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moonsheenSO HEY REMEMBER WHEN THE ENDING OF ASSASSIN'S CREED 2 WAS TOTALLY FRIGGIN' DUMB?
YOU KNOW WHAT I THINK IT NEEDED MORE OF
I THINK IT NEEDED MORE HUGGING OF OLD MASTERS.
THAT IS WHAT I THINK IT NEEDED.
It also probably should have had
you know
the main character of the game.
so I wrote this. Post-Game, 1,645 words.
The boy who met him in the gallery had large solemn eyes and dark curly hair. He hung on the railing of the gallery, looking down through the bars at the man as he pulled his bags through the doors. "Master Leonardo."
The artist looked up at him and laughed. "Now Giovanni, none of that. I am a friend. Is your father in?"
The boy cocked his head, considering the question. "Yes," he said, finally. "But he was out before. Aunt Claudia is with him now."
The sound of vicious swears drifted down from the second level. "Excellent," said Leonardo. "I have come at just the right time."
"NO VISITORS," snarled Claudia at the door. She stood with her hands on her hips, a plump avenging angel. On the bed, Ezio lay stretched out, his abdomen a mess of fresh bandages. His eyebrows knit together in the sheer effort of his feigned sleep. He even affected to snore, as though this might drown her out.
"Buon giorno," said Leonardo, raising his hands against that wrathful blast of air.
Ezio opened one eye. "Ah, Claudia. Let him in."
"No."
"He is a family friend! We like him!"
"You may not exercise on a split stomach. You may not take GUESTS on one either!"
"I feel much better and I saw Antonio two weeks ago."
"WITHOUT TELLING ME."
"Am I interrupting?" asked Leonardo.
"Yes," said Claudia at the same time Ezio said, "No."
"What is this?" asked Maria di Auditore, from the hall.
The effect this had on the drama at hand was instant. There was grey in her hair and lines under her eyes, but age and care could not take a manner of stateliness away from her. The black of an older widow only seemed to add an extra edge of authority. Her children fell silent. The artist removed his hat.
"Ah, mother," said Claudia, quickly. "Ezio is being very stupid!"
"He will only grow more stupid the longer you argue," said Maria. "Next time tie him up."
"Mother!" cried Ezio, betrayed. His voice hit a pitch more like a boy of four than a man of forty.
"Little Giovanni is lurking outside," continued Maria. "Come, Claudia. Let us go collect the children. We must be sure no more of them escape today."
Claudia gathered her skirts and swept out, a stomp in her step. Leonardo hurried out of her path. He turned to Maria with a smile.
"Thank you," he said warmly. "It is good to see you, my Madonna."
"See what you can do with him," said Maria.
"For a man on his deathbed," said Leonardo, when they had gone. "You are quite lively, Ezio."
Ezio threw his wrist over his face. "I have been on my deathbed for three months now," he groaned. "She might let me leave it."
"She worries you wish to make a long trip of it."
"I went to the Gates three months ago," said Ezio. "Saint Peter told me to go home."
The artist found the overturned bench and set it right. He pulled it close to the bed, setting his bags beside him. No one had taken them at the door. "I do not question His will," he said, pulling out his notebook and a bitten piece of charcoal. "But their loss is our gain."
"I question," said Ezio.
He said it quietly. Leonardo leaned forward. "My friend?"
Ezio pressed his lips together, the skin around its scarred corner blanching. "I am surprised that you have managed to get away. I had heard you had a commission."
"And I do," said the artist, lifting his notebook. He turned a page, and then quickly turned it again. "It is... ah, well, nevermind that." He snapped it shut and laid it over his lap, straightening brightly in his seat. "What is more important than one of my oldest and patient of patrons? I had heard that you had cheated death, and I thought that I might see you and ask how you did it."
"A cart and a stubborn old ass."
"That is strange," Leonardo frowned, "The ostler told me it was a mule. Still, it is good to see you up and arguing again. I had been led to believe the situation much more grave."
Ezio peeked up between his fingers. "By who?"
"Why, the Madonna." Ezio's legs tangled in the sheets. "Oh, do not get up. Well, all right, if you insist." Ezio braced his arm against the bedpost and stared down at him. "You musn't be so surprised. And you mustn't worry. She took great care to send it through the right people. Always so thoughtful, the Madonna."
"I am fine," said Ezio.
"Of course you are," said Leonardo.
"The fever passed in a week," said Ezio. "And my stomach has stayed closed for more than a month. The doctors wanted to bleed me more to be sure that the humours had left me. I told them that they may go fuck their mothers. I was tired of seeing my blood."
"And you have recovered enough to upset your sister."
"I eat. I walk. I speak," said Ezio.
