Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was light. There was so much light.

The pedestal before him glowed brightly as he approached, the shine growing almost blinding with every step forward. He could hear the scurry of footsteps as his dad and the others made their escape, Juno’s form fading away with a smirk as he strode past her. He thought he saw Minerva give him one last pained look before she, too, vanished, leaving him to face his oncoming end alone. His heart rabbited away in his chest, his hands trembling at his sides, but he could feel the way the ground was shaking beneath his feet. There was no time left to waste.

His life, versus billions of others. Of course there was only one solution to that math problem. Of course there was only one choice he could make.

But god, he didn’t want to die.

When he came to a stop before the orb that would activate the device, he hesitated for a moment, staring down at it. This was what his ancestors had lived and suffered and died for. This was what all their pain and sorrow had built up to. Everything had happened so that he could stand here today and save the world from utter ruin, and all it would cost was his life. A small price to pay, compared to everything that had been sacrificed to get him here to this moment.

He looked at the orb, the light so bright in the darkness that it stung his eyes, but despite how they burned, no tears fell. He didn’t want to do this, but he knew he had to.

When he finally raised his hand to place it upon the orb, he was distantly pleased to see that it wasn’t shaking. There was a split second where his skin brushed against the smooth metal pieces that dotted its surface, feeling their corners catch on his palm as he placed it flat against the device.

And then the pain hit him at the same time as the light swelled, and suddenly he knew no more.

The light…didn’t exactly fade. But one moment Desmond knew he had been standing in the depths of the Grand Temple before the pedestal, and the next he was floating in some strange white void. It was almost like being in the animus, except there was just…nothing. No trickles of code or flashes of memory. Nothing but white light all around him.

He tried closing his eyes to block it out, but quickly discovered that he didn’t seem to have eyelids anymore. Or eyes, for that matter. In fact, he very abruptly became aware that he didn’t seem to have a body at all; he was just a floating consciousness hovering in the emptiness.

But almost as soon as that realization hit him, something started to change. One moment there had been nothing around him, the next there were a series of countless golden threads that seemed to emerge from him and travel off into the distance. Some were so thin he could barely see them, while others were as thick as the ropes that had made up the rigging of the Aquila. One in particular that stretched out in front of him seemed to be the thickest, though there were another two close by that were almost the same size. Something about these specific threads gave off the sensation of warmth and familiarity to Desmond, and without thinking about it, he started reaching out towards them with hands he no longer seemed to possess.

But just as he attempted to move, he was suddenly overcome by excruciating pain that felt like it was coming from one of his non-existent hands. His mind buckled as it tried to comprehend both this void where his consciousness had retreated, and the agony his body was undergoing back on the physical plane. It hit him then that he was dying, that this was death, and this strange void must have been his mind’s way of coping with his oncoming end.

He’d heard of peoples’ lives flashing before their eyes when they were dying. Maybe his was just taking a long time to load.

But as the pain began to grow, the feeling of being burned alive eating away at him starting from his hand against the orb, desperation gripped him. He didn’t want to die! He didn’t want this!

His not-hands flailed in his panic, lashing out and grasping at anything in his desperation, and they managed to lock around the three thickest of the golden threads. He tightened his grip, needing something to cling to. But as he locked onto the threads, he felt them jump in his hold, almost like living things. He was so startled, he almost let go of them, but managed to maintain his grip.

Instincts are kind of a funny thing. Even though it made no logical sense, Desmond’s kicked in and insisted that he try to escape the pain of dying by dragging himself away from it. Before he knew what he was doing, Desmond started pulling his consciousness hand over non-existent hand along the threads, following the thickest one with the other two tangled around him and towed along in his wake. It made no sense. He was dying, and this was just some fucked up mindscape. He didn’t even have a body here!

And yet. Somehow, it was working.

He could feel the pain fading the further along he pulled himself, and it gave him the energy and drive to start climbing the thread faster. He didn’t know where it led — the end disappeared far into the distance — but he figured anything was better than sitting around and waiting for death to claim him. So he kept climbing.

Eventually he began to notice that the white light around him was somehow growing even brighter, as impossible as that seemed. The brighter it became, the harder it was for him to see the golden threads he was clinging to. But even as he lost sight of everything, the light overcoming him, he never stopped climbing, never once lost his grip.

Once again, the light consumed him, and his mind went blank.

Chapter Text

Desmond kind of figured that was it. Death had caught up to him, despite his best efforts, and he was officially done for. But oddly enough, he actually woke up.

And when he blinked his eyes open, it wasn’t to a blank, white void again. Instead, he found himself slumped in the shadows of an alley, a rough brick wall at his back and a brightly lit street up ahead. He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment, listening to the murmur of voices and watching people pass by without glancing towards his resting place. It took him a long time to realize that this wasn’t just another hallucination; the feel of the brick scraping against his back and the smell of fish nearby were both far too real to be something conjured up by his mind as he died.

It took him even longer to realize that the people he was watching walk by were all dressed very much like Florentine citizens circa 1400-something.

For a moment, his mind jumped to the animus and he briefly panicked over the idea that he was still trapped inside it and everything up until this moment had been just more of its simulations. But as he scrambled up to his feet, the brick wall caught against the back of his shirt, and the smell of ripe cheese wafted out of one of the carts passing by the mouth of the alley. Physical touch had always felt dulled in the animus, like he was handling things with thick cotton gloves on, and it had never been able to transmit smells. Once again he was forced to come to the conclusion that this was all real.

He rested there for a while, trying to catch his breath and calm his racing heart as he braced himself against the wall. His right hand came up to clutch at the fabric of his hoodie where it rested over his heart, gripping it like that could somehow ground him. He knew he was having a panic attack, but quite frankly he felt like he kind of deserved one right about now. After everything he’d been through recently, being kidnapped and scrambling to save the world and sacrificing himself and then dying only to find himself somehow back in what looked exactly like renaissance Italy? A little mental breakdown was probably well overdue.

He didn’t know how long he stood in that alley, struggling to get himself back under control, but eventually he became aware of a commotion happening somewhere out on the street just past the entrance of the alleyway. Eager for a distraction from his spiralling thoughts, Desmond pushed off of the wall and started making his way out of the shadows.

Just before he could step into the light, though, he let out a startled hiss. A sharp pain had suddenly bit at the tips of his fingers, like he’d accidentally reached out and touched the surface of a hot stove. Frowning, he looked down at his right hand in confusion.

