“Where’s Germain?” I had demanded to know.
“I’ll never talk.”
And I did it. This terrible thing. This thing that is proof I’ve arrived at the edge of what it means to be me, which I can’t stop, because to get here, I’ve come too far.
What I did was pull my pistol from my belt and even as Arno was raising his hand to try to stop me, I was pointing my pistol at Robespierre, seeing him through a veil of hatred, and firing.
The shot was like cannon fire in the room. The ball slapped into his lower jaw, which cracked and hung limp at the same time as a blood began gushing from his lips and gums, splattering to the floor.
He screamed and writhed, his eyes wide with terror and pain, his hands at his shattered and bleeding mouth.
“Write,” I snapped.
He tried to form words but could not, scribbling on a piece of paper, blood pouring from his face.
“The Temple,” I said, snatching up the paper and ignoring the horrified look Arno was giving me. “I should have known.”
The boots of the Convention troops were close now.
I looked at Robespierre. “I hope you enjoy revolutionary justice, monsieur,” I said, and we departed, and behind us we left a weeping, wounded Robespierre, holding his mouth together with hands that were soaked in blood . . . and a little bit of my humanity.
iv
These things. It’s as though I’m imagining them being done by another person—“another me” over whom I have no control, whose actions I can only watch with a kind of detached interest.
And I suppose that all of this is evidence, not only that I know I have failed to heed the warnings of Mr. Weatherall and perhaps most egregiously failed to act upon the teachings of my mother and father, but that I have reached some place of mental infection and it is too late to stop it. There is no choice but to cut it away and hope that I survive the amputation a cleansed person.
But if I do not survive . . .
I must now conclude my journal, at least for tonight. I have some letters to write.
EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF ARNO DORIAN
12 SEPTEMBER 1794
i
I suppose here is where I should take up the story. I should take it up by saying that when I met her at the Temple the following day she looked pale and drawn, and I now know why.
Over a hundred years ago the Temple du Marais had been modeled on the Roman Pantheon. Rising behind an arched frontage, with its own version of the famed dome, were high walls. The only traffic in and out was the occasional wagon full of hay passing in through a postern gate.
Straightaway Élise wanted to split up, but I wasn’t sure; there was something about the look in her eyes, as though there was something missing, as if a part of her were absent somehow.
Which in a way, I suppose, was right. I took it then to be determination and focus and I’ve read nothing in her journals to suggest it was anything more than just that, writ large. Élise may have been determined to reach Germain but I don’t think she believed she would be killed, only that she was going to kill Germain that day or die in the process.
And perhaps she allowed that serenity of the soul to swallow her fear, forgetting that sometimes, however determined you are, however advanced your skills in combat, it’s fear that keeps you alive.
As we’d split up to find a way into the Temple’s inner sanctum, she’d fixed me with a meaningful look. “If you get a shot at Germain,” she said, “you take it.”
ii
And I did. I had found him inside the Temple, dark within the dank gray stone, a lone figure among the pillars inside the church.
And there I had my shot.
He was too quick for me. He produced a sword of uncanny powers. This sword was the kind of thing I would have once laughed off and said must be a trick. These days, of course, I knew better than to scoff at things I didn’t understand, and anyway, as Germain wielded the strange glowing thing, it appeared to harness and unleash great bolts of energy as though converting them from the air around him. It appeared to glow and spark. No, there was nothing laughable whatsoever about this sword.
Now I wonder: had I been a quarter of a second faster then, would Élise still be alive? I wonder about the fantastical sword that had given him the edge over me—even as it spoke again, sparking and throwing out a bolt of energy that seemed to leap for me as though it had a mind of its own.
“So, the prodigal Assassin returns,” called Germain. “I suspected as much when La Touche stopped sending his tax revenues. You’ve become quite the thorn in my side.”
I dashed from out of my hiding place from behind a column, my hidden blade extended and glowing dully in the half-light.
“I assume Robespierre was your doing as well?” he said as we squared up.
I grinned agreement.
“No matter.” He smiled. “His Reign of Terror served its purpose. The metal has been fired and shaped. Quenching it will only set its form.”
I darted forward and struck out at his sword, aiming not to deflect it but damage it, knowing that if I could somehow disarm him, I might swing the battle in my favor.
“Why so persistent?” he taunted. “Is it revenge? Did Bellec indoctrinate you so thoroughly that you do his bidding even now? Or is it love? Has de la Serre’s daughter turned your head?”
My hidden blade came down hard on the shaft of his sword and the weapon seemed to give out a hurt, angry glow, as though it was wounded.
Even so, Germain, on the back foot now, was somehow able to harness its power again, this time in a way even I had difficulty believing. With a burst of energy that threw me backward and left a scorch mark on the floor, the Grand Master simply disappeared.
From deep within the recesses of the Temple came an answering bang that seemed to ripple around the stone walls and I pulled myself to my feet to head in that direction, scrambling down a set of damp steps until I reached the crypt.
