Months pass and still Aguilar has nightmares about her final breath. She had sacrificed everything for the Creed, taken her own life in his weakness, and in her dying breath, saved his life.
He had known from the moment he laid eyes on her that she was a warrior worth her mettle, no one to be trifled with or underestimated. He had come to respect her in battle, whether sparring or in the midst of combat. There was never any doubt in his mind that she could - and would - cover any of his blind spots, his weak points, just as he did for her. It was nothing short of an honor to be able to call her his partner, one who had not only vouched for him to get him into the Brotherhood, but who had chosen to be his partner, to train with, to grow so close together that they moved as one in battle. Their own dance of blades and arrows, and ever did his step match hers. Never did they trip over the other. Never did they fall.
And yet, he had also come to love her more than he could have ever anticipated. More than his own life. More than anything - as proven when he very nearly handed the Apple to Torquemada in exchange for her life. His life had been sworn to the Creed, to his brothers and sisters; their mission extended beyond their own Brotherhood, beyond Spain, and still, in the moment when Ojeda’s blade threatened the life of the only one left to him, he forgot everything. His parents had been murdered, their Brotherhood slain, and the Creed’s words began to crumble in the possibility of losing Maria. He couldn’t. He loved her, he needed her, she was all he had left - and yet her conviction to the Creed that she had fought so hard for remained true.
She did not allow him to falter. She took her own life to ensure Aguilar would see their promise to the Creed held true. Like a madman, he became, violent in his anger, leaving a trail of Templars in his wake. He was the last of their Brotherhood, and he did not know if he fought so he might one day die, or if merely a way to work through his grief. No long were Maria’s steps firmly in tandem with his own; no longer would she smile at him in that knowing way she always did; never would he gaze into her eyes and promise to the stars that he would do everything in his power to keep her safe.
For months, the nightmares persisted. He avoided sleep some nights so he would not have to relive it. Some nights, he slept if only because it was the only place he could ever see her face.
In something akin to misery, he lived on. Passed the Apple off, considered what to do, discovered a terrible penchant for the drink - until whispers grew of a woman held imprisoned for months, tortured for information daily, starved and beaten and yet never giving up. A myth, some said, for who could hold out so long against such pain? Hope rekindled in Aguilar’s chest, and he knew it could be a fool’s errand, and yet - what did he have to lose?
The whispers become louder the closer he comes, and knows not if it is Maria, but it is worth trying. They must have thought him dead not to flaunt her existence publicly to draw him out - or perhaps it is not her and he is mistaken. Still, he pushes forward, drives himself closer, closer, uncaring for what might happen.
Long has it been since he has used the skills he spent years training for, and he finds his muscles burn and his heart races from lack of use, yet the movements are familiar and he moves quietly, breathes carefully, treads softly. Moves past guards, slashes their throat silently and hides the bodies in the shadows. He knows not how many he kills on his way to the dungeons, but until they are all dead, it is not enough. It may never be enough to avenge her blood soaking the stones she died on.
The dungeons are dim, lit only by half-burned torches settled against the wall, and one by one, Aguilar takes down every guard in his way as he checks the cells. Many contain people who have died, the stench of decay permeating the small space they inhabited at the end of their lives. Some are dying, some are angry. Aguilar passes the cells with a promise to free as many as he can on his way out, but until he gets keys and until he knows if maria is here, he will not stop for anything.
It takes mere minutes, and yet every step, every cell, every guard killed, feels an eternity, until there is one cell tucked away and guarded by four guard, one of whom glances back every so often, that he knows he found the woman of which the whispers speak of. He engages all of them at once. A throwing knife sinks deep into the neck of one, who gasps around blood for breath as he tries to pull the knife out. Before they can all turn to see where it has come from, an arrow embeds itself through the eye of another.
He charges the last two, crushes one’s arm out of his way, hears it snap, and Aguilar’s blade is thrust upward through the man’s chin, through his mouth. He is not dead, and Aguilar finds a strange solace in the way he splutters, chokes - until Aguilar withdraws the blade and slams the guard’s head back against the wall, hard, deadly, and the man crumples to the floor. The final guard looks as if he considers running, perhaps does not get enough coin to maintain position, and Aguilar almost lets him go. Instead, he kicks him back against the wall, once, twice, three times until ribs crack and the man cannot breathe, and Aguilar spent months unable to breath after Maria’s death. He plunges his blade into the man’s neck, lets him slide to the ground, and wishes there were more.
There will be more, he reminds himself, but now is not the time.
Swiftly, he runs back to the cell, and she is naked - emaciated, thin, skin clinging desperately to bones, her hair gone and cheekbones sunken, and yet he would know those eyes anywhere. “Maria,” he breathes, and he wonders if this is a dream, yet he sees the scar in her neck, the scars on her body, ones he has committed to memory with every brush of lips against her skin, and tears sting his eyes. “Maria,” he says again, and her name is a blessing.
He searches the corpses for the keys and opens the door, rushing inside to take her in his arms, to envelop her in his robes that he’s hurriedly removed, leaving him in pants and a shirt. She is smaller now, and he trembles as he touches her, holds her face in his hands, stares at her, and his eyes burn as tears sting them sharply. "Maria, mi corazón, estoy aquí.”