His eyes went wide and his face paled when he caught sight of his hand. His palm was currently shining like it was made of pure golden sunlight, with lines that looked almost like Precursor circuits running up his forearm. The tips of his fingers, however, had turned black and shriveled, like they’d been burned in a fire. As Desmond watched, both the gold and the black began to spread, his fingers going dark all the way up to the first knuckle while the golden light managed to spread to his wrist.

And god, it burned.

“Oh, that’s probably not good,” Desmond muttered to himself, staring down at his transformed arm in revulsion.

A sharp cry rang through the air, coming from the street, and Desmond’s head whipped back up towards the mouth of the alley. The cry had sounded distressed, and almost…familiar? Desmond instinctively found himself running towards it to see if there was something he could do to help, fucked-up hand be damned. He shot out onto the street, dodging past a group of men carrying crates and sacks of goods and around a pair of young ladies gossiping with each other as they went for an afternoon stroll. People shouted in surprise and alarm at Desmond’s sudden appearance, but he paid them no mind as he ran towards the shouts just up ahead.

Only a few seconds later he stumbled to a stop on the edge of a large crowd that seemed to be surrounding whoever was shouting. Even though Desmond was at least a few inches taller than most of the people in the crowd, he had to shove his way to the front to finally see the person who was screaming. The moment he laid eyes on the figure, though, he found his breath catching in his throat.

It was Connor. Ratonhnhaké:ton. Ratonhnhaké:ton was currently sprawled out across one of the streets of what was potentially fifteenth century Florence, three hundred years before he was even supposed to be born, writhing and shouting in pain as he clutched at his head. And judging from the way everyone was staring at him, he was definitely no hallucination or bleeding effect ghost. He was there, he was real.

What the fuck?!

“R-Ratonhnhaké:ton?” Desmond stuttered out, breaking free of the crowd and slowly approaching his ancestor. Ratonhnhaké:ton didn’t react to his approach at first, but Desmond saw one of his eyes peep open when Desmond dropped to his knees next to Ratonhnhaké:ton’s head. His eyes were gold as he watched Desmond lean in close, wary of an attack when he was incapacitated, but then they rolled back in his head as his body started spasming and twitching like he was having some sort of seizure.

“Shit,” Desmond cursed.

Around them, Desmond could hear the crowd murmuring, but he tuned them out, his attention solely on Ratonhnhaké:ton. He started to reach out towards Ratonhnhaké:ton’s head to try to protect it from smacking against the ground with his spasms, not even noticing he was using his glowing hand to do so.

The moment his palm landed against Ratonhnhaké:ton’s forehead, however, there was a bright flash of light, Ratonhnhaké:ton’s body going tense as a bowstring.

A second later he slumped with a tired groan, only Desmond didn’t really notice. He was too busy clutching his wrist and biting back his own screams, the gold light spreading further up his arm but the flesh of his fingers burning up even quicker. The pain was so strong that Desmond crumpled over, clutching his arm close to his body protectively and gritting his teeth. He was vaguely aware that the crowd was starting to inch closer, a few brave souls reaching out towards him, but he was in too much agony to do anything about it.

And then very suddenly he found himself being thrown over a strong, broad shoulder, and then the person beneath him was up and running, bursting through the crowd and taking off down the street. The cobblestones beneath them passed by in a blur, but Desmond caught sight of buckskin boots and the flutter of a white and blue assassin’s cloak; Ratonhnhaké:ton must have snatched him up. His stomach rolled as Ratonhnhaké:ton’s shoulder dug into his belly, but he managed to choke down his bile as Ratonhnhaké:ton raced through the district.

There was a loud shout from somewhere up ahead, followed by a clatter of what sounded to be metal armor. The city guards must have found them, Desmond figured. But before they could be accosted, Ratonhnhaké:ton dodged to the side, leaping up a set of crates stacked against a storefront and dragging himself up the front of the shop by the wooden signpost that hung out over the door. From there, he swiftly climbed up the decorative stonework of the building to emerge out onto the roof, despite the burden over his shoulder. They were up onto the rooftops of Florence in seconds, faster than Desmond thought possible even after witnessing his ancestor’s memories. Ratonhnhaké:ton didn’t pause once they landed, either, continuing to flee until they’d left the small street they’d escaped behind.

Eventually he must have spotted a hiding place, because he suddenly took a sharp turn to the left, scrambling up a sloped roof. A second later they ducked into the cool shade of a rooftop garden, the gossamer curtains fluttering closed behind them. Only then did Ratonhnhaké:ton finally let Desmond go, setting him down on the ground with surprising gentleness.

“Are you alright?” Ratonhnhaké:ton asked him. He spoke softly, presumably to avoid detection in case any of the guards happened to be roaming the rooftops nearby, but with obvious concern.

“Y-yeah,” Desmond choked out through gritted teeth, still clutching at his wrist. “Just…peachy.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton’s eyes narrowed, before he looked down at Desmond’s arm. “What happened?”

The sound that came out of Desmond was more of a wheeze than a laugh. “I-it’s a long story,” Desmond admitted. “Not sure if you’d believe me if I told you.”

But Ratonhnhaké:ton just gave him an unimpressed frown. “I have seen many strange things before over the course of my life. Just being here is one of them, since I should be dead.”

There was a very short pause, and then Desmond’s head whipped up in alarm. “Wait, what?”

Ratonhnhaké:ton stared calmly back. “I remember dying. My daughter was there with me, urging me to live just a little bit longer, but I was old and the fever and the water in my lungs overcame me. I remember my last breath. And yet here I am now, young again and in this odd place. So do not think that a golden hand will alarm me, stranger.”

Desmond could only gape at Ratonhnhaké:ton in disbelief for a moment, unsure of how to react to Ratonhnhaké:ton’s claim. “Y-you…”

He wasn’t sure what exactly he was going to say, but at that moment, Ratonhnhaké:ton went stiff, his eyes flashing gold. “Do you hear that?” Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded, his head whipping towards the right.

“Hear what?” Desmond asked. A second later, though, he heard it too. The sound of a muffled groan of pain, like someone was hurt but trying to keep silent.

Desmond and Ratonhnhaké:ton shared a quick look. There was no way to be sure that the sound hadn’t come from a guard, or someone who might want to cause them trouble, but just from that one glance Desmond could tell that he and Ratonhnhaké:ton were on the same page; they had to at least investigate to see if there was someone they could help. So, biting his lip to distract himself from the pain in his hand, Desmond shakily rose to his feet, Ratonhnhaké:ton standing close enough next to him to offer some support. As one they slipped out of the rooftop garden and headed towards where they’d heard the muffled cry.

