to capture one of their enemies just to play with them, but Syn didn't think it the case. If they had truly wanted to play, they would have made sure Syi had no infection. They'd want to have kept him alive as long as possible, and with how deeply-rooted that infection had seemed to be, Syn didn't think they had that in the long run.

So, then, why was Mohs so interested in the pair? When he'd been mowing down his enemies, Syn had noticed the Grand Maestro's desperation to have him in shackles. Did that have anything to do with why he didn't know about Syi's imprisonment? Or why the news of it hadn't spread like wildfire to the Brotherhoods?

The thoughts came to him in fragments, all over two days of pain at seeing his brother ill in bed. Unwillingly Syn fell asleep shortly after His twin had been worked on. That, however, was only because he was firmly holding Syi's hand clasped in his. It was proof he was there with him.

After night turned to day, and day to night again, Syn felt restless. Impatient. All their lives they'd been taught patience, yet in this moment his lessons could be damned. Around and around and around the rooms he paced, thoughts as fidgety as his body. As he circled he caught snippets of conversation from Luke to Guy, even if it went in one ear and out the other.

"...Hurt so bad, I hate these bandages! I wish they weren't..."

"...Picked the lock on my chains and just passed..."

"...ard to be an Assassin with an eyepatch? How does that eve..."

----

The evening of the second night, Syn went back to he tunnels. He needed to pre-occupy himself with something more than thoughts and worry, needed somewhere to get out his anger, and research could, perhaps, fill that gap in his serenity.

It did. Surprisingly enough. The mosaic tiles were somehow soothing to the touch, like a worry stone well-worn with wayward thoughts. The twin took time to memorize all of the missing tiles, their locations and what needed to be painted on them. This place had helped him get back to his brother, so he needed to do it a service too.

It was when he saw a piece of the mosaic that only had one eagle in flight, not two like it should, that he returned back to the hideout. And he was glad he did. When he heard the whimpering, the desperation, he only knew who that could be. He was at Syi's side in an instant, holding his hand and smiling tiredly.

Syi would finally get to sleep after the doctor did his work.

Syn held in his sigh of relief when he saw the light at the end of the tunnel. He knew there was more footing it to do after this yet it was still a wonderful thing to know they were close. Closer than he realized when Cantible stepped into the opening, features obscured in shadow.

He’d thought that she’d gone back to the hide-out. Perhaps she heard the ruckus they motley crew had started and returned? That was likely. Much, much more likely than her being an enemy like Luke thought. Syn smirked as his eyes follows the red-head’s movements, hidden blades drawn and ready for a fight.

Luke would have no chance against this woman. Syn could say that definitively. “I told you I’d not be leaving until I got my brother,” he retorted with a light chuckle. Calming from a jog to a trot, Syn moved around Luke as they followed the female assassin.

“Guy is… alright?” Luke asked between gritted teeth.

“Yes. He insisted on coming along, but when he collapsed getting out of bed he perhaps saw the error of his ways.” She kept her gaze locked ahead, her shoulders strong and true under Luke’s arm. “He is stubborn, much like your Master.”

A smile came unbidden to Luke’s lips. If Guy was well enough to fight his way out of bed and attempt to follow their Master, then his friend was certainly alive. He had no business trying to get up and go, though, and was going to get an earful from Luke.

“Thank you for helping him,” Luke muttered, still uncomfortable with her presence but unable to help leaning on her more heavily with every step.

“You can thank me by staying conscious and keeping your feet beneath you,” she said pointedly and shifted his arm further onto her shoulders.

Each step was agony by the time they reached a nondescript building. Luke glanced over at the Tempest and his heart fell. Syi was barely moving in his brother’s hold, though his chest shakily rose and fell. How badly off was his Master? He had hoped, with Syi showing his strength and breaking out both from his own chains and cell, his Master was doing better than Luke had originally seen, but…

“Look ahead,” the woman at his side murmured. Luke’s head swung back just in time to see the door creak open. His hands clenched, ready to call his blades, but it was merely an older looking man. He glanced at each of them, eyebrow raised.

“More, Cantabile?” he said, his lips twitching in a hidden smile.

“We collect strays - why change our ways now?”

She passed Luke to the man and turned to glance at Syn. Her eye softened just a little at the sight of the brothers reunited, but she doubted Syn knew what to expect beyond this point. The brothers clearly had never experienced anything quite like this before.

“Cantabile, this one needs his back looked at immediately.”