"Quite strongly, I am noticing."
"And I see things," said Ezio. " Mother does not need to know."
He sank slightly against the post, his fingers curling tight in the spiraled wood, before slowly allowing Leonardo to lean him back into the bed. "Life is precious," said Leonardo. "Life is a gift from God, from the smallest insect to man himself. And in all forms it is to be marveled as the highest of miracles."
His charge laughed as he pulled the sheets over him. "Leonardo," he said. "I am an assassin."
Leonardo smiled, ruefully. "And so who better to know how fragile that gift is? There is only so much time in this world for us, Ezio. Some have more time than others. It is what we choose to do with it that proves how well we have valued it. So we must do as much as we possibly can, and not waste it, since soon we shall be gone and who is to say if they will remember us in the next century?"
"You make as much sense as your writing."
"Even we do not matter in the eyes of history, our every moment counts to us."
Ezio turned his face towards the wall. Leonardo leaned back, watching him. His hand flicked for his notebook just as Ezio said: "...then you are saying 'it is something that one needs to know'."
Leonardo threw the notebook over his shoulder. "In essence? Yes."
Ezio turned back towards him and glared. "Then say that!"
"Tell me what you won't tell your mother, Ezio."
"A lot of things."
"The thing that is worrying her."
"The thing that is..." Ezio scowled. "I already told you." Leonardo waited expectantly. Ezio threw up a hand and continued: "Since I returned from the Vatican my vision has been strange."
An Auditore complaining of odd vision was a bit akin to a dog complaining of one's sense of smell. "Stranger than usual?"
"The usual is different." The usual Leonardo had explored with colored cards and coins hidden in desks. "I had thought it was the fever, but since it cleared it has not gone away. I see things. Bright lights. Flashes that chase the corner of my vision, and sometimes they form shapes of things that do not exist in this world."
He paused, scowling as though in preparation for laughter which did not come. Leonardo touched his chin. "Things such as?"
Ezio's scowl faded into a flat, worried line. His eyes tracked along his bed hangings, as though a great apparition hung with the gathered curtains. "Cities that are made of mirrors. People wearing strange outlandish things and moving like ghosts on roads that are made of black rock. Carts run on them. But these carts do not have horses. They run on smoke and trail it behind them like they are burning, but they do not burn. Sometimes I see your flying machine, but bigger and higher and there's no one on it."
"Hm," said Leonardo. "Interesting."
"Interesting?" snorted Ezio. "They're visions of Hell! You see why it is better that my Mother doesn't know. She would think me ill, and Claudia and Uncle Mario would simply call me mad."
"Do you believe you are mad, Ezio?"
"I can't say," said Ezio, heavily. "I can't even be sure that what happened has truly happened. It seems it was all meant for another man, a man who isn't me, and I have simply borrowed his sights." He reached up to touch his face, feeling along his brow as though he might feel out an answer to the thing that so plagued his sight. "Do you think me mad, Leonardo?"
Leonardo took his hand. One by one, he folded those fingers, set the hand back on the bed, lingering over polished ridge of the burn scar, over his middle and ring finger. "Ezio," he said, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled as though focused on something beyond the injured man or anything in all of fair Italia. "You see what I see every day of my life."
The artist took his leave early in the morning, after the sun had come up but before the household had warmed enough to come alive with yelling children. The boy was up, though. He perched on the steps, looking out into one of Monteriggioni misty mornings. He turned when the artist emerged with his packs and his books. He swung his feet back over the rail.
"Master Leonardo," he said.
The artist shook his head wryly, as he passed his hand over the boy's dark hair. "Now, now. None of that."
"You should tell Aunt Claudia how you got Papa to sleep," said little Giovanni. "He would not do that, before."
YOU KNOW WHAT I THINK IT NEEDED MORE OF
I THINK IT NEEDED MORE HUGGING OF OLD MASTERS.
THAT IS WHAT I THINK IT NEEDED.
It also probably should have had
you know
the main character of the game.
so I wrote this. Post-Game, 1,645 words.
The boy who met him in the gallery had large solemn eyes and dark curly hair. He hung on the railing of the gallery, looking down through the bars at the man as he pulled his bags through the doors. "Master Leonardo."
The artist looked up at him and laughed. "Now Giovanni, none of that. I am a friend. Is your father in?"
The boy cocked his head, considering the question. "Yes," he said, finally. "But he was out before. Aunt Claudia is with him now."
The sound of vicious swears drifted down from the second level. "Excellent," said Leonardo. "I have come at just the right time."
"NO VISITORS," snarled Claudia at the door. She stood with her hands on her hips, a plump avenging angel. On the bed, Ezio lay stretched out, his abdomen a mess of fresh bandages. His eyebrows knit together in the sheer effort of his feigned sleep. He even affected to snore, as though this might drown her out.
