Day 2 of codextober (ik fml I’m falling behind already 🤷♀️)
Summary: Arno’s daughter acts as his little shadow. She may or may not have picked up some dangerous habits.
A/n: I do not speak French, so sorry for any mistakes.
The dusty, sun-drenched rooftops of revolutionary Paris had settled into a fragile peace, but within the walls of a secluded Montmartre manor, a new kind of chaos was brewing.
Arno Dorian, master assassin and veteran of countless rooftop escapes, was attempting to enjoy a rare moment of domestic tranquility: sharpening his hidden blade at the kitchen table (something his wife preferred him not to do, especially at the table) while drinking lukewarm coffee.
He felt the shift in the air before he saw it—a tiny disturbance in the space directly behind him. He glanced over his shoulder.
(d/n), their three-year-old daughter, was there.
She wasn't making a sound. Her eyes, the beautiful shade of her mother’s, were fixed entirely on the movement of his hands. She trying her hardest to stand perfectly still, her small shadow aligning exactly with his own, mimicking a mini assassin in the making.
Arno sighed, a fond, exasperated sound. "Bonjour, ma petite ombre."
He’d noticed it weeks ago. Wherever he went, she followed. Down the hallway, into his library, even out into the secluded courtyard garden. She didn't demand attention or make noise; she simply existed in his immediate vicinity, a tiny, silent sentinel. She was absorbing everything he was doing in silence.
His wife, (y/n), a fierce and pragmatic assassin in her own right, had been the one to name the phenomenon.
"She’s your petite ombre, Arno," (y/n) had remarked one evening, watching (d/n) crouch perfectly still behind a potted fern, staring intently at Arno assembling a lock-picking kit.
"Our notre petite ombre." He proudly remarked.
Now, the shadowing had evolved into mimicking as well.
Arno stood up, stretching. (D/n) immediately copied the movement, her small arms reaching for the ceiling, her balancing wobbling slightly.
"Time for training yet, le papa?" she asked softly, her voice filled with childish excitement.
Arno patted her head, and gave her an amused grin. "Not today, chérie. Le papa is merely going to fetch a book at the moment, sorry to disappoint you ma petite ombre."
He walked towards the library. (d/n) followed, her little gait a determined, exaggerated imitation of his confident stride.
The mimicry, however, was minor compared to the recent fascination with climbing.
(y/n) found (d/n) one afternoon attempting to scale the back of a large, heavy oak armchair using the decorative carvings as tiny footholds. Another time, she had managed to drag four cushions and a footstool into a precarious tower construction, clearly intending to reach the top shelf of the china cabinet.
The manor was quickly becoming a dangerous obstacle course.
"She is going to break her neck, Arno," (y/n) said, massaging her temples as she watched (D/n) try to climb the nearest thing she could see.
"It is in her blood, my love," Arno replied, quickly catching (d/n) just as she made a spectacular, if uncontrolled, leap from the mantlepiece. "What shall we do? Chain her to the floor?"
"We shall teach her discipline and patience, not encourage reckless athlétisme."
Yet, the impulse was unrelenting. (d/n) saw a vertical surface, and her brain registered one thing: climb it.
The courtyard garden was surrounded by a high, ancient stone wall, covered in thick, thorny ivy. It was here, two days later, that Arno found (d/n).
She was nearly halfway up the wall, her tiny fingers frantically gripping the rough, thick vines. She was panting, her face streaked with dirt and determination.
Arno froze, not wanting to startle her. He watched as her foot slipped. She whimpered instinctively, her grip tightening until her knuckles were white.
This wasn't playing anymore. This was dangerous. And it was going to end badly if left unchecked.
Arno moved quickly, his paternal skills triggering his adrenaline, he scooped her down quickly but gently.
"Non, non, non, mon coeur," he murmured, setting her on the ground. "That is not how we climb."
(d/n) looked up at him, her lower lip trembling with guilt and disappointment. "But I saw you climb it though, to get to the roof, le papa."
Arno looked at the ivy-covered wall. He looked at his determined, stubborn little girl. He sighed, a slow, profound realization settling in. They could not stop her, she was too much like Arno himself. He could only prepare her.
"Alright," he said, putting her on the ground, "Since you are determined to climb like a écureuil... let's learn how to do it properly."
Arno started with the basics. He focused not on ascent, but on the basics. He found a lower, smoother section of the wall where the ivy was sparse.
"We do not scramble, (d/n). We test. We find the anchor point. Always a three-point hold."
He showed her how to distribute her weight, how to use the balls of her feet to grip the tiny indentations in the limestone. He focused heavily on safety.
"Now, the most important part," he instructed, demonstrating on the soft patch of grass in the center of the courtyard.
"If you fall, you do not panic. We curl into the impact."
