//------------------------------//
// Assassin' Creed: Divided--Chapter 4, Faith 
// Story: Anthology of Everything 
// by SwordTune 
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I remembered training for my hidden blades.
I never knew my mother, but my father always said she was an assassin who fought bravely to her last mission. And every time he told her story, a day of heavy-handed training usually followed. I didn’t notice until I was a little older but losing my mother seemed to instil a kind of fervour in my father. He must’ve imagined that by training me hard enough, he would never lose someone he loved again.
I can’t say I blamed him, though understanding his feelings didn’t make the memories of bruises, cuts, and broken bones any less painful. My father knew I hated the cold and would often force me to endure swimming through a river near where we lived, in the dark of night, where every inch was just more water to shiver and freeze in. And summers weren’t any easier, either. On occasion, there were days where standing outside felt like living in a lit chimney. On those days, my father chose to visit the grandmaster of the Turones bureau. We’d walk in our thick cloaks and hoods from our little bureau into the city. Every time I complained, he’d tell me that an assassin had to endure far worse than sweaty robes on a hot day. 
Even if my father trained me further in the countryside, Turones felt like my hometown. It was there, examined by the masters of the bureau, that I received my hidden blades. In Turones, I was given the full rank of an Assassin before being asked to assist in Gustavale.
And, to my father’s credit, his methods worked.
The Templars put me in their coldest, wettest cell, but the days I spent in there were like nights in a warm bed compared to a winter’s night in the Loire.
I watched the men who guarded my cell. They worked in pairs, and they always wore armour like soldiers going to war, covered head to toe in padded jackets and sturdy helmets. But most soldiers were conscripts. The earls of the land would levy their peasants, giving rarely but a few weeks of training.
The men I saw were perhaps vagabonds or mercenaries. There was one with a long scar across his nose. Another man had a burn on his forehead. They hung warhammers from their waists. Conscripted soldiers rarely maintained their weapons, either because they did not know how or because they did not care. Another lesson from my father. You could always tell how disciplined and trained a man was by the state of his weapons. These guards took good care of theirs, or perhaps they had a smith who could do it for them. Scuffs and scratches on the head of the hammers were unavoidable, but where it mattered, the weapons were clean. The ends of the handles were bound with fresh leather. The pointed backs of their weapons, picks used to punch open helmets, had marks where someone had hammered out dents and sharpened the point. I had to admit that the Templars did not make meaningless boasts. They employed experienced soldiers and kept them armed and armoured.
Where I was being held, I could not be sure. I wasn’t even sure if there were other Assassins with me. The guards made no mention of the others, so all I could hope for was that some of us made it out to warn the other bureaus.
And again, right about the same time as the other days, I heard the footsteps that had become too familiar. While the other guards clanked around with thick boots and helmets, Green visited the prison cells in a monk’s robe. His shoes were made from soft leather, too soft for a humble monk, which gave his footsteps a distinct shuffle that was completely different from the soldier’s thumping feet.
“You could be treated with hospitality if you would simply cooperate,” he said, kneeling to place a cup of water and a loaf of bread behind my bars.
I would’ve been lying to myself if I thought I could stand up and face him. The cold cell, I could endure, but the Templars were counting on the hunger to set in. Scarce bites of bread were bribes, not gifts, for my cooperation.
The Templar master stretched out his arm. His sleeves were long and heavy, concealing everything within. But from them, he produced an archer’s arm guard, fitted with a hidden blade. The arm guard itself was different, a layer of chainmail was sewn in beneath the leather. But the blade was definitely made by Assassins. I wondered who he had taken them from.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said as he slowly wore the arm guard, loosening the straps to fit his wrists. “It was a gift. One of your fellow Assassins tried to deliver it to my stomach as we brought you out of your bureau.”
He inspected his wrist and then unlocked the blade with his other hand, jamming it against a wall to force the blade back into its sheath. “Unfortunately one of my men damaged it amidst the fighting. The repairs won’t be as elegant, but the best blacksmiths and leatherworkers in Anglia shouldn’t have a problem with restoring it to at least a working state.”
He looked down at the bread and water, which I had left untouched. “You might as well have it. I don’t expect it to persuade you, but until the council decides your fate, I can’t have you dying.”
I cracked a smirk. “So, even a Templar master has to listen to orders?”
Green frowned. “We are all humble before the Lord. I don’t lose a moment of sleep knowing there are men wiser and more experienced than myself.”
“If our roles were switched, you would’ve gone for your execution days ago.”
“Precisely right.” Green waggled his finger at me. “You Assassins, all you ever do is destroy. How many times have you plunged Europia into chaos with your actions? In Italia, the Brotherhood keeps the ruling families in a state of constant conflict, even when order and unity would make the people prosper. Here in Anglia, you threaten the rule of a rightful king, replacing one mind with a dozen quarrelling earls. We Templars know it is much harder to create than destroy.”