Silently they snuck towards the edge of the roof. When they reached it, they both carefully leaned over the side, peering down at the shadowed balcony below.

Desmond wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting to see as they looked down at the crumpled figure he could see glowing gold in his Eagle Vision, but it sure as hell wasn’t Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad.

Altaïr was curled up on himself, tucked away in the darkest corner of the balcony while he clutched at his head with both hands and trembled. Occasionally he would twitch, his body spasming just like Ratonhnhaké:ton’s had before, but somehow he managed to choke back his voice to just a few near-silent whimpers. Still, Desmond could recall how easily Altaïr had shrugged off the pain of various injuries while he’d relived his ancestor’s memories, so for Altaïr to be revealing even this much was a really bad sign. Desmond needed to go help him somehow, now.

At once, he turned to Ratonhnhaké:ton. “We need to get down there.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton’s eyebrows rose, but he moved to assist without comment. Desmond hadn’t seen the rope dart hooked on his belt earlier, but Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled it out now, letting the length of it drop down over the edge of the roof while he wrapped the end around one of the nearby chimneys, checking the tension to ensure it would hold.

Once the rope was secure, he looked back at Desmond. “Will you be able to climb down on your own?”

Desmond wanted to insist he could handle the short climb just fine, but his arm chose that moment to spasm, making him hiss in pain and clutch it with his good hand again. He bent over for a second, riding through the spike of discomfort, before achingly lifting his head to give Ratonhnhaké:ton a grimace. “I think I might need help,” he admitted reluctantly.

Desmond waited for Ratonhnhaké:ton to insist that he wait for him on the roof, but thankfully he seemed to sense that Desmond would object to that plan. Instead he stepped forward and, without a word, scooped Desmond back up onto his shoulder. Desmond started to protest, but before he could get the words out, Ratonhnhaké:ton had grabbed up the rope and jumped off the edge of the roof, slowly slipping down the cord with one hand while the other held onto Desmond. Within seconds he’d landed heavily on the balcony, carefully setting Desmond onto his feet immediately after.

Rather than complain about the rough treatment, Desmond decided to give Ratonhnhaké:ton a crooked smile. “Thanks, man.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton just tilted his head in acknowledgement.

Desmond then turned his attention towards the other person on the balcony. Up close, Altaïr looked to be in even rougher shape than Desmond had first realized; his brow was covered in a sheen of sweat, his teeth clenched together so tightly that Desmond thought he could hear them creaking. Altaïr’s fingers were clutching at his head, the fabric of his hood nearly tearing under the abuse, and his eyes were rolling behind lids that kept fluttering open and closed. He also looked young, far younger than the last memory Ezio had experienced deep in the vault beneath Masyaf. If Desmond was forced to guess, he’d say Altaïr was probably roughly the same age as Desmond himself, maybe a year or two older.

The thought made him quickly glance back at Ratonhnhaké:ton, searching his face appraisingly. Now that Desmond was taking the time to look more closely, it seemed like Ratonhnhaké:ton was probably about the same age as him as well. Yet he claimed he remembered his death. And hadn’t he mentioned a daughter as well? Desmond sure didn’t remember any daughters hanging around during any of the memories he’d viewed. It was strange, none of this made sense! Still, he would have to figure it out later. There were bigger issues to deal with at the moment.

“Altaïr. Altaïr, can you hear me?” Desmond called out, turning his attention back to Altaïr and crouching down so that he could be on the same level as his ancestor.

“You know this man?” Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. He leaned to the side to get a better look at Altaïr over Desmond's shoulder, but otherwise seemed satisfied to let Desmond take the lead.

He didn't seem to recognize Altaïr’s name, but Desmond wasn’t too surprised; he didn't get the impression from Ratonhnhaké:ton’s memories that Achilles had spent much time on teaching him about assassin history during Ratonhnhaké:ton’s training, and if he had, then Desmond was pretty sure Ratonhnhaké:ton hadn't paid much attention to it. He likely had never even heard the name Altaïr before.

“Kind of?” Desmond hedged with a wince. “Like I said, it's a really long, complicated story. He’s an assassin, though. Like…like us.”

Desmond hesitated to group himself with the likes of Ratonhnhaké:ton and Altaïr, two of the greatest assassins in the brotherhood's history, but he needed Ratonhnhaké:ton to know that Altaïr could be trusted. So, shaking his head to dispel his reservations, Desmond forced himself to continue. “He's one of us. An ally.”

“I know,” Ratonhnhaké:ton informed Desmond with a tilt of his head. His eyes flashed gold for a second, and Desmond nearly slapped his forehead at his own stupidity. Of course. Eagle Vision. The supernatural skill that each of his ancestors shared.

“Right, of course you would,” Desmond muttered under his breath, shaking his head and turning his attention back to Altaïr. As a result, he missed the sharp look Ratonhnhaké:ton gave him, too distracted with studying Altaïr's tremors. To his concern, they seemed to be getting worse.

“I…I know him,” Desmond continued absently, his expression pinched. “But I don't know what's wrong with him right now.”

The comment was rhetorical, spoken mostly to himself, but to his surprise Ratonhnhaké:ton responded as if Desmond had actually posed it as a question.

“He is lost in his memories,” Ratonhnhaké:ton said softly, as if the answer was obvious. It made Desmond look back at him, and he found that Ratonhnhaké:ton had crouched down as well. He was still keeping a careful distance, though, his eyes locked on Altaïr’s trembling form.

“What do you mean?” Desmond asked, confused.

“If he is experiencing the same thing I did,” Ratonhnhaké:ton explained, “then he is reliving his life, all at once. All of his memories are flooding his mind, layer on layer, trapping him in and driving him to madness.”

“What?!” Desmond yelped in alarm, whipping his head around to look at Altaïr and then back at Ratonhnhaké:ton. “Are you serious?! What do we do? We have to help him!”

“You must help him,” Ratonhnhaké:ton corrected calmly. “As you helped me.”

“As I…? But I have no idea what I did!” Desmond protested, thinking back to that moment in the middle of the Florentine street, surrounded by the crowd. “I just…touched your head!”

Ratonhnhaké:ton shrugged. “Do you have any better ideas?”