She nodded and led the way in, keeping the door open for Syn. Once all of them were inside, she shut the door behind her. It took a little planning and careful movements, but eventually all of them were down the rabbit hole and back in the main hideaway of the Daath Brotherhood.

“Master! Luke!”

The redhead’s head shot up and he broke away from the person helping him to dash into one of the adjoining rooms. In bed, propped up with pillows, lay Guy on his front while a young man worked on changing the bandages on his back. The room smelled of herbs and poultices, with an underlying scent of cleansing ointments. Luke found himself falling to lean against the doorframe, his legs weak in the knees, and smiled as bright as he could towards Guy.

“Hey,” he said before his legs gave out.

“Stupid,” the man behind him said as he caught Luke. The redhead’s eyes were rolled up, his body shaking in exhaustion and pain. Guy had shifted as if to get up, but one look from the standing man had him laying back down.

“Get him settled. Isaac, once you’re done there, we’ve got two more for you to look at,” Cantabile said. Gone was her hood and the various fabrics covering her face. She stood in simple leather armor and tight leggings, her bare feet hardly making a sound as she turned and Syn and his brother to a room right next door to their apprentices.

Guy let out a sigh of relief as Luke was laid out on a cot beside him, but blanched at the sight of his friend’s back. Blood, congealed and blackened in places, covered every inch of visible skin as Isaac gently pulled the shirt up with ample applications of water. Soon enough the destroyed, stained fabric lay off to the side, and Guy’s heart fell. Luke had endured severe torture; how long had it lasted?

Isaac offered Guy a small, reassuring smile as he got to work. He cleaned out the wounds, ignoring Luke’s soft protests and grunts of pain, and soon began applying much the same materials to the lash marks. Many of them were inflamed, no doubt fighting infection and filth, but Guy had no doubt Luke would be alright. He had to be; he would allow nothing less from his dearest friend.

In the other room, Cantabile helped Syn lay Syi out on the bed on his back. His eyes briefly fluttered open, glassy and dazed, taking too long to focus on Syn at his side. Syi’s hand spasmed, his thumb swollen around the joint, and reached out to grasp Syn’s clenched fist. His lips quirked upwards into a shaking smile.

“Alive,” he muttered, his throat choking on the word and turning the word into barely more than a rasp. “Syn… alive…”

Cantabile ignored him, working instead of removing his clothing quickly and efficiently. She frowned at the sight of the strangely cleaner fabric of his pants - pants that were clearly not originally his - and cut the shirt from his body. All of it was left in a pile nearby to be burned later. Her jaw clenched at the sight of the bruising on his chest: some were recent enough to be still red and blue, others yellowing or layered. Handprints were clear at his throat as was the collar bruising, fingerprints stark against the pale skin. His wrists were bloodied and filthy, rust and dirt clear in the exposed wounds, his ankles showing much the same damage. Her entire body stiffened at the sight of the jagged scars, clearly cauterized shut, torn into his wrists. Had his enemies done this, or…

“This could have been far worse,” she murmured, though a frown still graced her lips. Gently she investigated his chest, finding the ribs one at a time. “No broken ribs, though a few might be fractured… Isaac will know better than I.”

She tilted his head to the side, letting the torchlight reveal his face and lips, cuts covering his cheeks and bruises so thick she was shocked he was able to speak at all. Once the swelling went down she hoped most of it would heal into faded scars. Syi’s body trembled, sweat dripping down his face. Cantabile’s frown deepened: he seemed to be in more pain than he should have been. She zeroed in on his upper shoulder - it looked like a burn, the skin shiny and taut.

“He’s cleaner than I would have expected,” she said distractedly as she began to lift Syi onto his side… and got a look at his shoulder.

His back was bad enough, covered in what looked like claw marks and broken skin, but his shoulder… He would be lucky to get full range of motion back. A small hole without any indication of origin, puckered and inflamed much like the rest of his wounds, but she could practically see the infection oozing from the untreated wound. The skin near it was stretched and weblike, shiny and awful, clawed through and reopened numerous times by what had to have been a beast. Beneath it, she thought she saw some kind of black lines, perhaps a design of some kind. Had that too been forced on him before his skin was flayed from his back?

“Isaac,” she said firmly, her voice carrying. In a few moments, he ducked his head through the door and saw the dark look on her face. His brows snapped together, concern on his face, but as she nodded to Syi who simply flopped onto his back and writhed as his wounds came in contact with the bed, Isaac’s eyes widened. He nodded vigorously, motioned to the two in the room behind him, and hurried off.