"Buon giorno," said Leonardo, raising his hands against that wrathful blast of air.
Ezio opened one eye. "Ah, Claudia. Let him in."
"No."
"He is a family friend! We like him!"
"You may not exercise on a split stomach. You may not take GUESTS on one either!"
"I feel much better and I saw Antonio two weeks ago."
"WITHOUT TELLING ME."
"Am I interrupting?" asked Leonardo.
"Yes," said Claudia at the same time Ezio said, "No."
"What is this?" asked Maria di Auditore, from the hall.
The effect this had on the drama at hand was instant. There was grey in her hair and lines under her eyes, but age and care could not take a manner of stateliness away from her. The black of an older widow only seemed to add an extra edge of authority. Her children fell silent. The artist removed his hat.
"Ah, mother," said Claudia, quickly. "Ezio is being very stupid!"
"He will only grow more stupid the longer you argue," said Maria. "Next time tie him up."
"Mother!" cried Ezio, betrayed. His voice hit a pitch more like a boy of four than a man of forty.
"Little Giovanni is lurking outside," continued Maria. "Come, Claudia. Let us go collect the children. We must be sure no more of them escape today."
Claudia gathered her skirts and swept out, a stomp in her step. Leonardo hurried out of her path. He turned to Maria with a smile.
"Thank you," he said warmly. "It is good to see you, my Madonna."
"See what you can do with him," said Maria.
"For a man on his deathbed," said Leonardo, when they had gone. "You are quite lively, Ezio."
Ezio threw his wrist over his face. "I have been on my deathbed for three months now," he groaned. "She might let me leave it."
"She worries you wish to make a long trip of it."
"I went to the Gates three months ago," said Ezio. "Saint Peter told me to go home."
The artist found the overturned bench and set it right. He pulled it close to the bed, setting his bags beside him. No one had taken them at the door. "I do not question His will," he said, pulling out his notebook and a bitten piece of charcoal. "But their loss is our gain."
"I question," said Ezio.
He said it quietly. Leonardo leaned forward. "My friend?"
Ezio pressed his lips together, the skin around its scarred corner blanching. "I am surprised that you have managed to get away. I had heard you had a commission."
"And I do," said the artist, lifting his notebook. He turned a page, and then quickly turned it again. "It is... ah, well, nevermind that." He snapped it shut and laid it over his lap, straightening brightly in his seat. "What is more important than one of my oldest and patient of patrons? I had heard that you had cheated death, and I thought that I might see you and ask how you did it."
"A cart and a stubborn old ass."
"That is strange," Leonardo frowned, "The ostler told me it was a mule. Still, it is good to see you up and arguing again. I had been led to believe the situation much more grave."
Ezio peeked up between his fingers. "By who?"
"Why, the Madonna." Ezio's legs tangled in the sheets. "Oh, do not get up. Well, all right, if you insist." Ezio braced his arm against the bedpost and stared down at him. "You musn't be so surprised. And you mustn't worry. She took great care to send it through the right people. Always so thoughtful, the Madonna."
"I am fine," said Ezio.
"Of course you are," said Leonardo.
"The fever passed in a week," said Ezio. "And my stomach has stayed closed for more than a month. The doctors wanted to bleed me more to be sure that the humours had left me. I told them that they may go fuck their mothers. I was tired of seeing my blood."
"And you have recovered enough to upset your sister."
"I eat. I walk. I speak," said Ezio.
"Quite strongly, I am noticing."
"And I see things," said Ezio. " Mother does not need to know."
He sank slightly against the post, his fingers curling tight in the spiraled wood, before slowly allowing Leonardo to lean him back into the bed. "Life is precious," said Leonardo. "Life is a gift from God, from the smallest insect to man himself. And in all forms it is to be marveled as the highest of miracles."
His charge laughed as he pulled the sheets over him. "Leonardo," he said. "I am an assassin."
Leonardo smiled, ruefully. "And so who better to know how fragile that gift is? There is only so much time in this world for us, Ezio. Some have more time than others. It is what we choose to do with it that proves how well we have valued it. So we must do as much as we possibly can, and not waste it, since soon we shall be gone and who is to say if they will remember us in the next century?"
"You make as much sense as your writing."
"Even we do not matter in the eyes of history, our every moment counts to us."
Ezio turned his face towards the wall. Leonardo leaned back, watching him. His hand flicked for his notebook just as Ezio said: "...then you are saying 'it is something that one needs to know'."
Leonardo threw the notebook over his shoulder. "In essence? Yes."
