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Chapter Text

Eivor wished that England afforded her people peace.
As she packed up what few possessions she had into a small chest that would serve as her seat on the longship she wondered if after everything she was deserving of peace.

The wind was fresh in her hair, warm and cold at the same time as their dragon boat cut through the waves.

The drengr had a rope around her wrist, leaning over the edge of the ship, feet planted firmly on the wood of the ship. Salt spray hit her face and the smile across the usually brooding warrior's face grew with each passing moment. 

Their sails are high, catching the strong winds as they glide ever closer to England's green shores. 

It’s strange to her, the feeling of freedom that had been brewing in her chest since they left Norway. It was a feeling she couldn’t remember ever experiencing. Even before her parents' deaths the warrior couldn’t think of a time where she had felt so carefree. 

They navigated the narrow inland rivers with sails down to not cause alarm to anyone on the river banks. 

Eivor was the one who snuck inside a fortress to take down the chain that spans the river. She is careful not to alert any of the guards, sneaking through the shadows and long grasses just as Hytham and Basim told her to.

Their ships dock and they spill blood on new soil. New soil that became Ravensthorpe. Their new home. The first few days were filled with work, repairing the roof tiles on the long house. 

The crew laughed when Eivor nearly fell off the roof one evening because she was distracted by the view of the landscape that stretched out in front of her. 

Eivor settled into her room, placing her sparse things in the room; her fathers axe by her bedside; fur cloak hung over the chair; a chest filled with scrolls; another filled with herbs and the last thing she set down in her room was the set of carved figurines to the Gods. 

She felt at peace in this land. The man in her mind had been silent since they left Norway. Silently she prayed each night that he was gone, that he was just a fragment of her fractured soul she had rid herself of when she pulled the axe from Kjotves chest. 

When she traveled through the new lands, she took what care she could to respect the people. She didn’t kill, didn’t insult or hurt anyone. Perhaps repenting — as the people of this land would say — for the raids undertaken by her crew. 

She liked to sketch on her travels. Huddled by a crackling fire as the rain drizzled down outside the small cave she had set up camp in for the night. 

Eivor would sketch the small frogs she would see, fascinated by the small creatures. She would draw him as well, hurried sketches to purge him from her mind. 

Things didn’t change in an instant. As much as Eivor wanted England to be her new beginning, she was a pawn of war in this land. 

Another piece in a game. In someone else’s games.

She played the games, hoping that one day, she would be rewarded with peace for once in a lifetime that had dealt so much cruelty 

Eivor wished that England afforded her peace.

Chapter Text

The first week was normal and unremarkable. Kassandra spent it getting settled on the small island of Korfu. She planned on spending just a few days there, an amphora of wine in hand and resting on the beach. 

She hoped that a few days of distraction would help—help to ease the weight on her shoulders. The misthios would drink in the tavern each night, stumble up the stairs with a stranger and then wake in the morning with a headache and no one beside her. 

A few days turned into a week, then two, then a month. A man was selling his villa, wanting to get money so he could move to the mainland with his wife. Kassandra paid him two sacks of gold and helped him pack for the voyage. 

The large villa did nothing to ease her mind. The few villas that dotted the Kephallonian hills had fascinated her as a young child. She dreamt of living in one of those houses with her family. 

Nikolaos would train Alexios when he was old enough, just like he had done with her. Myrrine would teach her the ways of her spear, the legacy of their family. They had all been ripped away from the young girl, and the idea of a peaceful life was a frivolous fantasy of a child.

They had been ripped away from her a second time and just like the first, their blood was on her hands. 

Each night the warrior would wake with a start, blood filled visions haunting her. Hollow masks of the cult burning themselves into the back of her mind. She would discard the linen sheets, ignoring the nagging voice in her mind.

“I don't want to hear it Aletheia…” Kassandra stood on the balcony, hands gripping the intricate stonework. The pendant around her neck was cool against her warm skin, an unpleasant reminder of her fate. 

Kassandra would talk to herself as if talking to Aletheia, her voice keeping her company as she dealt with the unbearable weight that had been placed on her already burdened shoulders.

She would tell her about her days, even if they were all the same. About faded memories from her childhood, silently wondering if Aletheia had been there all that time or if she had only come along when she took the staff. 