Though Cantabile had a good point, nodding as he realized that she was speaking of his twin's wounds. These weren't that bad. Yet Syi had been operating as if he had much more damage on him than this. Perhaps they had been keeping him from sleeping, or they had kept food from him.

All probably what happened, but not what turned out to be the most infuriating cause of it all.

At first, Syn didn't see it. He only saw the look on Cantabile's face, tension mixing with worry. She was calling for Isaac when Syn saw what she was staring at - tears. Cuts. Pus and blood and torture. What they had done could only be described as that. For what had laid on that shoulder had been an eagle, the symbol of the Tempest's freedom and will.

And they had shredded it repeatedly over the weeks. Syn had seen torture before, knew the signs and their marks. Their scars. There was so very little of their mark left on him. Perhaps a couple of lines? Nothing that would signify the bird of prey that had been there, for certain.

Cold shivers of anger made their way down his body and he had to fight not to clench his fists. They hadn't just taken Syi. They had taken his mind and body to play with, but there was so much more to it than that. They'd taken his freedom. The one thing that every Assassin was proud of, next to their Brotherhood.

Stripped away like thread from a tapestry, over and over and over again. Suddenly, having murdered Quinn wasn't enough. He wanted to have done so much more to the backstabber in this moment. Syn's grief beat at him relentlessly while Cantabile and Isaac did what they needed to, the twin never letting go of the hand that clenched his. Is this why he was saying he should be left behind? That he thought he was a failure?

"Brother, I failed you," Syn said in Ancient Ispanian, eyebrows unconsciously knitting together. "Not the other way around."

If he brought it up to Legretta, he was sure that he would be told to just get used to it. That it was part of who he was now, and that he’d have to learn to function with it. It was depressing that he was getting used to her demeanor already, even though he’d only been interacting with her while half-asleep.

Syn’s mind was still running one hundred miles a minute when he sat on the edge of his bed, watching Largo help his brother into bed. The boy bit the inside of his lip to refrain from frowning. Syi was still so weak, still needing help so badly. Syn wanted to be the only one who needed to help his twin, if at all. But with his own…handicaps…he wasn’t able to.

He pulled his leg onto the bed as he stared at it with disgust in his eyes. He’d thought he’d be ok, but Father just had to keep giving them gifts.

After Syi was settled, and the older man had draped the blankets over the older twin, he shook his head. It seemed he was ignoring the harsh tones of the other. “Just rest. A nurse will be here shortly to give you medicine.”

“I am afraid the request is non-negotiable,” Largo said. “Your bodies have suffered severe traumas for most of your lives and are just now being given time to heal. Take your medicines, eat your dinners, and rest. Training begins tomorrow.”

He left the room. Syi waited a few moments before speaking up, his voice quieter and tired but no less full of affection for his brother. Why hide it if they were being watched like hawks?

“The medicine might actually be for our benefit, Syn.” He wasn’t sure he believed his own words but he wanted to raise the point anyway. Though he figured he should be hungry or antsy, he was simply too exhausted to think much beyond his already consuming thoughts. “I don’t want to take it either, though… especially if it makes my head as swimmy as before…”

The nurse entered carrying two plates of food, glasses of water, and two sets of pills - one blue, one red, and one purple. Syi had no idea what any of them did, or why they were required to take them, but a glance at his brother told him whatever they were probably wasn’t good.

“Food first, then medicine,” the nurse said, not unkindly.

Probably the thought of the stranger’s surprising kindness. All of them had been firmly nice, testing them just enough to keep them entertained, but not enough to give things away. The younger boy wasn’t sure how to handle all of this…just treatment. It was almost as if they had parents instead of owners now.

“I really don’t want to,” He sighed as he stared at his food. The food itself looked good, and one tentative bite seemed to make him want to eat more. He decided to take several small bites as he spoke to Syi, looking somewhat weary himself.

“I don’t get how they’re being so nice to us. There has to be more of a motive to all this.” One hand, holding a bite of a bread roll, waved in the air as he spoke. “But I guess I can’t really argue, can I.”

Syn closed his eyes, sighed, and grabbed the cup with the pills, tipping it into his mouth and swallowing them all with one motion. He swiftly chased it all down with water, face contorting at the taste.

Here, it seemed to be par for the course. Syi didn’t trust any of it, but he also was in no position to really argue. He stared at the little cup of pills, his stomach churning at even the thought of one hitting the back of his throat. So innocuous, in and of themselves… Would these people poison them? How could they be kinder than Syn and Syi’s own flesh and blood?