He showed her the basic Assassin’s technique for absorbing a drop: tucking the chin, rolling the shoulders, and distributing the force dynamically. It was more a controlled tumble than a typical fall, designed to save vital joints.
(y/n), naturally, took to it with disturbing enthusiasm. She threw herself onto the grass, practising her roll over and over, giggling when she successfully landed on her feet in a crouch without bumping her little head.
Arno proudly beamed, coaching her form. "Excellent! Again! Tuck, roll, spring!"
"Tuck, roll, spring." (d/n) repeated to herself determinedly, leaping off a low stone bench.
It was in the middle of their tenth 'fall' that the quiet sound of a sharp cough cut through the air.
(y/n) leaned against archway, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her expression was one of motherly concern, but mostly an unimpressed look, reserved for Arno’s more reckless moments.
"Arno Victor Dorian," she said, her voice dangerously low, "What, precisely, are you teaching our three-year-old daughter?"
Arno immediately ceased the lesson hastily. He saw the look in his wife’s eyes and knew he was in for a stern lecture.
"Mon amour! We were…je m'amuse juste." Arno said rubbing his neck awkwardly, trying to sound breezy.
He walked towards her, adjusting his white collar awkwardly. "Ya…we were just... engaging in a bit of kinetic self-expression." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself instead.
"Non, You are teaching her to fall off things," (y/n) stated flatly.
"I am teaching her how to fall properly off the things she is already determined to climb when we are not looking," Arno corrected gently, though he knew arguing semantics would only worsen his position.
(Y/n) gestured directly at (d/n), who, sensing the tension, had immediately adopted to hide behind a large wooden barrel, pretending to be invisible to her mothers stern eyes.
"She is three Arno…She should be learning her l' alphabet, not how to correctly roll out of a three-story drop."
"(Y/n), look at us," Arno pleaded softly, taking her smaller, and softer hands in his much larger, and calloused ones.
They both knew this was apart of their life. They lived it. Their movements, training, and instincts were etched into their very DNA. And now their daughters.
"We cannot cage her spirit. She is our blood. She is already attempting to scale the ivy wall." He squeezed her hands reassuringly.
"We have two options: we can try to stop her, and she will eventually injure herself trying to climb something poorly," he said, his voice earnest.
"Or, we can equip her with the tools to do it safely. We cannot always be here to catch her, (y/n). But we can ensure she knows what to do if she misses a step."
(Y/n) stared at him for a long moment, her anger slowly dissipating under the weight of his logic. She looked at (d/n), still trying to spy behind the barrel, watching them with unnerving intensity.
The truth was, Arno was right. Their daughter was a spark of wild energy, born of two (very different of course) assassins. She was born for rooftops and high places, just like a bird.
(Y/n) softened. A small smile touched her lips.
"You really are impossible, Arno Dorian, but you are right." she mumbled, stretching up to kiss him quickly. "I assume we’re being careful? She wasn't jumping from anything actually dangerous?"
"Perfectly safe, I promise," Arno reassured, breathing a sigh of relief. He knew a good reprieve when he got one. "We only used the grass and the low bench."
His wife let go of his hands and watched (d/n) sneakily emerge finally from behind the barrel when she believed her mother was busy and not looking, running a quick, silent sprint towards the low bench and launching herself into a almost perfect, if slightly clumsy, forward roll.
"Tuck, roll, spring." (d/n) mumbled quietly to herself, as she concentrated on the task at hand.
A wave of profound, protective warmth washed over (y/n). Her husband, despite his impulsiveness, always prioritized their safety above all else. He was equipping their daughter for the dangerous world they inhabited.
She repositioned herself in her husband’s strong arms, resting her head briefly on his shoulder as they watched their daughter.
"You are the most infuriating man I have ever met sometimes," she whispered, her voice thick with affection. "And yet... you are also the perfect father and husband."
She continued watching their daughter launch herself off the bench, practicing her tumbling skills.
"Both she and I are unbelievably lucky to have you, Arno," (y/n) said, her gaze fixed back on her handsome brown eyed husband. "Notre protecteur."
Arno hugged (y/n) tighter into his hold.
"C'est mon seul but ces jours-ci, mon amour," he said quietly, his gaze also fixed on the small figure in the courtyard. "To protect you both, even our daughter from herself."
He continued to proudly watch his little (d/n) scramble up to the top of the low wall, test her footing, and then, without hesitation, launch herself back down, landing with a clean, if slightly unbalanced, roll onto the grass. She immediately looked up instinctively at him, her eyes shining with accomplished triumph.
Arno smiled, a genuine, content smile. He was absolutely certain that by the time (d/n) was ten, she would be scaling the spire of Notre Dame better than he could. And he would ensure she knew exactly how to safely make the leap of faith from the gargoyle. With a three-point hold, of course.