Desmond glanced back at Altaïr for a moment, before giving Ratonhnhaké:ton a helpless look. “It can’t be that easy…can it?”

“The only way to know is to try,” Ratonhnhaké:ton pointed out.

Biting his lip, Desmond turned back towards Altaïr. Ratonhnhaké:ton made it sound so simple, but could Desmond really fix whatever was happening to Altaïr just by touching him? He looked down at his glowing hand, noting that the blackened bits had spread even further, almost to his palm, while the gold now reached so far up his arm that it disappeared beneath the rolled up sleeve of his hoodie.

His skin was glowing faintly, he was hunched over on a balcony in the middle of fifteenth century Florence with two of his ancestors from wildly different times and locations, and it occurred to him that, yeah, he probably could fix Altaïr just by touching him. It definitely wouldn’t be the weirdest thing about this situation.

So without taking any more time to overthink it, Desmond reached out with his glowing hand and rested it atop Altaïr’s head.

When he’d done this to Ratonhnhaké:ton, Ratonhnhaké:ton had gone so tense his back had actually arched off of the ground. But this time, when Desmond’s hand landed on Altaïr, his reaction was much more subdued; the trembling of his body immediately cut off, and Altaïr went so still that for a moment Desmond didn’t think he was breathing.

And then golden eyes snapped open, wide and frenzied.

Desmond barely had time to take them in, however, because a split second later he found himself flat on his back, Altaïr perched on his chest with his hidden blade pressed against Desmond’s throat.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Desmond quickly protested, throwing up his arms to show he meant no harm. “I’m a friend, I promise!”

Altaïr’s eyes narrowed at him, but he was soon distracted by Ratonhnhaké:ton stepping forward. Ratonhnhaké:ton didn’t move to attack, but his own hidden blade slipped out of its sheath in a warning display, his eyes locked on Altaïr.

“I thought you said you knew this man,” Ratonhnhaké:ton growled. “Yet now he attacks you?”

“I did!” Desmond insisted. “I mean, I do! I mean…I know of him? It's — it's — “

“A long story,” Ratonhnhaké:ton snapped, cutting off Desmond's weak stutters. His hand dropped to the tomahawk hanging from his belt, his hand wrapping firmly around the handle as he continued to watch Altaïr closely. “So you have said.”

The two assassins stared each other down, waiting for someone to make the first move. The air was tense with the threat of violence, two expert killers on the verge of clashing. This was a nightmare that Desmond couldn't have conjured up even in the wake of some of his worst bleeding effect episodes.

Recognizing that Ratonhnhaké:ton and Altaïr fighting would be a really bad idea, Desmond quickly tried to get their attention back on him. “Hey, Altaïr, it’s okay. I promise, we’re not your enemies.”

Altaïr glanced down at him for only a second before looking back at Ratonhnhaké:ton, clearly sensing that the other assassin was the bigger threat. But when he spoke, his words were aimed at Desmond. “Where am I? What is this place?”

“Florence,” Desmond explained, trying his best to speak clearly despite the blade still hovering over his throat. Then, realizing that there was a chance that Florence might not be that well known in Altaïr’s time, he cast his mind to try to think of a point of reference Altaïr might be more familiar with. “Uh. A city state not too far north of Rome?”

Altaïr’s expression didn’t shift, but perhaps all of the time Desmond had spent living through Altaïr’s memories had given him an advantage to reading his ancestor’s moods; somehow he could still tell that Altaïr was alarmed by this news. He must have known of Rome, and had at least some vague idea of how far away from Masyaf he’d found himself.

“How…is this possible?” Altaïr breathed, sounding slightly stunned.

“I’m not entirely sure yet what happened,” Desmond admitted. “But I suspect it’s probably related to some Precursor bullshit.”

To his surprise, Altaïr let out an amused snort and withdrew his blade from Desmond’s neck. “It usually is,” he said sardonically as he moved off of Desmond’s chest. He still kept his weapons ready, however, shuffling backward to put more space between himself and Ratonhnhaké:ton.

He eyed the larger assassin warily, studying him. Desmond saw the way Altaïr’s gaze lingered on Ratonhnhaké:ton’s hood, his hidden blade, and the assassin’s symbol on his belt. He then glanced over to study Desmond next, and Desmond tried his best not to squirm under that intense regard as he got back up on his feet. Desmond could see the wheels turning in Altaïr’s head as he considered the situation, before he finally rose out of his crouch, his hidden blade slipping back out of sight.

“You are…assassins, then,” Altaïr said slowly, looking between Ratonhnhaké:ton and Desmond.

“Yes,” Desmond confirmed with a nod. “My name is Desmond, and this is Ratonhnhaké:ton.”

Altaïr’s eyebrows rose at Ratonhnhaké:ton’s name, but he simply nodded his head in acknowledgement. Desmond thought he saw Ratonhnhaké:ton stiffen out of the corner of his eye after the introduction, but when he looked back, Ratonhnhaké:ton's face was a smooth mask.

“And we are in…Florence.” Altaïr glanced around at their surroundings.

“Yes,” Desmond said. Then he hesitated, wondering exactly how much he should be telling Altaïr at the moment. Discovering that he’d somehow spontaneously traveled several thousand miles to the other side of the Mediterranean was probably enough of a bombshell to be dropped on him for the moment. But at the same time, Desmond knew that Altaïr would want to know the whole truth. So, after a short pause, Desmond continued to explain. “Best guess, it’s also currently some time in the fifteen hundreds…a couple hundred years after you’d have died.”

Altaïr blinked. “We are…in the future?”

“The future for you, yes. Both Ratonhnhaké:ton and I are from further ahead, so this is the past for us.”

He expected Altaïr to show some sort of alarm at that, but to his surprise, Altaïr only frowned thoughtfully, before shaking his head. “I do not understand. All I remember was sealing myself away in the vault beneath Masyaf. There, I was prepared to meet my end. And yet now I am here? In the future?”

It was Desmond’s turn to be surprised. “You remember dying too?”

“Yes,” Altaïr confirmed. “You have died as well?”

“I…don’t know,” Desmond admitted, his experience with the device in the Grand Temple briefly flashing through his mind. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he contemplated whether he really had died or not, before dismissing the memory for now with a shake of his head. Jerking his thumb towards Ratonhnhaké:ton, he added, “But he said he remembered dying as well.”