“I agree,” Syi said, wincing as he saw Syn down all three pills. He’d gotten very good at taking medicine recently; Syi could remember a time when it was agony to take a single painkiller. That also might have been because their father had choked Syn after a meeting gone slightly wrong…

Syi ate a few bites of food if only to appease his brother. A good portion was still left when he lifted his own cup of pills, stared dubiously at them, and finally swallowed them down. Now would they be allowed to rest? A chance at normal, not drug induced sleep?

“I guess if they put a sugar coating on it, people might eat it like candy?” Syi suggested, laying back down. He still felt annoyingly fragile, like a china doll, but he hoped he would be well enough to at least start weight training or exercising while Syn was put through the ringer.

Then there was the issue of Syn’s leg. What if it never moved right again? What if…

No. He wouldn’t let them do more damage to Syn, not if he could help it.

But he’d have to start taking them this time. Legretta had, at his first tiny rebellion, told him that it was either pills or the IV. She was calm, collected, and somewhat scolding, but he had persisted, saying he wasn’t going to take them.

For a week, he was on the IV. Legretta had asked him again after a week if he would take the pills, and again he had denied her, staying on the IV. Every time he’d taken pills for as long as he could remember, it had been painful, the swallowing of any hard foods a knife down his throat.

The only difference now was that Syi was awake. He wouldn’t fight this time, even if he had in the past. What if Syn rebelled and they made Syi go back in the IV too?

He wouldn’t subject him to that again. So he downed them as quickly as he could, feeling tiny knives in his throat. Curiously, not as bad as he expected.

“Syn,” he said quietly, his brother’s name barely a breath on his lips, and his eyes completely slid shut. He clawed at his awareness, desperate to keep it close; his mind fell down through the endless darkness until there was nothing left.

It was a mere few minutes before Legretta entered the room, looking just as proper as before. She gave Syn a brief nod and walked over to Syi. Fragile still, despite his healing - easy to destroy and easy to save. She took the plate of food from his lap and placed it carefully on the tray at his bedside. Despite the pain he was clearly still in, he appeared almost peaceful as he lay and slept. She had wanted to speak with Syn alone, away from his brother’s prying, and was glad to see her plan had worked.

“I will not keep you for too long,” she remarked as she drew a blanket over Syi’s body and tucked him in around the shoulders. No fever, no return to the delusions or power he had displayed not long ago. No doubt Syn was capable of such things as well; she aimed to find out how much he knew and understood when they began training him.

The entire time she was in the room, his eyes were on her. Watching her hands, watching her steps. She was so gentle, so kind, so…was motherly the word? Syn didn’t know. But it was so very, very foreign.

“Stop touching him.” The words were calm, even as they were spoken through gritted teeth. His composure was definitely slipping - but it always did when it came to Syi. “I understand your thinly veiled threats, and I’m getting tired of them. I’m doing what you want of me. I was a good little boy and took the medication. Ate. I’m going to learn to fight and keep my promise.

Syi stirred in his sleep, murmuring quietly before settling down again and scooting further under the blankets. No doubt they would be askew in the morning; Syi was not exactly a still sleeper. Legretta glanced over at him as if to check on him.

“You and your brother are ours now,” she said plainly. “We take care of our own.”

Her hand rested for a few moments on Syn’s shoulder before she headed for the door. “Try to get some rest. We begin training you in the morning.”

With that, she flicked the lights off, leaving only a small lamp at their bedsides on. A few books rested on the bedside table.

Outside the door, Legretta paused, seeing a tall, brown haired man standing and waiting for her at the end of the hallway. She hurried along, her footsteps fading, and stopped in front of him.

“Van,” she greeted him. “I’m surprised to see you here in person.”

“I wished to confirm Asch and his own did not sabotage our use of their facilities,” Van explained with a small smile. “I see the move was successful.”

“They are resting, yes. And San Druin?”

“No idea where they are. I have no doubt he has those in his ranks frantically searching. It is not as if he can produce other heirs at this point.”

Legretta nodded for lack of a better reaction. “We begin training tomorrow.”

“Go easy on them for the moment, Legretta,” Van requested in that same calm voice. “From your report and Largo’s, those two will not be up and ready to actually serve us for some weeks yet.”

“I will get them ready as quickly and efficiently as I can.”

“I am certain Largo will help you as well,” Van agreed. He hesitated only a moment to brush a strand of blond hair from her face before turning away and heading back down the hallway. “I have other business to attend to. Keep me informed.”

“Understood.”