Ezio turned back towards him and glared. "Then say that!"
"Tell me what you won't tell your mother, Ezio."
"A lot of things."
"The thing that is worrying her."
"The thing that is..." Ezio scowled. "I already told you." Leonardo waited expectantly. Ezio threw up a hand and continued: "Since I returned from the Vatican my vision has been strange."
An Auditore complaining of odd vision was a bit akin to a dog complaining of one's sense of smell. "Stranger than usual?"
"The usual is different." The usual Leonardo had explored with colored cards and coins hidden in desks. "I had thought it was the fever, but since it cleared it has not gone away. I see things. Bright lights. Flashes that chase the corner of my vision, and sometimes they form shapes of things that do not exist in this world."
He paused, scowling as though in preparation for laughter which did not come. Leonardo touched his chin. "Things such as?"
Ezio's scowl faded into a flat, worried line. His eyes tracked along his bed hangings, as though a great apparition hung with the gathered curtains. "Cities that are made of mirrors. People wearing strange outlandish things and moving like ghosts on roads that are made of black rock. Carts run on them. But these carts do not have horses. They run on smoke and trail it behind them like they are burning, but they do not burn. Sometimes I see your flying machine, but bigger and higher and there's no one on it."
"Hm," said Leonardo. "Interesting."
"Interesting?" snorted Ezio. "They're visions of Hell! You see why it is better that my Mother doesn't know. She would think me ill, and Claudia and Uncle Mario would simply call me mad."
"Do you believe you are mad, Ezio?"
"I can't say," said Ezio, heavily. "I can't even be sure that what happened has truly happened. It seems it was all meant for another man, a man who isn't me, and I have simply borrowed his sights." He reached up to touch his face, feeling along his brow as though he might feel out an answer to the thing that so plagued his sight. "Do you think me mad, Leonardo?"
Leonardo took his hand. One by one, he folded those fingers, set the hand back on the bed, lingering over polished ridge of the burn scar, over his middle and ring finger. "Ezio," he said, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled as though focused on something beyond the injured man or anything in all of fair Italia. "You see what I see every day of my life."
The artist took his leave early in the morning, after the sun had come up but before the household had warmed enough to come alive with yelling children. The boy was up, though. He perched on the steps, looking out into one of Monteriggioni misty mornings. He turned when the artist emerged with his packs and his books. He swung his feet back over the rail.
"Master Leonardo," he said.
The artist shook his head wryly, as he passed his hand over the boy's dark hair. "Now, now. None of that."
"You should tell Aunt Claudia how you got Papa to sleep," said little Giovanni. "He would not do that, before."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2010-01-24 06:07 am (UTC)press X + O + R1 for renaissance artist wisdom hugtime raburabu combo.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-01-24 10:32 am (UTC)And this was lovely. I could hear their voices so clearly.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-01-26 01:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-01-31 10:59 pm (UTC)Thanks for writing it!
(no subject)
Date: 2010-02-01 12:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-02-12 11:57 am (UTC)Absolutely loved the flow and pacing for the story as well, and I think you did a fantastic job with the characters. Thumbs up from me, all the way~
(no subject)
Date: 2010-02-26 10:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-02-26 10:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-02-27 01:43 am (UTC)I'll admit, you're a good writer. You got Leonardo and Ezio down pat (not that they're particularly difficult characters to write). But this ending is shit. Nothing is solved. It's unnecessary and incosistent with the flow of the plot.
If you think that the end of the actual game was "TOTALLY FRIGGIN' DUMB" then I don't think you understood it.
Because it was fucking sick.
I'm sorry for the profanity, but it was necessary.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-02-28 12:01 am (UTC)And I still thought it was dumb. Nor am I writing what you seem to deem a climax. I am writing fanfic. That is, 'fan' and 'fiction'. It is me choosing to write some form of emotional conclusion and 'what happened' to a character whose strain was left dangling in that abrupt ending. And yes, it was abrupt. The developers have admitted as such. But that's not the point, as I doubt they would've written this scene anyway, as they chose to focus on Desmond anyway, a character I have very little interest in. If you wish to enjoy fanfiction that is 'fucking sick' please continue to read stories that are more to your interests. I repeat: it is well within your rights to do so. But no amount of swearing is going to change my feelings that AC2 was a good game with an unfortunate ending, nor will it change what I choose to focus on in what I write.
Unclench, check out ff.net, and have a good day, Mr. Anon :)
(no subject)
Date: 2010-02-28 01:28 am (UTC)You'll make it far in life, buddy.
this is the face I am picturing
Date: 2010-02-28 01:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-02-27 04:15 am (UTC)Not sure what your talking about in the standard ending because it was pretty damn good.