Just then, Ratonhnhaké:ton took a step forward so that he was standing at Desmond’s shoulder. He leaned in close to Desmond and pitched his voice low, even as he continued to watch Altaïr cautiously. “Have you and this Altaïr come to an understanding, then, stranger? Or should I still be concerned? He seems more settled now, at least.”

Desmond gave him a confused look. “Stranger?”

Ratonhnhaké:ton just frowned back at him. “I do not know your name.”

“It’s Desmond,” Desmond said slowly, glancing back at Altaïr for a moment to see if he thought Ratonhnhaké:ton’s question was as odd as Desmond did. “Sorry, I should have said something earlier. But didn’t you hear me introduce myself to him?”

Ratonhnhaké:ton’s frown only deepened. “I cannot understand whatever language it is that you two are speaking with each other.”

“What language we…” Desmond began to say, before he slowly trailed off. He once again looked back at Altaïr, horror slowly dawning. That was right. Altaïr didn’t speak English. And even if he had, the English that was spoken back in his time was so far removed from modern English that it might as well have been a whole other language anyways. Obviously he would have been speaking in his native tongue, and Desmond…Desmond had been responding in kind without even realizing it.

“Is something wrong?” Altaïr demanded, his eyes darting between Ratonhnhaké:ton and Desmond. Now that Desmond was paying attention, his ears registered the Arabic words that he was hearing, not English at all.

Now that he was aware of what was happening, it took Desmond a second to reply in the correct language; when he hadn’t been paying attention, the language switch had come instinctively, but now he was fighting the urge to overthink it. “E-everything it alright,” Desmond stuttered out. “My, uh, friend just doesn’t understand us, and he’s asking what’s going on.”

To Ratonhnhaké:ton, he said, “We’re good now. Altaïr knows we’re allies.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton studied him for a moment with narrowed eyes, but then finally gave Desmond a firm nod. “Good. Then — ”

Whatever he had been about to say, Desmond didn’t know, because just then his arm spasmed with a fresh wave of agony, sending him crashing to his knees with a sharp cry. He could hear Ratonhnhaké:ton and Altaïr shouting in alarm, but their words washed right over him, the pain making it hard to focus on anything else. He curled so far over his aching arm that his forehead ended up pressed against the balcony floor, his eyes squeezed shut as tears leaked out at the corners.

He thought he could vaguely hear someone far in the distance shouting something in Italian — or whatever it was called now, when there wasn’t even an Italy yet — and then the shuffle of feet moving around him. The familiar sensation of being thrown over Ratonhnhaké:ton’s shoulder followed, and Desmond let out a groan as he found himself suddenly moving through the air, though he was too dizzy to really track anything else. He started taking deep breaths through his nose, trying to calm his nausea, and just hoped that wherever Ratonhnhaké:ton was taking him now, that it wasn’t too far.

When the pain and nausea and dizziness finally started to fade and awareness of his surroundings started to trickle back in, Desmond felt like he could risk opening his eyes again. When he did, he discovered that Ratonhnhaké:ton had brought him back to the rooftop garden they’d sheltered in before, only this time Altaïr was with them. He was resting with his back against one of the trellis walls, the curtains pulled tightly closed around them to hide them from view. The two assassins were crouched down on either side of Desmond, watching him closely as Desmond panted and shook through the aftershocks of his episode.

It took him a while to work up the nerve, but eventually Desmond dared to glance down at his hand. The blackened, burned area had spread again, now covering the entirety of his hand almost up to the wrist, the hand itself now shriveled and skeletal. He didn’t know how much farther the gold had grown, and right now he was too tired to check. Just for a moment, he let the stress and the weight of whatever was happening to him overwhelm him. He tilted his head back to smack it lightly on the wooden trellis behind him, his arm dropping down into his lap as he groaned in despair.

“It’s getting worse,” Ratonhnhaké:ton murmured, drawing Desmond’s attention back to his companions.

He really wished he could just close his eyes and let everything just…go away for a while. He was tired and aching and so, so fed up with being jerked around by all of this Precursor nonsense. God, he just wanted to rest. But he knew he couldn’t sit here forever. He knew that he needed to keep moving, to at least help figure out what he and his ancestors were doing in Florence and how they came to be here.

Still, he gave himself one more moment to wallow in his own self-pity before he breathed in deep and pushed all of his fears and concerns aside to be dealt with later, or perhaps never. Right now, they had bigger problems. Like the fact that he and two of his ancestors had somehow time traveled, and they had no idea how they’d gotten here or why. Focus, Desmond.

Belatedly, he registered Ratonhnhaké:ton’s comment, and he lifted his arm up to inspect it again. “Yeah,” he croaked. “It is.”

“What is it?” Ratonhnhaké:ton asked.

“I don’t know.”

“But it’s hurting you.” Ratonhnhaké:ton’s eyes narrowed at the blackened hand.

“Yeah,” Desmond agreed. “It hurts like a bitch.”

Altaïr had been looking back and forth between them as they spoke, but his eyes kept darting back to Desmond’s arm. When Desmond started to lower it, he reached out and carefully caught Desmond’s forearm, holding it with surprising gentleness. He leaned in, studying the darkened hand and glowing skin with a critical eye.

“What happened to you?” he demanded.

Desmond grimaced, realizing that he was probably going to have every single conversation twice for the foreseeable future. “I told you. Precursor bullshit.”

Altaïr glanced up just long enough to give Desmond a sharp, chastising look. Even though he didn’t speak, Desmond could read the message easily. With a sigh, he elaborated.

“As I told Ratonhnhaké:ton, it’s a long story. But…” Desmond let out a heavy, pained sigh. There was no way he was getting out of explaining what was going on, and he knew it. But maybe he could just keep it to the important bits, especially since he’d need to say it all again in English for Ratonhnhaké:ton’s benefit. “Okay. Here it goes.”

He explained about the Precursors, their war, and the first catastrophe that had wiped out their entire civilization. He told Altaïr about their warning to the future of the second disaster, delivered by one chosen to be a prophet. He described the modern assassin’s desperate scramble to uncover the Grand Temple and the device contained within in time to save the world. He stumbled a little when he got to the part about activating the device, but Altaïr just watched him calmly, waiting for him to find the words with no judgement in his eyes.

He briefly thought about describing the strange, white void where he’d found himself shortly after activating the device. But he still wasn’t entirely convinced that it had even been real, and not some sort of dying-induced hallucination, so he ultimately decided to keep that part to himself.