Syi groaned as he woke. More smells - food must have arrived - and more aches, but at least it was manageable now. He still needed help to sit up and stared down at the plate in his lap. How much of this was a dream? What would they need to pay in blood or theirselves in recompense for these ‘gifts’? Nothing came free, and certainly not their tentative freedom.

Glancing over at Syn told him his younger twin was still asleep. Good - he would need all the rest he could get. Syi flexed his fingers in the lighter cast and frowned. He wouldn’t be up and about for a while, and he wouldn’t be able to keep up with Syn…

He wanted to ask what training would really entail since he had to use this damn brace, but Legretta was out the door before he could gather the words. He wanted to protest, he honestly did, but all his rebelliousness had been spent on scolding her for touching Syi; Now he just wanted to get his mind off of her being here.

As the door handle latched into place, the boy looked over to the books and skimmed their titles. All of them seemed to have some sort of strategical perspective, with words like 'war' or 'tactics' strewn about. His own book on poisons was nowhere in sight. Did this underground organization not want its new recruits poisoning their superiors? Or had they just seen it as unaligned with their cause?

What even was their cause? Everyone fought for something, or in his own case, someone. What sort of mission statement would require the smuggling of children? Unless...

Had they actually wanted to help the twins from the beginning, like Guy had said? If so, why would they have to make a deal with Syn for his life? It all still didn't make sense to him, and he hated when things didn't make sense.

With a sigh of defeat, Syn turned off the bedside light and pulled up his covers. He was sure he had a long day ahead of him.

----

It was bacon. Bacon and...something sweet that woke him up the next morning with it's delicious smells. The hospital fed them bacon quite often. It was almost as if someone had noticed Syn liked the stuff and would always eat it.

"Mmmmgghhhh..." Syn groaned, cracking an eye open to see Syi already awake, sitting up and eating his own breakfast. Groggily he pulled the pillow out from under his head and hugged it to his head, trying to block out the delicious smell, the light, and everything else. Had he tried this at their parent's home, he would have been severely punished. But here he had the luxury of being just a little lazy.

Syi would finally get to sleep after the doctor did his work.

Syn held in his sigh of relief when he saw the light at the end of the tunnel. He knew there was more footing it to do after this yet it was still a wonderful thing to know they were close. Closer than he realized when Cantible stepped into the opening, features obscured in shadow.

He'd thought that she'd gone back to the hide-out. Perhaps she heard the ruckus they motley crew had started and returned? That was likely. Much, much more likely than her being an enemy like Luke thought. Syn smirked as his eyes follows the red-head's movements, hidden blades drawn and ready for a fight.

Luke would have no chance against this woman. Syn could say that definitively. "I told you I'd not be leaving until I got my brother," he retorted with a light chuckle. Calming from a jog to a trot, Syn moved around Luke as they followed the female assassin.

Feeling a surge run through him, his smile became deadly at the sound of a dagger piercing armor. Quinn didn’t fall at the hit like most, but it certainly slowed him down. Perfect.

“I’ll read you your death rites, as I pity you.” Exploit the weak leg by going for the strong one, wearing it down. Dodge swipes, eyes never leaving the target.

“With her Score written, Lorelei shows all of us the fallibility of man. She, the granter of life…” Flip forward after a strike, body-checking the enemy and throwing him off balance. “…Has also the power to retrieve our souls to create anew. Be at rest, lamb. Your day has come.”

Use the close walls for lift, striking down on Quinn’s head with a hidden blade and slashing his throat with the sword. Syn wasted no fury in stabbing the Templar in the cranium several times, covering his own face in blood, his clothes, his weapons. This was the kindest Quinn would get for hurting his brother.

Syi…!

Enemy dead, Syn ran immediately over to his brother, gently scooping him up in his arms. He was so light…Syn could feel the feverish heat radiating off of his sibling, the infection oozing into his jacket sleeves. Syi shouldn’t even be able to move now, yet somehow he had.

The audible gasp that escaped him was not something he’d intended to be out loud, yet his ribs cried out in agony at being jostled. He’d already done more damage himself with breaking out; it had been the right thing to do, but he knew too the foolishness of moving himself in his condition. Blood filled his senses, closer and fresh and sharp, like the first spray of salt water or the first rays of the sun on a bright morning.

For the first time in ages, Syi let his eyes close not because of exhaustion, but because of relief. Weak as he was, he still managed to throw his good arm around Syn’s shoulders and tangled his fingers in the back of Syn’s bloodied tunic, mangled and hurting but sure of their grip.