The woman in the staff had been silent since they left the gates of Atlantis. It left Kassandra in solitude. Filled with confusion as to what she was meant to do and what she was. The simulations had said a hybrid. 

Half Isu and half human. 

Half Alethiea and half herself. 

Kassandra grabbed the amphora of wine that sat on the low table as she walked past, taking a small cup with her and walking down to the beach. It had been her routine for the past few moons. Wake up in a sweat, a figure staring at her from across the room.

Each night it changed. Some nights it was little phoibe, standing there hollow eyed with blood covering her front and a wooden eagle in hand. Other nights it was her brother, Alexios looking all too small in the grealming armour of the cult, blood pouring from his throat. 

Brasidas stared at her, spear through his skull and whispering coarsely:

“This is all your doing.”

Kassandra sat on the beach, looking out at the sea as she drank her wine. She hated her self imposed exile but knew it was best for those still around her. With any luck she would fade into irrelevance. Fade away so she wouldn’t hurt anymore people. 

She lay down in the sand, looking up at the stars, thinking about how they would change over the span of her long life. The pyramid had shown her glimpses of just how long she would live, far into the future where those she cared for would be long forgotten.

On the silent island, the misthios let the hot tears run down her cheeks, heart sinking at just how alone she was and that no matter how much wine she drank, that pain, that solitude. It would never leave her side.

She was cursed.  

Chapter Text

The desert sands whisper secrets that no one wants to hear. They speak them silently, carried away on the winds that sweep through the valleys and over the vast plains. 

A woman walks silently over the dunes, leaving nothing but a trail of footprints that are soon covered by the ever moving granules. 

The sand drops away and monumental stones rise up around Amunet. Grand pillars of bluish stone pierce through the iron rich sands, a reminder that this place she’s been drawn to is not one of her own. 

The trek began when a note was delivered to the bureau in Alexandria. A tightly rolled papyrus with Greek text scribed upon it. The note had no sender, only directions to somewhere in the desert, something that would help her close the painful chapter of her life as Aya and be reborn as Amunet.

As she walked through the sands, the hidden one swore she saw someone just out of the corner of her eye, red sash around their waist with a hood obscuring their face. The next time she saw the figure was when they stood in front of her, the stone walls rising up around them. 

The mysterious figure's face was still obscured by the hood but they wielded a staff with what looked to be two snakes coiling around the body. The figure turned and walked away, leading Amunet deeper into the sacred temple. She drew her blades as a strange prickle crept up her neck, that same prickle she had felt in Siwa. 

She followed the figure deeper into the complex, silently wondering if this person was real or simply a mirage caused by the desert delirium. 

Amunet turned a corner, expecting to see the figure there. She found the room empty save for a podium in the centre. Its energy pulled her towards it, the prickling sensation intensifying the closer she got to it. 

She placed her hand on the podium, a vision over took her sight. A grand field of reeds, the starry night sky above the dunes, Rome, and the hidden ones. 

The figure stood opposite her when the vision faded. They had brown hair, tired eyes and a sad expression. 

“Keep them true Amunet.”

A gust of wind blew through the temple, blowing the figure away in a gust of sand. Amunet tumbled back in shock, landing in the sands. She awoke back in Alexandria, the crickets chirping outside the windows. 

It had been a dream. From the letter to the dunes.

It was a dream. 

Chapter Text

The evening began mostly the same, gas lamps around the city lit up with their telltale glow. Low fog settled over London, bringing with it the mysterious energy that enveloped the city after nightfall.

“I am not going to your little ghost club Eves, I have stuff to do.” Jacob was sitting on the small couch in the train carriage, fiddling with the strapping on his blade gauntlet. 

“Just once Jacob, that’s all I ask.”

“Can’t you ask Henry?” 

Evie remained silent, casting a glance over at their wall of targets, “Don't let personal feelings compromise the mission.” She shrugged it off and turned back to Jacob, “Besides, it’s rumoured that one of Starricks men frequents the pub around the corner from the club so we can easily take out another Templar if the ghost club is a fruitless endeavour.”

Jacob looked at his sister with a raised brow “fine, but only if I get to tell a ghost story.” He grabbed his coat, pulling it over his shoulders. 