My chains clanked as I leaned against the back of my cell. I wasn’t in the mood to debate, but it seemed that Green was.  “But what if what you create is not for everyone?” I asked,  hoping that if I kept him with me long enough, I could learn more about what happened to the other Assassins. 
“Something created is still preferable to everything destroyed,” he said. 
“Unless it’s destroying the Assassins.”
He shrugged. “You left us with very little choice. Earl Montefort acted in Gustavale as an extension of the king. Attacking his retinue was too bold to be left unanswered.”
“Gustavale’s people would have fought anyway,” I scoffed at him. “You were not welcome, and Montefort caused plenty of destruction on his own.”
“Yes…” he nodded. He clicked his tongue, looking down at his soft leather shoes as he turned away from my cell. He paced back and forth for a little while. “A heavy-handed approach was chosen as the necessary one, and not without reason.”
“But were they the right reasons?”
He shrugged. “I do not know. Our fates are in the hands of God, after all. As one of your brothers is learning now, unfortunately. He is being interrogated as we speak.”
I glared at him, thinking he had come to gloat, or perhaps scare me into giving up whatever information he wanted. And yet he looked tired more than anything, more tired than when I had taken him.
“We’re beginning to run short on those who were captured in the fighting,” he said. “Some died from rotten wounds, others during their questioning. You will be called on soon, so like your comrades before you, I’m to hear your confessions before God, in case you expire.”
My lips were dry, but I mustered enough to spit in his face. “I’d rather die of torture first.”
“Of course.” He wiped his sleeve across his face. “But confessions are for all your sins. They need not be about the Assassins.”
“Fine,” I said, “Lord in Heaven, please forgive me stabbing Sir Green when I should have cut off his head instead.”
“I am trying to help you!” He raked his hidden blade across the bars. “I’ve taken confessions from every one of your captured brothers. ‘Nothing is true, everything is permitted.’ That’s your Creed, isn’t it? That’s why you do not fear God, why you think you can kill and weaken kingdoms wherever you please.”
His face twisted up. When his mouth opened, I thought he had more to say, but instead, he clutched his chest and gasped for air. Behind him, the guards observed us closely, each with a hand on their weapon, although Glen held his hand out to them to stand back.
“I’m fine,” he coughed. “If she won’t confess, then there’s little else for me to do.” He began walking up the stairs, limping all the way. His short breath was more than an inconvenience, it seemed he could barely walk. But before he was gone, I heard him shuffle back around to give one last threat from the stairwell. “I suggest you pray to whatever you do believe. Contrary to what you might think, I wouldn’t wish torture even on my worst enemies. I only do what must be done.”
When he had finally left, I looked down to the bread he had placed. No amount of training could ever stave off the effects of hunger, and I needed my strength. Pride would have to come later. I picked up the cold loaf and began eating.





Three days passed before the guards were given the order to take me from my cell. During that time, the Templars only provided me with water. Hunger became a nagging problem, but with nothing else but my thoughts, I settled into my memories to feed my mind while my body starved.
The bureau in Turones contained works of natural philosophy, namely chemistry and medicine, as well as works of history and politics. Chief among those texts were the ideas of Griffo-Borean thinkers and writers, Socrates, Aristophanes, Hippocrates, and the like. All that had been preserved by our brothers in Saddle Arabia and Somnambula was copied and shared. For my part, the books and scrolls were welcomed lessons in between the physical training, and through them, I learned what it meant to be an Assassin. 
It was an important lesson to keep in mind.
Once out of their prison, I had a good sense of where we had been taken. Even at night, it would have been difficult not to recognize Trottingham Castle. They dragged me across the middle courtyard, a small swath of green with a short path cutting through it. On both sides of the path, there were a few armed men gathered around campfires. They were dressed more irregularly than the guards, appearing more like conscripts in an earl’s fyrd than true Templars. But whether they served under an order or an earl, I did not doubt that their commands came from the same men.
They brought me to the castle’s middle bailey, within which was a square stone-walled keep overlooking the lower bailey and the rest of the hill. Torches were lit, within and without, and the scent of roasted pig from the kitchen invaded my nose.
The Templars captains inside were dressed just as the guards were. Their weapons were sharp, their vests were clean. They groomed themselves and ate well. I could feel some eye cast my way, but the presence of a prisoner didn’t seem to faze the majority of them as my guards pushed me through the bottom floors and up to the castle’s bed chambers.
“Ah, here they are,” said an old voice I did not recognize. As they forced me through the doors, I saw Glen Green, standing around a table by the fireplace with an older man. He was grey throughout his hair and beard, and dressed in the same modest robes as Green, although he also wore a coat of maille underneath.