“I thought you were dead,” Syi whispered, choked by pain and blood and such blessed relief. “I thought… they told me you were…” He was trembling. When was the last time he actually trembled like this? “I’m still not sure you’re here and not a ghost… haunting me for my stupidity and weakness…”

It was getting harder to focus and to breathe, clutched as tightly as he was against Syn, but Syi couldn’t bring himself to care. His arm shook as he tried to keep the hold; his fingers started to slip, wet with blood and weakened. Syi allowed himself the weakness, knowing his brother would not judge him even if he deserved it, and leaned his head against Syn’s shoulder. His eyes stayed closed this time, his pallor hardly reassuring.

For his part, Luke had managed to get to his knees then his feet in what he figured was pretty good time considering the state of his back. He winced as he moved wounds just recently closed and wondered how one would even treat the absolute mess. Still, as he saw his two Masters reunited, he couldn’t help but give them both a little smile. At the authoritative voice, he straightened as best he could.

Guy would chide him like crazy for this, looking like an old man without his walking stick.

But he wasn’t losing his twin. Not again.

“You’re far from weak, Syi, and this nightmare is almost over. Just try to sleep, ok? You need to start healing.” To Luke, he nodded, eyes hardening. “I have another way out, too. We just need to get down this tower first. Do you think you’ll be able to dodge guards? We can’t fight in this condition.”

This was followed by a slow turn in the direction of the stairs, which brought him to the body of Quinn again. The traitor’s face was frozen in shock, in never-ending panic and fear of his end. This gave him nothing but a black pleasure as he kicked the head of Quinn. Good. He should be scared even in the afterlife.

“You’ll need to follow my lead. If we get separated, I’ll meet you in the servant’s quarters. The exit is that way.”

Looking down as he walked calmly towards the stairs, his eyes softened at the sight of his brother again. “We’re going to get you both help, I promise. Just stay with me.”

And with that, down the stairs he dashed.

The trip itself was a blur of motion, aside from the few moments of hiding he did from guards and the pauses he took to check that yes, Luke was still following him. This mission was harder than he thought. It felt like centuries before he started seeing servants rooms, eons until they found the right one. The click of the hatch was the most satisfying noise he’d heard in awhile.

They passed by room after room. Luke checked each one, making sure guards would not attack their flank or their backs. They couldn’t afford a real fight, not with the state of their ragtag group, and Guy would never forgive him if he died here after all the work they’d put into rescuing their teacher.

He really hoped Guy was fine. Hell, Luke would be happy for the lecture if only Guy would be better by the time they were reunited.

He paused in one doorway and heard himself gasp. Inside, a hidden blade had been butchered, each tiny mechanism taken apart but clearly not put back together properly. He snarled at it, unable to help it - the blade was a sacred symbol, a powerful tool, and they treated it without any kind of respect. He spotted his own hidden blades and pack and - was that his coat? A grin on his face, Luke ducked into the room, grabbed the bag of supplies, his coat, and the blades, and hurried after his already moving Master. A shame Master Syi’s blades weren’t in there, but… he suspected the butchered blade may have been the Master Assassin’s. Where the other was, he had no idea.

By the time they reached the room, two dead Templars and several staircases later, Luke was feeling lightheaded and dizzy. Blood was running down his back in thin rivulets, though he tried to stem it by pressing the fabric on his back against the wounds. It hurt, but at least it would stop a trail from forming.

It also seemed too easy to get to this point without being jumped. At each sound or creak of the building, Luke jumped, seeking invisible enemies. Quietly he followed after Syn. At the sight of the ladder, he let out a sigh of relief. He had no idea what lay beyond in the darkness but it had to be better than here.

So he crept. And dodged. His eyes never stopped moving as they walked around, backs pressed against stone walls that were cold to the touch. Luke seemed fairly in edge as well (for good reason), and that was all he needed. He knew they would be fine.

Opening the hidden door was much harder than he thought it would be. Still he managed it, desperation driving him. “I’ll carry him in one arm and climb down with the other. It isn’t ideal, but I won’t have you losing more blood.” With infinite gentleness he transferred his brother’s full weight into his left arm, starting his descent into the dimly lit corridor. Good, the lamp was still there. “C'mon, hurry.”

One he hit the ground, Syn made sure to scoop up the lantern with his free hand and start walking. Not fast, of course. Just enough to where he had a pace without leaving his apprentice behind. Syn was trying to take the red-head’s wounds in consideration, but it was hard. They were all losing time.