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Life is... fine, for Assassins that happen to be named Arno Dorian. For the most part. It has its ups and downs, of course, as it always does. As it always has, and it always will. But it’s startling to realize, one day, that the downs haven’t ached as much in a long time.
It’s only slightly less startling to realize, following a comment from an old friend that he’s been aging very well, that he’s been a ghoul—something like a vampire, only less on all counts, including that unfortunate tendency to catch fire in the sunlight—for nearly as long. Fifteen years.
Life is fine, but he knows this won’t—can’t—last forever. That, sooner or later, people he knows will begin to think he’s aging too well, and he needs to be prepared for when that day comes. Assuming, of course, that he doesn’t beat them to doing something about it.
Ezio had something like a decade before he had to do something about it himself, so in that respect, Arno’s doing fairly well. But the comments are only growing more and more frequent. Not something Arno would normally care too much about, but considering that violating that ever-present Masquerade tends to come with consequences such as being hunted down or run out of town, he kind of has to.
He, fortunately, doesn’t have relatives to worry about. Friends that will miss him, of course, but they’ll miss him more if he doesn’t let on any reasons that they might not want to.
What he does worry about is...
...Well. Worry is a strong word, considering that the worst that can happen is Ezio saying no. Arno would like to think that he wouldn’t. He’s had ample opportunities over the years to stop bothering with Arno if he wanted to, and he never did. Never has, and never will.
Arno hasn’t kept faith in many things over the years. The Creed is one of the few things he has, as is the near unshakeable knowledge that Ezio Auditore had decided he was worth being there for. He’s family, these nights—and unlike the other family Arno had, by blood or by choice, he’s a little harder to kill. Which helps.
It does not, however, help Arno any with figuring out how to do this right. Until one night he decides, at last, to hell with it.
And he asks, more or less casually, “If I asked you to make me a vampire, would you?”
Ezio chokes, despite not needing to breathe, so maybe that was less casual than he’d intended. Or he took Ezio off guard more than he’s... ever been able to.
He clears his throat a few times, then leans forward to look at Arno intently. “Only if you were certain it’s what you wanted.” He pauses. “And, I suppose, I would need to obtain the Prince’s permission,” he adds with no small amount of distaste, “but as he is my great-grandsire and I have caused no true scandals in his domain, I don’t believe he would deny the request.”
“...Right,” Arno says sheepishly. “I’m glad you remembered that part, because it may have slipped my mind.”
“I am also glad I remembered it,” Ezio says, “as failure to obtain permission typically results in the death of both sire and childe.”
Arno grimaces. “That seems very harsh.”
“The Camarilla’s rules often are,” Ezio sighs. “But they are the most prevalent sect of Kindred, and as such we must frequently abide by their rules.”
“Right, right. I know. Believe me, I am well aware,” Arno says. “Specifics notwithstanding.”
Ezio gives him a wry smile, though it fades quickly. “Are you certain,” he asks, “it is what you want? You have not been a ghoul for so long that it cannot be undone, although the process would not be pleasant. There is... no turning back, if you are Embraced.”
“I know,” Arno says. “And I am. Certain, that is. I have been for... an embarrassingly long time, really, it was just never the right time to say anything.” He shrugs absently and adds, “There never will be the perfect time to say anything, I’ve realized, so you’ll simply have to settle for good enough.”
“So I will,” Ezio says, chuckling. “...I cannot promise how quickly the Prince will answer. But it would give you time to set your affairs in order.”
“It’s not a bad time to retire,” Arno says. “There aren’t any real crises happening or looming on the horizon, and it would get me out of people continually trying to talk me into taking a seat on the Council. Or, God forbid, ending up as the next Mentor. No, thank you, I’m quite happy with where I’m ended up.”
Arno’s father had never actually managed to become a Master Assassin, though from what Arno heard he was close to it when he’d been killed. It’s strange to think that he’d managed to make it this far after being exiled.
“You would do well at it, I believe,” Ezio says, “but I cannot blame you for not wanting the responsibility.”