The pair jumped off the train as it glided through the station. Passers cast a side glance at them both, knowing who they were and what they did. The twin gangsters of London, leaders of the Rooks, ruthless killers and yet protectors of London. 

“What is this ghost story you are going to tell? I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.” Evie spoke as they crossed the cobbled street outside the station, dodging the carriages and carts.

“You’ll just have to wait and see won’t you.” 

“It better not be about that time I figured out I could turn invisible and then followed George around the house with a plate in hand, poor man was terrified.” Evie laughed, Jacob joining in when the memory struck him.

They ducked into the side alley, walking down the muddy path to the smaller street that ran between the two larger main ones. In the centre sat ‘The Queens Head’, one of the many lively pubs scattered through London. The paint was a rich green, with gold detailing adorning the front columns. The glass was wavy in texture, split into dozens of squares by the steel edging. A warm glow radiated from the windows, casting enough light that the Rooks outside could see those coming and going from the establishment.

Once inside, the twins seated themselves in the far corner of the room. It gave the best vantage point to the cramped space, allowing them to see every movement in the pub. 

Dickens began the night with his usual spiel, talking about the newest discoveries in the paranormal field. A few people got up after him and spoke, presenting ideas and theories about the supernatural. Jacob popped out for a short while, leaving Evie to listen to Alexander speak about signals and ghosts for at least ten minutes. 

He arrived back just as Alexander was finishing off his demonstration, taking his seat once more. 

“Does anyone else have something to share before we commence our nightly walk?” Dickens spoke to the gathered crowd, scanning them all.

Jacob set his mug down, clearing his throat and standing up, “I’ve got a ghost story for you all. One that happened to me.”

“Ah Mr Frye, please come up to the podium and share your tale of the paranormal.” 

Jacob stood in front of the small audience, clearing his throat before he began to speak. 

“This happened when I was younger than I am now. It was late at night and I was trying to sleep but I had a splitting headache. I wasn’t going to go downstairs to get anything because I could wake my dad or worse, my sister.” He gestured over to Evie who rolled her eyes in response. 

The crowd sat captivated as he continued the story, a silence washing over the bar and he wove a paranormal tale. 

“So I sit up, the prickling sensation on my neck only growing stronger with every moment. A chill had coated my skin and I could see this blur of light beginning to form a shape. A woman formed from light, whispering softly and saying something I couldn’t understand. She sat at the end of my bed for months on end. Softly whispering her mournful sorrows.” Jacob looked to the crowd, “Now, if we take the approach of Mr Dickens, this was most likely the result of a young boy's active imagination. But I propose this was indeed a spirit, the house was old, very old and the land was supposedly the site of a battle long ago in England's past. There were many times this apparition showed itself to me—.” He glanced over to Evie, seeing a frown set onto her brow.

“When I came to London, I noticed these apparitions stopped. So was this haunting particular to me? Perhaps a ghost intent on scaring a young boy into sleeping when he was told to or was she something more sinister? Perhaps an omen? Or a malevolent spirit?” The lights were low now, candles burning to the ends of their wicks. 

Jacob lowered his voice “on some nights, when the fog is right, like it is now, you can hear her mournful whispers.” The moment he finished speaking, a shriek broke the thick silence of the room, startling the many people in the room, including Charles who reached for his cane. 

“Well well, thank you Mr Frye for that startling story. I’m sure it’s given us much to think about on our walk. If you’ll all join me now.” He began to shuffle the club patrons outside. Jacob walked back to where Evie stood.

“Why the frown Eves? You said I could tell one.”

“You saw her too? At the end of your bed?” Evie spoke in a hushed tone, gesturing for him to follow her outside. 

She led him to the side alleyway between the buildings, leading against the damp stone.

“Yes I saw her. What is this about?”

“I saw her too.”

Jacob looked at her, “you never said anything.”

“I thought I was going mad. Even with everything else we can do, seeing a…a ‘ghost’, terrified me.”

“What do you mean by ‘ghost’?” He imitated the quotation marks his sister had just done.

“It’s ma. The dress, it’s her wedding dress. I found it when we were playing hide and seek. The whispers? She is speaking a dialect of Welsh, the one from where she grew up.”

The younger of the twins stood in silence, the realisation hit him that yes, yes he had seen a ghost. 

“How? How could we see her and father couldn’t?”