From my left Élise emerged from the dark of the catacombs. Clever. Just a few moments earlier and we would have had Germain cut off in both directions.
(These moments, I realize now—a few seconds here, a few seconds there. They were tiny heartbreaking quirks in time that decided Élise’s fate.)
“What happened here?” she said, studying what had once been the gate to the crypt, but which was now blackened and twisted.
I shook my head. “Germain’s got some kind of weapon . . . I’ve never seen its like before. He got away from me.”
She barely glanced my way. “He didn’t come past me. He must be down there.”
I shot her a doubtful look. Even so, with our swords ready we took the few remaining steps down to the crypt.
Empty. But there had to be a secret door. I began to feel for one and my fingertips found a lever between the stones, pulled it, stood back as a door slid open with a deep, grinding sound and a large vault stretched ahead, lined with pillars and Templar sarcophagi.
Inside stood Germain. He had his back to us, and I had just realized that his sword had somehow recovered its power and that he was waiting for us, when from by my side Élise leapt forward with a shout of rage.
“Élise!”
Sure enough, as Élise bore down upon him, Germain swung around, wielding the bright glowing sword, a snakelike bolt of energy surging from it and forcing us to dive for cover.
He laughed. “Ah, and Mademoiselle de la Serre as well. This is quite the reunion.”
“Stay hidden,” I whispered to Élise. “Keep him talking.”
She nodded and crouched behind a sarcophagus, waving me away and calling to Germain at the same time.
“Did you think this day would never come,” she said, “that because François de la Serre had no sons to avenge him, your crime would go unanswered?”
“Revenge, is it?” He laughed. “Your vision is as narrow as your father’s.”
She shouted, “You’re one to talk. How wide of vision was your grab for power?”
“I’ll kill you,” she called.
“You’re not listening. Killing me won’t stop anything. When our brother Templars see the old institutions crumble, they will adapt. They will retreat to the shadows and we will, at last, be the Secret Masters we were meant to be. So come—kill me if you can. Unless you can miracle up a new king and halt the Revolution in its tracks, it does not matter.”
I sprung my trap, coming up on Germain’s blind side, and was unlucky not to finish him with my blade; instead, his sword crackled angrily and an orb of blue-white energy came shooting out of it with the velocity of a cannonball, inflicting a similar kind of damage on the vault around us. In a moment I was engulfed by dust as masonry fell down around me—and in the next moment was trapped beneath a fallen pillar.
“Arno,” she called.
“I’m stuck.”
Whatever the great ball of energy had been, Germain hadn’t been in full command of it. He was picking himself up now, coughing as he squinted through the swirling dust at us, stumbling on masonry littering the stone floor as he dragged himself to his feet.
Hunched over, he stood and wondered whether to finish us off but evidently decided against it, and instead he spun and fled farther into the depths of the vault, his sword spitting angry blacksmiths’ sparks.
I watched as Élise’s desperate eyes went from me, trapped and in need of help, to the retreating figure of Germain, then back to me.
“He’s getting away,” she said, her eyes blazing with frustration, and when she looked back at me I could see the indecision written all over her face: the two choices. stay and let Germain escape, or go after him.
There was never any doubt, really, which option she’d choose.
“I can take him,” she said, deciding.
“You can’t,” I said. “Not alone. Wait for me. Élise.”
But she had disappeared. With a howl of effort I freed myself from the stone, scrambled to my feet and set off after her.
And if I had been just a few seconds earlier (as I say—each step of the way toward her death, decided by just a few seconds) I could have tipped the battle, because Germain was defending furiously, the effort written all over those cruel features, and perhaps his sword—this thing I’ve decided was almost alive—somehow sensed that its owner faced defeat . . . and with a great explosion of sound, light and a huge, indiscriminate burst of energy, it shattered.
The force rocked me on my feet but my first thought was for Élise. Both she and Germain had been at the very center of the blast.
Through the dust I saw her red hair where she lay crumpled beneath a column. I ran to her, went to my knees, took her head in my hands.
In her eyes was a bright light. Élise saw me, I think, in the second before she died. She saw me and the light came into her eyes one final time—and then was winked out.
iii
I ignored Germain’s coughing for a while, and then gently laid Élise’s head down on the stone, closed her eyes and stood, walking across the debris-strewn chamber to where he lay, blood bubbling at his mouth, watching me, almost dead.
I knelt. Without taking my eyes off his, I brought my blade to bear and finished the job.
12 SEPTEMBER 1794
I saw the vision when Germain died.
(And let me pause to imagine the sideways look on Élise’s face when I told her about the visions. Not quite belief, not quite doubt.)
This vision was different from the others. I was somehow present within it, in a way that I never had been before.
I found myself in Germain’s workshop, watching as Germain, looking like he once had, in the clothes of a silversmith, sat crafting a pin.