“Current Mentor would have to die or retire first, and I happen to be fond of the man,” Arno says. “That is, however, entirely beside the point.”
He hesitates, for just a moment, before he asks, “Aren’t you... curious about why I want this?”
“I am,” he admits, “but I thought it best to know how certain you were before asking after your reasons.”
“Fair enough,” Arno allows. “There are a few reasons, actually, as it turns out. Chief among them being that there is still quite a lot I’d like to do with my life, and the more I live of it, the more certain I am that I won’t have time to do everything I want to otherwise—not without the constant risk of crumbling to dust, something I think we’d both rather avoid, if either of us ever goes off on his own for too long.”
Ezio grimaces. “...Yes, I would much prefer to avoid that,” he says quietly.
“Doesn’t sound particularly pleasant, does it?” Arno jokes. “That does bring me to... the other part of it. Which, if I’m being honest, sounded a little better in my head, but you did ask, so really, you only have yourself to blame.”
Puzzlement flickers over Ezio’s expression. “There are... quite a few things I could be said to only have myself to blame for. Which are you referring to?”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Arno says, “though I’d be a little surprised if you haven’t... I don’t think I’ve ever seen you as sad as you look when you’re talking about your family. None of them joined you in this life, and that’s their choice to make—but this is mine. I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want to have to say goodbye, not forever, not to the one person in the world I have left to consider family and who hasn’t left or died.”
He clears his throat, less awkwardly than he could have, and says, “So, as I said, you only have yourself to blame. You’re stuck with me now.”
Several emotions flicker over Ezio’s face, too quickly for Arno to make sense of them. And then he rises, crosses over to where Arno’s sitting, and pulls him into a tight hug. It happens too quickly for Arno to protest, not that he wants to.
“I can think of far worse fates,” Ezio murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.
Arno finds himself blinking hard against Ezio’s shoulder suddenly himself.
“As can I,” Arno mumbles.
“I have... thought of you as one of my own,” Ezio says, still holding him close, “for... quite some time.”
It’s less of a surprise to hear than it would have been, once.
And it is utterly unsurprising when tears start slipping out from Arno’s eyes before much longer, with that in mind.
“Well, good,” Arno manages. “This would have been a much more awkward conversation if you didn’t.”
Ezio laughs, and Arno is surprised to hear the way it wavers. At least (he thinks) he’s not the only one in tears for once. Even if vampires don’t cry normal tears.
“So it would. Fortunately, that is not the case.”
“Fortunately not,” Arno agrees.
Ezio squeezes him a little tighter for a moment, then pulls back just far enough to wipe at his own eyes.
“I do not want to say goodbye any more than you do,” he says softly.
“To be fair, I can’t imagine anyone generally wants to say goodbye to people they care for,” Arno jokes, more effectively this time, he’s reasonably sure. “If they do, there’s something else going on and my bet would be it’s not pretty.”
“No, it would not be,” Ezio agrees with a wry smile.
It fades into a more serious look, after a time. “How soon would you... wish to do this?”
“Well, I would have been ready tonight before you pointed out how generally terrible of an idea that would be,” Arno says, “which might still give you some idea.”
“...I shall brave the Prince’s court tomorrow night, then,” Ezio says.
“Then I’ll let the Brotherhood know I’m retiring,” Arno decides. “You know, I never really expected to get this far.”
“Nor did I,” Ezio admits, “when I was still among the Brotherhood directly.”
“Then again, I doubt anyone else expected me to make it this far either,” Arno comments cheerfully. “I’ll let you know if there are any particularly amusing reactions. I’m sure there will be at least one or two.”
He laughs. “I shall look forward to it.”
The less time Ezio has to spend in his great-grandsire’s presence, the better. All the same, because he has chosen to get involved with the Prince’s court at all, he has indicated that he is willing to be bound by the Camarilla’s rules—unlike other former Assassins—and thus, he must acquire the Prince’s permission to Embrace a childe.
Fortunately, François Villon is not inclined to deny Ezio permission, when he has asked for so little during his time in Paris.
A part of Ezio wonders if the Prince even remembers that Arno’s name had come up before in his court. Ultimately, though, what matters is that he does give his permission.