Evie answered simply, pointing to her eyes, “he didn’t have the vision like we have. His just showed him peoples energies but it didn’t show him energy. That’s all ghosts are, energy.” 

Jacob looked at Evie, a broad smile spreading across his face, “so she came to see us? Look after us even though she was gone?” 

“I think so, it’s the only logical reason.”

“Maybe this whole ghost club thing isn’t half bad.” He laughed, “I still say we get that Templar while we are here, yknow, just in case ma is watching over us.” 

The  moment was quickly interrupted by a young rook turning down the alley and jogging towards them, her pigtails bouncing from under the green cap, “Did it work Jacob?” 

“It did, you were right on cue, they were terrified. I’m pretty sure you made Evie jump.”

The young girl looked up at Evie with a smile “Did you really?”

Evie nodded, “you did. I nearly spilled my drink.” 

She smiled happily at the pair, tucking the coins Jacob gave her into her pocket and running off again.

“You paid little Mille to yell on cue so you would scare people?” Evie raised an eyebrow at her brother, unable to hide the smile on her lips.

“Hmm? I think we have a Templar to kill, we best be going yes?” Jacob began to walk backwards down the alleyway, pulling his cap on and looking at Evie.

“I might have to set Ma’s ghost on you for that one, maybe even father’s.” She laughed, following her younger brother down the alleyway.

“Don’t even joke about that Eves, I would be mortified if the old man showed up right now.”

The pair made their way down the street, illuminated by the glow of street lamps before disappearing into the fog. 

A ghostly woman let a smile grace her lips before she to disappeared into the fog, grateful now that her children knew it had been her all those years. 

Chapter Text

What makes an assassin?

Is it loyalty?

Is it blind faith?

Arno stood before the council once more, his head tilted downwards.

It was in a drunken conversation that he realised he had to come back. He was already contemplating it but the discussion with a strange woman in Franciade had prompted him to return. 

The pair had met originally so he could pass the lantern off to this Lady Eve, intending to drive his blade into her chest for thinking she could medal with a power like what he had seen.

He sat across from her in the tavern, pulling his hood down. In return the woman did the same, looking at Arno with unsettling eyes. From under the cloak he could just see the shine of metal armour. It was old in style, worn down from years of use. The gauntlet blade strapped to her arm was older than his design but the rest of her garb held no allegiance to either faction. 

They talked idly and shared a bottle of vintage wine the barkeep had brought over, thanking Eve in language Arno couldn’t decipher. The more they drank, the more Eve’s accent seemed to slip away. French sounding syllables being replaced by ones from the Mediterranean region.

They spoke about the power he had seen, the loss they had both experienced. But it was only a few words from Eve that made him rethink his position within the Assassins.

“We all have a part to play. We may not like it and it may cause us strife but we still have to play our part.” 

So now he stood in front of the council, head tilted downwards.

For as much pain and suffering he had been dealt, the creed offered him somewhere to put that pain. Instead of drowning it in drink, he could help. Even if it was only from the shadows.

What makes an assassin?

Is it pain?

Is it faith?

Or is it playing a part?

Chapter Text

I am not an assassin.

Not anymore. 

Not after I saw the destruction caused by their blind ambition and hubris.

They took their creed and they twisted it to suit them. 

I’ve heard whispers that it was just that brotherhood that distorted the tenets. Melding them into a new creed.

I have a new creed now. The Templars Creed. 

Uphold the principles of our order and all that for which we stand.

The assassins didn’t uphold their principles, they vivisected their ideas and their brethren until they fit their ideals of bitter mentors. 

Never share our secrets nor divulge in the true nature of our work.

The pitfall of the assassins was that they hid their true nature between selflessness and gaudy blades. For shay, he didn’t need to know the truth of the Templars, for he knew in his heart that they were right.

Do so until death, whatever the cost.

The assassins sought to prevent death, to put an end to it. I see now that life and death are merely sides of a scale; and it is the duty of the Templars to keep that balance.

I am Shay Patrick Cormac, and this is my new creed.

Chapter Text

Under the ocean's waves was a peace that Edward craved.

The diving bell drew him down beneath the tumultuous waves. Years of being on the high seas had trained his lungs to withstand the long moments without oxygen and the pressure of the ocean resting upon his shoulders.