As I gazed at him, he clutched as his temples and began to mutter to himself, as though assailed by something in his head.
What was it? I wondered, just as a voice came from behind me, startling me.
“Bravo. You’ve slain the villain. That is how you’ve cast this little morality play in your mind, isn’t it?”
Still in the vision I turned to see the source of the voice, only to find another Germain—this one much older, the Germain I knew—standing behind me.
“Oh, I’m not really here,” he explained. “I’m not really there either. At the moment I’m bleeding out on the floor of the Temple. But it seems the father of understanding has seen fit to give us this time to talk.”
All of a sudden the scene shifted and we were in the secret vault beneath the Temple where they had been fighting, only the vault was unscathed, and there was no sign of Élise, no rubble all over the ground. What I saw were scenes from another, earlier time as the younger Germain approached the altar where de Molay’s texts were laid out.
“Ah,” came the voice of the guide-Germain from behind me. “A particular favorite of mine. I did not understand the visions that haunted my mind, you see. Images of great golden towers, of cities shining white as silver. I thought I was going mad. Then I found this place—Jacques de Molay’s vault. Through his writings, I understood.”
“Understood what?”
“That somehow, through the centuries, I was connected to Grand Master de Molay. That I had been chosen to purge the Order of the decadence and corruption that had set in like rot. To wash clean the world and restore it to the truth the father of understanding intended.”
And once again the scene shifted. This time I found myself in a room, where high-ranking Templars passed judgment on Germain and banished him from the Order.
“Prophets are seldom appreciated in their own time,” he explained from behind me. “Exile and abasement forced me to reexamine my strategies, to find new avenues for the realization of my purpose.”
Once more the scene shifted and I found myself being assaulted with images of the Terror, the guillotine rising and falling like the inexorable ticking of a clock.
“No matter the cost?” I said.
“New order never comes without the destruction of the old. And if men are made to fear untrammeled liberty, so much the better. A brief taste of chaos will remind them why they crave obedience.”
And then the scene warped again and once more we were in the vault. This time it was moments before the explosion that had claimed her life, and I saw in her face the effort of making what had been the battle’s decisive blow, and I hoped that she knew her father had been avenged and that it had brought her some peace.
“It appears we part ways here,” said Germain. “Think on this: the march of progress is slow, but it is inevitable as a glacier. All you have accomplished here is to delay the inevitable. One death cannot stop the tide. Perhaps it will not be my hand that shepherds mankind back into its proper place—but it will be someone’s. Think on this when you remember her.”
I would.
12 SEPTEMBER 1794
Something puzzled me in the weeks after her death. How was it possible that I had known Élise better than any other person, had spent more time with her than anybody else, and that it had counted for nothing in the end because I didn’t really know her?
The girl, yes, but not the woman she became. Having watched her grow, I never really got the chance to admire the beauty of Élise in bloom.
And now I never will. Gone is the future we had together. My heart aches for her. My chest feels heavy. I weep for love lost, for yesterdays gone, for tomorrows that will never be.
I weep for Élise, who for all her flaws, is the best person I will ever know.
12 SEPTEMBER 1794
Not long after her death, a man called Ruddock came to see me at Versailles. Smelling of perfume that barely masked an almost overpowering body odor, he came bearing a lett
er marked, “To be opened in the event of my death.”
The seal was broken.
“You’ve read it?” I said.
“Indeed, sir. With a heavy heart I did as instructed.”
“It was to be opened in the event of her death,” I said, feeling a little betrayed by the shake of emotion in my voice.
“That’s right, sir. Upon receipt of the letter I placed it in a dresser, hoping never to see it again, if I’m honest with you.”
I fixed him with a stare. “Tell me the truth, did you read it before she died? Because if you did, then you could have done something about it.”
Ruddock gave a slightly sad, airy smile. “Could I? I rather think not, Mr. Dorian. Soldiers write such letters before battle, sir. The mere fact of them contemplating their own mortality does not a postponement make.”
He’d read it, I could tell. He’d read it before she died.
I frowned, unfolded the paper and began to read Élise’s words for myself.
Ruddock,
Forgive the lack of pleasantries but I’m afraid I have reconciled my feelings toward you, and they are this: I don’t much like you. I’m sorry about this, and I appreciate you may consider it a rather rude thing to announce, but if you’re reading this then either you have ignored my instruction or I am dead and in either case neither of us should be concerned with matters of etiquette.
Now, notwithstanding the fact of my feelings toward you, I appreciate your attempts to make recompense for your actions, and I have been touched by your loyalty. It is for this reason that I would ask you to show this letter to my beloved Arno Dorian, himself an Assassin, and trust that he will take it as my testimonial to your changed ways. However, since I very much doubt the word of a deceased Templar will be enough to ingratiate yourself with the Brotherhood, I have something else for you, too.
Assassin's Creed: Unity Page 28