By the time he was done, Desmond felt a little sick again, but he forced himself to turn to Ratonhnhaké:ton next while Altaïr chewed over Desmond’s story.

“Hey Ratonhnhaké:ton,” Desmond said tiredly, his voice a little hoarse from speaking so much. “I guess it’s time for me to tell you that long story, huh?”

Ratonhnhaké:ton’s snort was dry as a desert. “That would be welcome.”

“Okay. So.” Desmond’s second retelling of his adventures was slightly different than the first thanks to the different languages and cultural contexts between his two audience members, but he tried his best to hit on all the same major points. When he was done, his voice was definitely worn, and he found himself desperately wishing he had some water.

Miracle of miracles, Altaïr must have sensed this, because as Desmond finished speaking, his Syrian ancestor wordlessly held out the water pouch he had been carrying on his hip. Desmond took it gratefully.

“Thank you,” he murmured, before gulping down a long pull. His throat still burned, but he didn’t want to empty the pouch, so he handed it back to Altaïr after only a few swallows.

“Your story is quite fantastical. I can understand why you thought we would have trouble believing you,” Ratonhnhaké:ton mused, rubbing at his chin in thought. But then he gave Desmond a hard look, his eyes sharp. “But it does not explain everything.”

Desmond instinctively went still, sensing danger. “Oh?”

Sure enough, Ratonhnhaké:ton leaned in closer, pinning Desmond with his stare. “You claim to come from a future far beyond our time. But you knew my name, and his. How is this possible?”

Altaïr was once again looking between the two of them. He must have sensed the changing tension in the air, because as he slipped his water pouch back onto his belt, Desmond could see the way his hand also hovered casually over the set of throwing knives hanging next to it.

“W-what?” Desmond’s mind raced, thinking quickly. “I-I mean, yeah, of course I know who you are. I’m from the future, right? You guys are both very famous assassins. Altaïr practically created the brotherhood as it is today, and you single-handedly revived it in the colonies, which is where I’m from.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton glanced over at Altaïr when Desmond mentioned his accomplishments with a bit of dawning recognition. Huh. So maybe Achilles had managed to teach him some assassin history after all.

But then all too soon he was back to glaring at Desmond. “I sense you are not telling us the whole truth. You knew who I was as soon as you saw me, and it was the same for him. You recognized us, as if you had seen us before, not as if you’ve heard stories of our history. How?”

“I…” Desmond shrank back. How the hell could he possibly explain to them that he knew them almost better than he knew himself, because thanks to the animus, he’d been them? Both Ratonhnhaké:ton and Altaïr had been incredibly private people. To know that Desmond had been traipsing through their memories? Been in their heads? They’d be furious with him!

Altaïr seemed to catch on that Desmond was hiding something, because he turned his glare full-force on Desmond as well. Sitting before two deadly assassins, caught under the weight of their twin stares, Desmond could only shrink back against the trellis behind him, his heart racing in his chest. As much as he couldn’t help but think of these two as his family, to them he was a complete stranger. He was well aware that neither of them would hesitate to kill him if they thought he was a threat.

“It’s…hard to explain,” Desmond hedged.

“Try anyways,” Ratonhnhaké:ton commanded.

Desmond wilted, but ultimately decided that he had no choice. It was explain, or get gutted by a hidden blade. So with a shaky breath, he started to describe the animus, and how it was used to help the assassins track down the artefacts they needed to save the world.

Ratonhnhaké:ton, to his credit, didn’t interrupt Desmond as he explained. But Desmond did see him twitch when Desmond got to the part about reliving his memories, from the time he was a child up until he’d buried the key in Connor Davenport’s grave. The more Desmond spoke, the more dark and withdrawn his expression became, until he had to stand and pace along the small width of their hiding place, overcome by emotion.

“So you saw…all of it?” Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded as Desmond finally finished his explanation. “Everything?”

“Not…not everything,” Desmond told him tiredly, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. “There were skips, breaks. We were only focused on reliving the memories that could help us find what we needed. But…there was a lot, I’m not going to lie. I’m so sorry. If I had known you’d ever find out about this, I would have…I don’t know, protested more? But we thought you were long dead, that none of this could hurt you.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton opened his mouth as if to say something, before shutting it with a snarl and abruptly returning to his pacing. He was muttering something under his breath, but Desmond didn’t have the energy to try to listen. Instead, he turned his tired eyes towards Altaïr.

“I suppose I should fill you in on what that was all about,” he sighed.

“You should,” Altaïr agreed slowly with a thoughtful tilt of his head. But then he added, “But not now.”

Desmond blinked in surprise. “What?”

“Whatever it is you told this…Ratonhnhaké:ton,” Altaïr gestured towards the other assassin, the name falling awkwardly from his mouth, “it has clearly left him out of sorts. As much as I desire answers, we cannot afford for all of us to be distracted. While this place keeps us hidden for now, we cannot remain here. Once we have found somewhere safe to speak, then you will tell me everything.”

Desmond couldn’t help but relax a little, hearing that at least one of his ancestors didn’t seem ready to shake the answers out of him like he was a magic 8 ball. “Yeah. Yeah, alright, that makes sense.”

“Good,” Altaïr nodded to Desmond, before leaning back and pushing one of the garden’s curtains aside to peer out over the rooftops. “Then we should move. Are you able to walk on your own now?”

“Yeah,” Desmond confirmed. Although his voice shook, he was able to get back up onto his feet on his own. He was still forced to cradle his injured hand close to his body, but at least the burning pain from before had receded to a dull throb. “I should be good. Though…I’m not really sure where we can go. Or even what’s really going on. I mean, it’s weird. If you two are here, there really should be another guy. I don’t know why he’s not…”

Desmond’s voice trailed off as something dawned on him, his eyes slowly widening with horrified realization. He started looking at their surroundings with new understanding, the tiled roofs and cobblestones of the streets below. In the distance, he could see the tall clock tower of the Palazzo Vecchio above the rooftops. They were in Florence. They were in Florence, in the fifteenth century.

“Oh god,” Desmond breathed, feeling his face go pale. “Oh fuck. Ezio.”

Before he could even think about it, he bolted. He heard Altaïr and Ratonhnhaké:ton shout in surprise at his sudden departure, but he ignored it, the noise not even registering under his panic. Of course! How could he have been so stupid?!

