whaat? what is this nonsense? all this Harry Potter stuff, and then...this?
well, yes. I DID just get Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood for Christmas, you know. and it IS my most favorite gaming series OF ALL TIME.
and i really, really, really love Lucy/Desmond, though the fic base on this site is pitifully small.
so, all things considered, yes, this makes perfect sense. :P
and it's not exactly how i liked it to be, but it's not bad. hope you enjoy!
Lucy had never been fond of poetry. To her, it was nothing more than a useless jumble of words, sappy declarations of love or silly drunken ramblings. She was a woman of efficiency, of clear-cut lines and no-nonsense outfits. (Except for the shoes; she had a weakness for heels.) She had always dismissed poets and the like as mentally disabled, drunk, or otherwise impaired, never actually contributing to society. So, by default, their works were also of no meaning, not worth a second glance.
...But then again, perhaps the reason Lucy felt this way was because she had never seen true poetry in motion.
Whenever she looked at Desmond, she could feel some sort of strange stirring in her mind; as though some kind of half-forgotten phrase was trying to make its way to the surface, but was always blocked. Whenever she caught herself admiring the strong planes of his hands, or the smooth curve of his jaw, she could almost reach out and touch that feeling, bring it to the surface and examine it. Somehow, though, it always slipped away.
It had been when they were exploring the Auditore villa, searching for an entrance into the private sanctuary of the Assassins, that the feeling finally made itself known.
While poking around the outside of the ancient manor, Desmond had suddenly taken off after some phantom of Ezio's past, leaving a bewildered Lucy to do her best to catch up.
They had sprinted out onto a stretch of wall that had surrounded the expansive grounds, and before Lucy could even open her mouth to protest, the man had leapt off the edge of the wall and disappeared from sight.
Rushing to the edge of the wall, Lucy peered down, fearing that all she would see of the man would be a red-and-white smear at the bottom of the hill. Instead, what she saw took her breath away.
Desmond was flying downward, arms spread out behind him, sweatshirt flapping with the force of the air whipping past his body. Lucy's breath caught in her throat. He was graceful as a bird of prey, gliding through the air as though he were born to it, arms outstretched, a wild grin on his face...
It was beautiful.
Desmond landed in a haystack far below, and Lucy's trance was broken. Blinking and shaking her head, she clambered down a nearby ladder and landed lightly on the ground. Desmond was brushing hay off of his clothes and out of his hair, looking none the worse for wear after his very first Leap of Faith.
"Wow, that was...awesome," was Lucy's extremely eloquent comment.
Desmond shrugged, looking up at the height he had just leapt from. "I dunno," he responded. "It just felt...natural."
Lucy raised her eyebrows, impressed. Desmond was definitely more in tune with his Assassin ancestors than she would ever be. The lifestyle seemed to fit him, though he had done his best to try and escape it, in his earlier years. It was more than just the Bleeding Effect; Desmond was an Assassin, was always meant to be. It was a part of his very person to be so.
Lucy opened her mouth to say some of these things to Desmond; but suddenly, looking at his teasing dark eyes and his still-exhilarated grin, she felt suddenly embarrassed. In her tongue's sudden confusion, the only words that made it out of her mouth were "We should probably keep going. We don't have a lot of time."
Ugh. How boring. How...Lucy of her.
Desmond only nodded, however, and turned to head into the darkness of the tunnel beyond. Watching him walk, seeing a sudden catlike grace in his stride, a confident set about his shoulders that hadn't been there before, Lucy felt the urge to do something odd.
She wanted to write a poem.
Shaking her head briefly, Lucy entered the tunnel. Perhaps these were thoughts of a woman who hadn't gotten any real sleep in at least twenty-four hours, who was put under extraordinary strain to be some kind of leader to the ragged team she was in charge of, and found her body at last giving into the strain.
Or perhaps she had simply found something worth writing poetry about.