“What is she doing here?” Glen asked instantly, looking to the old Templar. “I thought you were going to interrogate her.”
He scoffed. “And walk my old joints down to that damp dungeon? Have a care for an old man, will you?” The old man waved the guards to bring me forward until we were inches from each other. He grabbed my face with a surprisingly firm grip, despite his bony fingers, and lifted my chin until he could stare down into my eyes.
“Trent Tideswell,” he introduced himself, “Sheriff of Trottingham to the King, Grandmaster to the Templars. Men twice your size, disobedient soldiers and criminals, have spilt their secrets to me.”
I clenched my jaw and refused to say a word. The chamber was warm and well furnished with carpets along its stone floor, but the interrogation had begun as soon as I was brought through the doors, and I was prepared to remain silent through it all.
The Grandmaster inhaled sharply and addressed the guards. “Tie her to the base of the bed while I get my tools.” 
They didn’t hesitate. As one guard held my wrists to the end of the bed, the other guard picked a bundle of rope from the table to tie my hands down. I couldn’t see what the Grandmaster was doing, I could only hear him retrieving some items from a shelf behind me. Glen paced back and forth, watching but doing nothing. I wanted to snicker at him. A Templar master, stumbling over his words at the sight of an interrogation.
“You two may go now,” the Grandmaster said to the guards, and they obeyed immediately. “Here, strip her back.” I watched Green reach out and take a small knife from the old man’s bony hands.
“Sir?”
“Hurry up, the lash needs to bite the skin if it wants to sting.”
“Right.” I felt the knife’s point prick my skin, but Green only cut at the cloth enough to tear open the back of my shirt.
“I expected as much.” I felt the old man’s hand run across my back, prodding at where I knew I had old scars. “An Assassin, through and through,” he said. “You see, Sir Green, this is what our torturers down in the dungeon don’t understand. The Assassins’ are barbaric, and so it is not enough to inflict pain. It’s just a start.”
The first lash whipped clear across the length of my back, shoulder to waist. The whip itself felt like a broad, rough strip of leather, and it tore at the skin as it scraped by. My tongue pressed against the top of my mouth and I clenched my teeth hard, seething through my nose to stifle whatever screams my body wanted to make.
The fifth lash stopped stinging and became hot and burning as blood started to trickle down the length of my spine. Tideswell switched from one side to the other. Whenever a lash came from the left, the next would come from the right. Each one always swung down from above, opening deep cuts. Moving my arms would only worsen the wounds, for if my shoulder blades moved, the cuts usually stretched and widened. By the tenth lash, I had given up my efforts to fight my screams of pain. 
The twelfth was the final one before Tideswell was satisfied with my bloody back. Done with the whipping, he brought the leather strip up to my face and tied it tight around my mouth, forcing my jaw to bite down on my blood.
“What do you intend now, Sir?” Glen passed the Grandmaster a cloth to wipe his hands clean.
“I intend to make full use of this opportunity,” he answered. “Beating and branding Assassins clearly does not work. But this one offers us a different avenue for interrogation.”
“How do you mean?” Green asked, just a moment before I felt Tidewell’s answer. He pulled the ragged and torn shirt completely off from my body, exposing my wounds to the air. And then he began undoing the string of my breeches.
“Just as women were condemned to suffer the pain of childbirth,” Tideswell said, “this, too, is a pain some women have to endure.”
If the words of an old man’s zealous faith were supposed to frighten me, I was not impressed. He was deluded and overconfident in his manhood if be believed its pain and humiliation was worse than the lash or thumbscrew. But, as I prepared for the worst of it, behind me the two men were stumbling in an argument.
Glen shoved the Grandmaster aside. “Have you gone mad? That isn’t interrogation, it’s sodomy!”
“Watch your tongue,” Tideswell hissed. “You are a master of the Order now. You cannot be so naive.”
“You’re talking about committing a sin. God will judge the adulterer and the—”
“Don’t cite the Bible at me!” he snapped. “I sponsored your ascension in our ranks, the very thing that let you be healed by the relic. Let God judge me, few men alive have done more for the kingdom than I. I shouldn’t have to explain to you that sacrifices must be made to preserve the kingdom God intended for Anglia.”
“You are a Grandmaster, an example to the Order, not its exception. You cannot do this.”
Tideswell ignored his subordinate, and I winced when he placed his bony hands on my back, pushing me down against the bed. The pain of that wound hurt the most, the force of his fingers reopening cuts where the blood had began to dry. I focused on that pain, ignoring all else.