It was quiet under the waves, allowing his mind to wander.

He thought of the observatory. Its gleam of fortune that pulled him towards it. The monolith stones that encased the mysterious mechanism were unlike the Mayan ruins that were scattered across isles and coves.

Edward mentioned this to no one. Keeping it as a silent observation. If the truth of the mysterious local was meant for him, surely he would be given the answers.
Bubbles floated up as he began his ascent. He let the buoyancy of his own body lift him up towards the glimmering surface.

Edward took a moment, looking up at the distorted image of his ship above the waves, light piercing through the water in beams. He stayed there a moment, letting the far off warmth dance across his face, letting himself enjoy the oceanic silence for just a few more moments.

No matter how much he hated to, he had to rise from the waters. Edward broke the surface, calm breaths filling his deprived lungs. Above him, Adéwalé leant against the railing, looking down at his once captain.

“I thought we would have to send someone down to get you.” The man smiled down at Edward.

In return, Edward laughed. He pulled himself up the frayed rope ladder and landed on the deck. It was good to see his friend once more after reminiscing on his lost friends beneath the waves.

Under the ocean's waves was a peace that Edward craved.

But above them?

Above them was the company he needed.

Chapter Text

Run.

Through the scrub and rivers. Up a tree, run along its branches to then leap onto the rock face. He pulls himself up, arms aching with each movement. 

Ratonhnhaké:ton runs along the edge of the mountain path, each footstep a balancing act between falling off the edge or falling flat on his face. 

He leaps off the ledge, catching a branch before dropping down to the forest floor. The young boy felt a prickle up his spine. He turned to see the doorway he had heard the older people talking about. 

The paintings he had seen when he was younger still retained their rich ochre colour, a stark contrast against the cold grey of the cave wall. 

He catches a shimmer out of the corner of his eye, he shakes his head. No, he will not go down that path, he will not speak to her again.

The figure seems to look at him. A young man in white, robes different from his own and yet there is a familiarity in his eyes. A kinship. 

Run.

Through the scrub and rivers. Up a tree, run along its branches to then leap onto the rock face. He pulls himself up, arms aching with each movement.

Desmond ducks under the fallen trees, ignoring the scrapes that claw at his legs as he bolts through the bone dry shrubbery.

Behind him, lights follow. Assassins—the people who raised him—chasing him with guns bared and hounds howling. 

He catches a shimmer out of the corner of his eye. A man older than him. Dressed in white robes that were traditional of the assassins but his were older. They didn’t look like anything the modern followers of the creed wore.

His leg gets caught on a root and he falls. The burning pain in his lungs is nothing compared to the steering pain in his left hand. 

The shimmering figure stops and looks back at him, dark eyes meeting his own. There is a familiarity in them. 

Desmond stands.

Ratonhnhaké:ton does the same.

Separated by centuries; 

They both run.

Chapter Text

[Animus Data Loading….]

[Deciphering….]

[Translating…]

[Completed]

My dear friend,

I do not know how this letter will find you but I know in my heart that it will find you or you will find it. 

I’ve traveled across the continent, leaving Italia behind and traveling across land and see, following the path set out by my father in my attempt to finish what he started.

My destination is a library in Masyaf. One the Mentor Altaïr kept his knowledge in. In your travels I wonder if you met the man who changed so much about the creed that you and I follow. 

I traveled through Athens, met with the brotherhood there. They are kind men and women, intent on regaining the people's trust after the city came under ottoman rule. I saw an etching in the stonework with handwriting remarkably similar to yours. I made no mention of you but the mentor made mention of an old mutual friend who had passed through the bureau not three months before my arrival. 

I write this in the code you taught me, I know you know how to decipher it and that both Templar and Assassin do not. 

I feel as though when you read this, you will know what awaits me in the fortress. I think back to my youth when I had all those questions about what I had seen and experienced, I have that feeling now. Someone I expect to see you in the crowd, we meet, say hello and drink wine as you pass on your knowledge to me.

I hope one day we will meet again, if only so you can finish the story you started telling me all those decades ago.

Sincerely,

Your Friend in Firenze 

Chapter Text

A sinking realisation hit him as he stands in that vault with Leonardo by his side. 

Things like that were not intended for him.

The temple behind him and before him was not meant for him. Centuries later, it would be for someone. But that someone was not him. 