The gold threads. The thick ones that had been like ropes in the void. They were his ancestors, his connection to them. And he’d dragged two of the thicker ones along with him as he’d escaped the void, those two must have been his connections to Altaïr and Ratonhnhaké:ton. Of course they would have been thicker than any others! Desmond had been living their lives! He knew them, felt closer to them than anyone else he’d ever met, even his own father and friends back in his time! Of course his connection to them would be the strongest!

But Ezio. He’d lived Ezio’s entire life, seen him grow and age and suffer and learn. He’d been there when Ezio was born, and he’d seen the man well into his later years when he’d given up being an assassin. The last thread, the one he had grabbed so tightly, that must have been Ezio. But unlike the other two, he hadn’t dragged Ezio along with him, no. He’d climbed towards Ezio, and dragged the others along in his wake! He didn’t know how any of this was possible — if it was some sort of side effect of the device, or Minerva’s intervention, or something else entirely — but it was obvious to him now, at least, what had happened. Desmond had pulled himself to Ezio to escape his fate, and somehow brought Altaïr and Ratonhnhaké:ton along with him.

They were in Florence because Ezio was in Florence and Desmond had dragged himself hand over desperate hand towards the man, subconsciously seeing him as a safe haven when Desmond had been on the brink of death.

Only, that meant that he had likely also brought the memories of Ezio’s life along with him as well, just as he had for Altaïr and Ratonhnhaké:ton. Cold desperation gripped Desmond’s heart like a vice as he realized that Ezio’s mind was probably being torn apart by his memories right now, and might have been since the moment Desmond arrived in the past. Who knew how long he’d been suffering? Maybe madness had already claimed him, after suffering under their onslaught for so long. Regardless, Desmond needed to find him, now.

He shot off across the rooftops and scuttled up to the top of the highest point he could find. He climbed hand over hand, uncaring of how much using his injured arm screamed in protest. He couldn’t delay for even a moment longer, otherwise Ezio might die. He needed to find his Florentine ancestor, as soon as possible.

He was vaguely aware of his other two ancestors racing to catch up to him, but most of his attention had been turned towards activating his Eagle Vision to sweep it over the surrounding landscape. Although he had never personally visited Florence before, Ezio’s memories came swimming up, helping Desmond get his bearings. All too soon, he started recognizing landmarks, streets that Ezio found familiar. But how the hell was he supposed to find Ezio? He didn’t even know the year for Christsakes, who knew if Ezio was even still in the city!

But just as panic started to overwhelm him, Desmond felt a tiny tug on his sternum, like something had hooked onto his ribcage and given it a little pull. He looked down and gasped, spotting a gold thread snaking out of his chest and trailing off into the distance. A quick glance back showed that two similar threads seemed to connect him to Altaïr and Ratonhnhaké:ton. When he blinked his Eagle Vision away, the threads vanished from sight, but as soon as he reactivated it, there they were again.

“That works,” Desmond muttered to himself, before taking off again, this time following the thread that he knew would lead him to Ezio.

“Desmond!” Ratonhnhaké:ton cried after him.

“Desmond, wait! What are you doing?” Altaïr growled.

“It’s Ezio!” Desmond shouted back, as if that explained anything. He didn’t even know what language he was using anymore, or which of them would understand him, nor did he care. “I have to help him!”

He thought he saw Ratonhnhaké:ton and Altaïr exchange a look before he turned away, but to his relief, neither of them tried to stop him. Instead, they darted along behind him, racing across the rooftops and jumping over streets, seemingly satisfied to merely follow his lead for now.

When Desmond stumbled to a stop on the edge of one final rooftop, he felt like he should have been surprised to see the Palazzo Auditore. But honestly, he had to admit that he’d kind of known that this was coming. Something told him that he would find Ezio here.

The banners bearing the crest of the Auditore family fluttered in the breeze on either side of the palazzo’s main entrance. The gate looked to be unguarded, but even from a distance, Desmond could see that it was locked, and he really didn’t have time to try picking it. So instead he continued across the rooftops, trusting his enhanced vision to help him find another way in.

Sure enough, as he made it over to the roofs of the buildings just next to the rear of the Palazzo, he saw one of the windows on the upper floor open, a maid leaning out over the sill to shake out a dusty carpet. There. That was his opening.

The maid had just started to retreat back into the room when Desmond leapt like a cat, jumping across the street three storeys below to land with a crash against the wall with his hands catching the sill. She fell back with a shriek, but Desmond just shoved past her, rushing towards the room’s door and out into the rest of the building. He heard her scream again as presumably Altaïr and Ratonhnhaké:ton also arrived through the window, but he didn’t dare to look back. He was so close to his target, he could feel it.

Servants shouted in surprise as Desmond raced through the hallways, practically bouncing off the walls in his haste. His panic was only growing, because now that he was in the building, he could hear some sort of commotion happening down on the lower levels. People were shouting at each other, the sound of Maria Auditore’s frantic cries audible above them all. In all of Ezio’s memories of his mother, Desmond had never heard her sound so terrified, and that only made Desmond want to run faster.

He was clumsy and careless as he burst into what he only belatedly recognized as the main dining room, throwing the doors open wide and making the group gathered there look up in alarm. There was a full meal spread out on the long table taking up the majority of the space, abandoned and forgotten. A man in doctor’s robes was standing closest to Desmond, a bag of supplies in hand as if he’d only just arrived and hadn’t yet had time to set them down. But what caught Desmond’s attention was the small group huddled around a single person who was lying on the floor, his body jerking and spasming.

Ezio was lying there on the floor with his head in his mother’s lap, his eyes rolling back in his head as he gurgled and choked and twitched. Maria was screaming and clutching him like she could somehow shield him from whatever was harming him with her own body, while Federico held a sobbing Claudia and Petruccio back to give Ezio some space. Giovanni had been kneeling at his son’s side as well, but when Desmond threw the doors open, he jumped to his feet.

“What is the meaning of this?” Giovanni Auditore thundered as he spotted Desmond standing on the threshold. “Who are you?”

Desmond didn’t bother wasting time explaining. Instead he shoved past the bewildered doctor, striding towards Ezio with purpose. Giovanni seemed to recognize his intent, because he moved to intercept, but Desmond just casually batted him aside, refusing to be stopped. Maria wailed in fear as Desmond dropped down to his knees next to her, but Desmond ignored her, all of his focus on the young man in her arms.

“Hang on, Ezio,” Desmond whispered. “Please, just hang on a little bit longer.”