His hand quickly left. “Stop!” Glen Green shouted, pushing the Grandmaster to the side of the bed. With bloody hands, and his phallus hanging to the air, the old man looked nothing like the principled Templars I had grown to fight. They, at least, had dignity. 
“The Order will punish you for this,” Glen barked. “The other Grandmasters won’t stand for this transgression. God won’t stand for it.”
“Or maybe you’ll be labelled a coward, a failure twice over. A Templar who can’t fight the very enemy who tried to take his life.” I heard the clamour of steel, and when I stretched my head around to see, the Grandmaster had picked up a long knife from a row of interrogation tools. “Will you betray the Order, Green? Leave now, and after I have the information we need you can at least be exiled with your life.”
He fixed his eyes back on me, knife still in hand and its point aimed to my head. The blade cut above the eyes, bleeding from the forehead down, but though I could not see him, I could feel the Grandmaster’s hands grasp my left thigh.
But Sir Green’s hand ripped the Grandmaster away, holding him tightly by the wrist. “I am placing you under arrest, Grandmaster Tideswell. You will be tried before the Order and before God, and I will drag you there by force if I must.”
The old man roared and began swinging his knife, yelling “traitor.” Defending the attack was effortless, despite Glen’s injury. He batted aside the old man’s strikes and side-stepped. But the Grandmaster proved his title. His strikes came at Glen quickly and accurately, narrowly missing the eyes and the chest. Age hardly seemed to slow him down. He was, in fact, faster than a young, newly conscripted footsoldier.
“Arrest me? Me? My only mistake was entrusting you with the title of master.” The old man was eventually on top of Glen, his knife bearing down on his neck. 
Either by accident or as a desperate attack, a blade burst out from the Grandmaster’s neck. Glen’s stolen blade flew from his wrist. It was as if the weapon knew what it had been made to do, even in the hands of another Templar.
The old man’s body dropped immediately, leaving Glen covered in Templar blood.
“God help me, I didn’t...” he whispered, before looking at me. I locked my eyes on him.
I wondered what ran through his mind. As principled as he was, I had some sense of who Glen Green was. A devout man. A loyal man. He was still a Templar, and I was still an Assassin. He protested his master’s sin of sodomy, but that did nothing to make us allies. But, the look of shock on his face was too difficult to read. The only thing I did know was that he didn’t know what to do.
He approached me, the broken hidden blade still out and bloody, and began cutting the ropes. “I’m taking you back to your cell,” he said. “And you will say nothing.”
“Or I die?” My voice was weak, but I hoped he could hear the cut of my remark. “You’ve tortured my brothers to death. I was prepared for the same. Maybe I will draw some attention to the body and drag you down to hell with me.”
“No,” he said shakily.
“You just killed the Sheriff of Trottingham. Your fellow Templars will find out.”
“Quiet,” he snarled as he snapped the last threads of the rope. “Now walk in front of me and say nothing.”
I lept to my feet and kicked him in the chest instead, grabbing the leather strap and slinging it around his wrist, pulling the hidden blade aside. Just moving hurt more than I imagined, but compared to fresh lashes, the pain was dull.
“No, wait. You won’t get out alive.” He struggled to regain control of his blade, but he was already gasping for air. “And neither will I. Every man in here was paid by Tideswell directly. My authority as a Master means something, but it’s not enough.”
I worked the hidden blade loose from his wrist, enough to undo the bracer’s clasp and pull it from his arm. He reacted fast, grasping the air to reclaim it, but my knee on his chest winded him before he could stop me from putting it on and turning the blade against him.
“I want to kill you, you know that oui?” I aimed the blade to his throat. But we were most likely imagining the same thing. I was in no condition to fight. If Green was to catch his breath, I wasn’t sure if I could even take him down. But dozens of guards knew we were alone. A prisoner tied up for interrogation suddenly escaping, with the only survivor being Glen, was a damning situation to be in. The other Templar captains would no doubt seek to blame him as a scapegoat for letting a Grandmaster die on their watch.
Sir Green nodded. “I’m sure you do. But I’ve had my moment to think. You’re right, the Order will find out. You and I are each other’s only hope for survival now.”
“Easier said than done,” I told him, withholding the fact that I could barely walk without my back threatening to tear open all over again. “Do you have a plan?”
He looked over at the Grandmaster’s body. “Tideswell is, or was, a private man. He liked his peace. No Templar is going to check for at least an hour or two. I can just take you to the stables and tell the others that you’re to be moved elsewhere. None will be the wiser until we’re gone.”
I had to wonder what would happen once we were gone. We’d probably try to kill each other. But, I had already killed him once. I stood a better chance of doing it again than I did of escaping a castle of twenty or thirty armed Templars. 
“Je doit etre folle.” I cursed my luck under my breath. “Let’s be quick about this then.”