(If he had not... Ezio would have asked Arno again if he was still certain, first of all, because he has his doubts that Villon would have looked kindly on an Embrace elsewhere so soon after he was denied and therefore it would have been a good idea to leave Paris for the foreseeable future. But, he had.)
Even now, Ezio cannot quite believe that Arno would want this. But he does, in spite of knowing a good deal more about Kindred than even Ezio had as a ghoul. And he’s waiting on the rooftop of Ezio’s haven when he returns.
“I very much wish,” he opens with, “that you could have seen the look on Beylier’s face for yourself.”
Ezio laughs. “Oh?”
“He looked as if I had told him I had some sort of rare disease,” Arno says, “or that I had spontaneously decided to become some sort of reclusive monk on another continent.”
“I see,” Ezio says, not bothering to hide his amused grin. “And what did you say to that?”
Arno shrugs absently and says, “That as nice as monkhood sounded, I didn’t particularly... want to follow in my father’s footsteps and only leave the Brotherhood in death. And I’m not as young as I used to be. He would know, of course—he hasn’t been active in years, himself—but I couldn’t quite picture myself behind a desk.”
“No, I doubt that would suit you,” Ezio says. “I remained active until I chose to retire, as well.”
And even then, he didn’t remain uninvolved for terribly long.
“I’ll probably still help out here and there if I can, but...” Arno sighs. “At least in name, I’m officially retired as of... this evening. How did it go with Villon?”
“He gave his permission, more easily than I honestly expected him to,” Ezio says after a moment, watching Arno’s face carefully.
“Oh,” Arno breathes. “Good. So... no need to do anything drastic?”
Arno looks incredibly relieved.
“Fortunately not,” Ezio replies. “Although I would recommend we not do it on the roof,” he adds with a wry smile.
Arno glances toward the edge of said roof and immediately pulls a face before joking, “You mean you didn’t take your chances with gravity when it was your turn?”
Ezio snorts. “I did not.”
“Right,” Arno says, making for the edge of the roof. “Then I’m as ready as I can be, I think.”
He drops down without another word.
Ezio closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them and murmurs, “I certainly hope so,” before he follows.
Arno has, he thinks, made his peace with as much as he can. He’s watched the sun rise and set for what will certainly be the last time, fixing the sight in his mind. It’s said it’s bad to stare directly at the sun, but it’s generally bad to lose significant amounts of blood, too, and here Arno is planning to do exactly that.
It will be worth it. It will be worth it. He’s thought about it for years longer than he thinks about most things, come to the conclusion time and time again that he would regret not becoming a vampire more than he would regret choosing to become one, and yet he can’t help the nagging feeling that he is still, somehow, forgetting something.
Of course, he’s spent most of his life feeling that way for one reason or another, so the only particularly special thing about this is that there really will be no going back once he’s become a vampire. Which could account for how strangely nervous he feels. It takes quite a lot, these days, to make him nervous.
Ezio leads him back inside, then turns to face him. Concern flickers over his face, and he asks, “You are certain you want to do this?”
“I am,” Arno says firmly. “It’s just...”
Ezio waits for him to find the right words, which is a shame because the right words don’t seem to want to come at all, so eventually Arno gives up and says, “I have the strangest feeling I’m missing something, but there isn’t much I could be missing and even on the chance that I was, there is very little I couldn’t take care of later, regardless.”
Slowly, Ezio nods. “That is true, as long as you avoid revealing what you are, once you are Kindred.”
“Which I have precisely no intention of doing, obviously,” Arno says. “Believe me, you’ve hammered the Masquerade into my head enough times for that to stick.”
“Volpe did the same to me,” he says with a chuckle.
“It does seem important,” Arno jokes. “But... yes. I’m certain.”
“Alright.” Ezio considers him a moment longer, then says, “I suppose we ought to sit down.”
Arno takes a deep breath, trying to memorize how it feels now—he’ll still be able to breathe, or at least mimic the motion, but he’s gathered it won’t feel at all the same—and takes a seat.