He and Leo walked out, leaving the illuminated symbols to fade into slumbering darkness where they would wait until their true seeker found them. 

The pair walked through the temple, echoes of another civilisation sitting on another. Ezio wondered how many civilisations the world he walked was layered over. How many kingdoms fell so Roma could rise.

He accepted things were not meant for him. As much as it pained him to acknowledge. 

Ezio forced the thoughts to the back of his mind or hastily scribbled them on parchment before locking them in a chest. 

He focused on the Templars, letting each kill serve as catharsis for an unknowable future. 

Find something you can control and hold onto that…do not attempt to play a God.  

Ancient civilisations, glowing orbs and riddle speaking ghosts were not something he could control.

But his blades? He could control them.

Chapter Text

He felt an anger wash over him when the man had spoken to him, spitting insults about his family, about his brother and father and how he should have been on the gallows with them. 

The man had been unrecognisable when Ezio had finally finished with him. Then the guilt had overtaken him, then disgust as he looked down at his blood stained robes. He had emptied the contents of his stomach into the canal after he dragged the body into a side alley and left it there. 

He knew few people in Venice who would take in a blood soaked man. As he had scrambled over the rooftops in hopes of spending the evening hidden away in one of the many rooftop hideaways, he spotted a familiar workshop with a warm light emanating from within.

Leonardo had helped him remove his robes, his bruised body aching in pain. He was not yet twenty five and though he felt as if his body was forty years old.

A body to match my mind, he often thought.

Leonardo had spoken soft words to him as he removed the gauntlet blades from Ezio’s still shaking hands. 

“I will be able to clean and fix them easily, amore.” Leonardo set the blades aside, returning to clean the remaining blood from Ezio’s hands.

When Ezio had woken the next evening, his body aching and heavy with the remains of sleep, Leonardo was downstairs, humming gently as he worked on his newest projects.

The assassin had seated himself at the workbench and watched Leonardo shuffle about by the fireplace before he brought a cup filled with warm liquid over to him. 

“It will help with your healing process, and fend off fever.”

The warm liquid in Ezio’s cup had a golden colour. It was soothing and calming. It felt like a warm embrace. Something he so desperately craved but the injuries that littered his body were still too sensitive for any touch that wasn’t changing bandages. 

Ezio watched Leonardo flitter around his workshop. He had offered to fix up his hidden blades the night he shuffled into the workshop. Ezio’s robes had been stained red, some of the blood his, most of it belonging to his victim.

The young assassin didn’t look over at the corner of the workshop where he knew his robes sat soaking and his broken blades lay.

For now, at that moment he sipped his tea and watched Leonardo at work. Cherishing the small moment of peace, only silently wishing pain wasn’t the price of peace. 

Chapter Text

Desmond stares at his reflection and Altaïr stares back at him. 

Even through generations and centuries, he can pick the features from his face that come from the man reflected in the mirror. 

He lays awake listening to the sound of the building and wondering “is my memory mine?”

Altaïr looks at himself in the polished silver of the teapot. His reflection is distorted but it does not look like him. He feels older than he looks. Not yet thirty and yet he felt like he had seen so much already. 

He lays in the courtyard, mind mulling over the codex he has been illustrating and asking “is this for me? Or someone I don’t yet know?”

Desmond knows it should come as no surprise that he relates to Altaïr. He’s his ancestor and it’s his memories he has been digging around in for what feels like months on end. 

It hurts that even despite the centuries between them, suffering follows their lives like a shadow.

The old assassin looked around the empty shelves of the library. His life’s work scattered throughout the continents and passed onto the assassins he trained.

Altaïr held the disc in his hands and ran his fingers over the surface. He had seen what was to come. For him, for his family, for his legacy. Centuries from now someone would find this place and then centuries after that another would.

Desmond stares at his reflection in the safe house mirror. The scars over his chest were still noticeable no matter what he did to make them less so. They follow a Y shape, starting mid chest and then carving upwards.

A permanent reminder of what the Templars did to him.

He grabbed the fresh shirt off the side of the bath and pulled it on. The scars disappear from view but not from his mind. 

In the mirror he sees Altaïr lurking behind him. A tired shadow carried through centuries. 

“Let’s finish what you started.” He speaks to the long gone man.