Ancient Animosity

[madimpossibledreamer]

finally got to catch half of Black Panther while cooking and it was amazing /grins I wish I could've gone and seen it in theaters.

Main Points:
Arrow/Assassin's Creed; this is separate from the other Arrow/Assassin's Creed 'verse
Summary: Tommy fights the Assassin.
Word Count: 1273
Rating: Teen

        He doesn’t bother giving any warning when he’d finally gotten a glimpse of the Assassin on the opposite roof.  The arrow buries itself in the man’s shoulder with a smooth thunk, and the vigilante lets out a grunt and falls from his handhold.  He lands in a roll on the roof, smoothly evading the second arrow loosed in his direction.  With another groan, the vigilante notches two arrows and lets them fly.  That’s a problem.  The Assassin is a better shot than he is.  If it wasn’t harder to hide, gunshot powder and all, Tommy would carry a firearm instead.  He barely ducks behind the vent in time and hears the arrows bury themselves in the metal.  Even wounded, his draw strength is that good?  What are Assassins made of, anyway, pure spite?
        He’s better in close combat, but there’s always that pesky hidden blade, making close quarters a risky choice.  Still, that’s something he’s never tried before.  They won’t get anywhere if they’re not willing to take a few chances.
        He glances out from cover, only for another green-fletched arrow to fly past his face, leaving behind a bloody scratch.
        He begins running, twisting his body to the side to avoid yet another arrow.  He launches himself to the opposite building, catching the window with fingertips calloused and strong from practice.  Malcolm was a strong proponent of bringing the fight to the enemy, which involved, to some extent, fighting on their terms.  He pulls himself up as quickly as he can, knowing that as it is he’s exposed and he can hear the Assassin’s footsteps pattering in his direction.
        He reaches up to pull the approaching Assassin over the edge, and there’s a hiss as the man catches himself.  It’s just enough distraction for Tommy to pull himself up, roll away from the edge to get out of reach.  The vigilante might be wounded, but he’s still not far behind.  An arrow held in the man’s hand stabs into the space where his head had just been.  That’s different.  He’d expected a dagger, but it seems this Assassin is obsessed with his signature weapon—or maybe it’s a Robin Hood thing?
        He unsheathes his sword, stabbing quickly, and the vigilante sidesteps that.  Easily.  He moves quickly forward, stabbing downward, again, with the arrow.  Tommy doesn’t actually avoid that one—it slashes a painful stripe down his arm.  He does manage to twist out of the way of the fist heading for his throat, which is good because he can hear the snik of the blade. 
        He elbows upward furiously, catching the man’s chin hard enough it’s going to bruise, but sadly it’s not as hard as he wanted it to be.  Time to dual wield, he supposes, pulling a dagger out from the sheath at his legs with the other hand and stabbing at the vigilante, who just flows smoothly out of the way.  He smacks the side of Tommy’s head with the bow.  It’s a better weapon than last time, but then, Malcolm said he’d broken the last one.  Maybe the Assassin had decided he needed an upgrade.
        Tommy blinks, slightly dazed, but it doesn’t take much concentration with the arm in reach to smack his palm into the black feathers of the arrow still sticking out of the Assassin’s shoulder.  There’s the choked off sound of a scream before the man tries a leg sweep, and Tommy falls, turning it into a roll and getting back to his feet easily.  He’s further out of range, so he can avoid the hidden blades catching him by surprise.  And hopefully, with the sword, he can keep him there.  He tries quick swings instead—it’s an arc, so it’s harder to sidestep, but if he takes too long it’s easy for the archer to just step by once it’s done and snik, blade into throat, he’s dead.  Unfortunately, the man’s studied fighting with his bow.  He’s almost as good as Malcolm.  Every strike is parried by the bow.
        Fortunately, he’s close enough to deflect the one arrow the man manages to draw on him, cutting it in half, which from the way the man’s mouth moves (it’s familiar, strange, but then perhaps not when he’s been hunting this guy for how long?) he’s angered by.  Which is good.
        “Why won’t you just die,” he hisses in frustration and anger, and as if in response to his request, the Assassin misses the next parry and his sword sinks into soft flesh.
        In shock, he watches as the blue eyes darkened by the hood widen, a grunt of shock and hurt escaping the Assassin’s lips.  The man takes a couple instinctive steps back, and Tommy grabs the front of the outfit to prevent him from going anywhere or falling off of anything, hand fairly close to the arrow buried in the shoulder.  He can feel the wet where the blood is starting to spread.
        “Tommy?” the gruff baritone questions, but now there’s something soft in the voice.
        “You know me?” he asks, a snarl on his face.  He doesn’t wait for a response, though, reaching out and pulling off the hood.  He’s going to get to the bottom of this.
        And he drops the Assassin in his shock.
        “That’s impossible.  That’s—”  How.  How could Oliver have become an Assassin, after what they’d done to his father, Tommy’s mother?
        Oliver grimaces but pulls himself up carefully, placing the bow at his back.  “I’d say the same thing.  You’re a Templar.”  There’s the same hate in his voice that fills Tommy’s voice when he says the word Assassin.  “But I refuse to fight you.”  He glances at the slash on Tommy’s arm and the scratch on his cheek and the blank look is briefly replaced by guilt.  “Sorry about that.”
        “We were just fighting to the death and all you have to say is ‘sorry’?”  Tommy’s flabbergasted.  Who does that?
        “I won’t fight you,” Oliver repeats.  “If you want to continue to fight, you’ll just have to kill me.”  There are no words to reply.  “I’d prefer you slit my throat rather than expose my secret.  Either way, I’ll die, but I’d prefer a quick death that wouldn’t hurt my family.”
        “You think I could kill you?”  He’s likely on the edge of becoming hysterical at this point. 
        “Clearly we don’t know each other…” he coughs, one hand coming over to rest at his side, where the sword is still sheathed in flesh, “…as well as we thought.  I don’t care that you’re a Templar, you’re Tommy.  I refuse to fight my best friend.”
        Silence, broken only by Ollie’s ever-harsher breathing.
        “Three outcomes, I kill you, which isn’t going to happen, you kill me, or I leave.  Again,” Ollie tries again, and there’s something clear in those blue eyes.  His face doesn’t show his emotions, but there’s distress, determination, but he still cares, too.
        “I could take you back—we have access to the best health care,” Tommy begins, trying to convince Oliver, to save his best friend—
        “That’s not an option.  I’d slit my own throat first before letting the Templars take me,” the Assassin continues pleasantly, like this is just an easy conversation.  There’s nothing he can say to that.  That’s crazy.
        “Escape.  Okay.”  Oliver stands, walks to the edge and glances back.  Like this is easy.  Like this is normal.  “If you want to talk—and by talk, I mean it—come to the Verdant tomorrow.  Alone.  Let’s say noon, since you like to sleep in.”  He smirks, pulls the hood up, and falls backward off the edge of the building.  No fear.