Ezio sits across from him. “You do remember how this works?”
“The same way that being a ghoul does,” Arno says, “with massive amounts of blood loss on my end first, yes. You’ve said, I remember.”
“...I may not have phrased it like that, but yes,” says Ezio, an amused look on his face. “It shouldn’t be painful for you, at least.”
“I do generally like not being in pain if it can be avoided,” Arno jokes. “Personal preference.”
Chuckling, Ezio says, “Of course.” The amusement fades, replaced by something more serious. “Are you ready?”
Wordlessly, Arno nods.
“I’m ready,” he says in a smaller voice than he would have liked, when it becomes clear that Ezio is waiting for verbal confirmation.
Ezio takes a slow breath of his own, then shifts closer. Arno catches a brief glimpse of the fangs that he normally keeps hidden, before Ezio uses those fangs to bite into his neck.
It stings a little, for a moment, before it’s overtaken by a blissful feeling that has Arno allowing his eyes to fall shut as he leans into it. Not hurting was an understatement, Arno thinks, sluggishly.
It’s the last thing Arno thinks, before he finds himself no longer able to think of anything at all.
The first thing he notices, when awareness filters back in, is the familiar taste of Ezio’s vitae in his mouth.
The second thing is that he feels... different.
Arno doesn’t really have a better word for it than that, but he does feel different. Not least of which because his heart had been pounding away in his chest until it hadn’t been, and now... Now, he can scarcely feel it there.
He takes a breath. It feels... stale, almost. That’ll take some getting used to.
He’s had his head on Ezio’s shoulder enough times to recognize that’s where he is now after a moment, halfway slumped against him.
“How are you feeling?” Ezio murmurs.
“Fine,” Arno mumbles. “Strange, but—fine.”
He picks himself up enough to look into Ezio’s face, and isn’t that surprised to see the concern there.
Still, he nods slowly after a moment of studying Arno’s face in turn. “You should adjust quickly,” he says.
“I’ll have you know I’m good at that,” Arno jokes. “Except for when I’m not, but we don’t need to talk about that.”
...Maybe he shouldn’t be that surprised that Ezio doesn’t seem to be in a particularly joking mood, actually. At least he doesn’t try to scold him for making the joke in the first place.
“I will be here regardless,” he says.
“I know you will be,” Arno says, more seriously.
“Good.” Ezio smiles a little.
“How long was I...” He trails off, unsure how he wants to describe it.
Ezio, fortunately, knows what he’s asking. “It hasn’t quite been an hour,” he says.
“That is, honestly, faster than I expected,” Arno admits.
“Well, you didn’t have any wounds that needed to be healed,” Ezio says, “which did speed things along.”
“Point taken,” Arno says. “I do feel fine, really, just... different.”
“I would be more surprised if you didn’t feel different,” Ezio says wryly.
“...Point taken,” Arno says, significantly more sheepishly.
“It may take some time for it to stop feeling strange, but it will, eventually.”
“I’ll take your word on the matter, because right now that feels impossible,” Arno says. He takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out again, just to see how that feels.
(The word of the hour, once again, is different. Whoever could have seen this coming?)
Ezio chuckles. “I felt much the same, when Volpe told me as much.”
“Of course he did.” Arno sighs. “How long did it take for you? For it to stop feeling... strange?”
He tilts his head thoughtfully. “The worst of it faded within a week,” Ezio says slowly, “but I did find myself being struck by little things, for the first few months. Less frequently as time went on.”
That’s not too terrible. Arno can work with that.
“I,” he says, “will keep that in mind.”
Ezio nods, before he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “The Prince will likely expect me to present you to his court at some point in the near future... but he can be put off, for a time.”
“Is he truly that terrible?” Arno asks, mainly out of morbid curiosity at this point.
“That entirely depends on how much attention he decides to pay you,” Ezio says after some thought. “But he has, in a fairly short space of time—as far as Kindred matters are concerned, in any case—become one of the most influential Princes in Europe. So offending him is... unwise.”
“I will also,” Arno decides, “keep that in mind.”
He cannot possibly be worse than de Sade.
He is.