And then he reached out with his burned hand and placed it upon Ezio’s brow.

For a moment, everything seemed to move in slow motion. Desmond could feel the sweaty skin of Ezio’s face under his hand, could hear more alarmed shouts as Altaïr and Ratonhnhaké:ton ran into the room behind him. He could sense Giovanni recovering from Desmond’s shove, lunging forward to rip Desmond away from his son and wife.

But then Desmond’s hand started to glow brightly enough to fill the room, and Desmond quickly lost track of everything.

Chapter Text

It had been a normal day for Ezio Auditore…or so he thought. He’d woken and dressed as usual when his mother came knocking, and eagerly made his way down to the dining hall to join his family for a nice breakfast, just as he had most mornings before.

But that particular morning, not even three steps into the dining room, he had suddenly been overcome by a headache so strong that it made him stagger.

“Ezio?” Federico turned and called to him, noticing Ezio’s stumble.

Ezio tried to respond to his brother, to reassure him that everything was fine, but when his mouth opened, he found he couldn’t make anything come out. Instead the pain in his head had suddenly doubled, and he’d felt his eyes roll back in his head as he collapsed to the ground.

And then. The memories.

Sofia. The Vault. Flying through the sky with Leonardo’s flying machine. Finding Altaïr’s library. Watching his brothers and father die. Meeting Yusuf. Holding his daughter for the first time. Fighting Rodrigo Borgia. Minerva. Desmond.

Everything hit him at once, everything he’d ever seen, said, experienced, or known all flooding his mind all at once. It felt like his head was being cut open by a thousand knives, the pain so overwhelming he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t think. He was an assassin. He was a father. He was the Prophet. He was a husband. He was seventeen. He was sixty five. He was alive. He was dead.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, feeling like the memories were going to tear him apart. But suddenly, something changed. He registered something touching his forehead, and it was like a cool balm being rubbed over a burn; at once the pain and the flood of memories dried up, fading away like the whole experience had been nothing more than a bad dream. He was left lying there, panting like he’d just run across the whole length of Roma, sweat cooling on his face and his body trembling with aftershocks.

“E-Ezio?” his mother breathed, and he felt something shift under his head.

At once, Ezio’s eyes flew open in alarm, because as far as he could now remember, his mother had been dead for years. But when he looked up, he found her hovering over him, her face wet with tears.

“Mother?” he whispered, his voice too weak to speak any louder than that.

“Oh! Ezio!” she cried, before collapsing down against his chest and sobbing.

“Mother, what…what happened? Am I…dead?” he asked. It was the only explanation that made sense to him, after all. He remembered sitting on that bench in the market, the terrible pain in his chest overwhelming him. It just seemed logical that this should be the afterlife, and that he was finally to be reunited with his lost family. But the question only seemed to make his mother cry harder. He tried to squirm out of her hold, but she clung to him too tightly. Eventually he gave up and just let her cry against him, too tired to free himself.

He thought he might be there for a while, but then he heard shouts, and his mother whipped her head up to see what was going on. Groaning, Ezio rolled onto his side and out of her lap so that he could get a better look at the commotion as well.

As soon as he took in the wider room, however, his eyes went wide. There, lying only a few feet away from him, was a man dressed in clothes unlike anything Ezio had ever seen before. Ezio had never met this man in his life, but the moment he laid eyes on him, he somehow knew exactly who it was. A memory of a golden figure, watching him from the corner of Altaïr’s library, swam to the forefront of his mind.

“Desmond?” he breathed in shock.

Desmond looked awful. Somehow he looked worse than Ezio felt, and that was saying something. He was soaked with sweat, his eyes sunken and his cheeks hollow. His skin was much darker in tone than Ezio's, but still Ezio could tell he was paler than he should be. He was spread out on his back on the floor, arms and legs splayed like a doll that had been dropped to the ground and forgotten, his breath wheezing in his chest.

Worst of all, the hand that rested closest to Ezio looked like it had been horrifically burned, the skin turned to shriveled black leather that clung tightly enough across each bone that Ezio could see the shape of them clearly. The burn covered the entirety of his hand and reached about halfway up his forearm, where the skin abruptly changed to a metallic gold that almost seemed to be glowing.

But as Ezio watched, the black burn started to spread, creeping up Desmond’s arms toward his elbow. Instinctively he knew that the blackness was poison, and that it had to be stopped before it spread any further.

As he rolled onto his knees, he automatically reached for one of the knives he always kept strapped to his belt. But when he reached down, his grasping fingers found nothing, the only thing hanging at his waist his childhood money pouch. Cursing, he spun around, spotting his father standing close by. Though he carried no weapons openly, Ezio recognized the outline of a dagger hidden in his boot, and he dived to snatch it up. His father let out a surprised cry, but Ezio ignored him, all of his attention on Desmond.

Working quickly, he slipped the edge of the dagger under Desmond's odd clothing, making quick work of the layers of fabric covering his torso. As soon as it was bare, Ezio sat back with a choked-off gasp, eyes widening at the sight. The metallic gold skin continued up the full length of Desmond's arm, before trailing across his chest and up his throat as a series of thin, geometric lines. As Ezio watched, the lines continued to spread, one in particular inching up his cheek to connect with his right eye.

Desmond's eyes had been fluttering open and closed this whole time, showing hints of a deep brown colour that intermittently flashed amber, but the moment that shimmering line made contact, his eyes snapped open, the right one going completely gold. He twitched like he’d felt the change, followed by a soft cry. To his dismay, Ezio realized that the reaction was only subdued because Desmond lacked the strength to speak or move.

Ezio didn't understand what was happening. He had no idea where or when he was, if this was some sort of strange vision or if he was actually in the afterlife. But what he knew was that he was the Prophet, and that Desmond was the god he had been chosen to serve. And right now Ezio's god was lying on the floor of his family's home, dying. As Ezio watched, the black continued spreading up Desmond’s arm, moving even faster now. It was just starting to stain the inside of Desmond’s elbow, and Ezio knew they had to stop it before it spread any further.

But Ezio was a killer, not a healer. He had no idea how to help save Desmond.

“Father!” he beseeched his father first, and then to the doctor who was still hovering on the edge of the room. “Doctor! Please! Help this man!”

“I-I don't…I've never seen…” the doctor stuttered out, looking completely overwhelmed.

Ezio growled in frustration and looked back to his father. His father only looked helplessly back, equally lost.

To his surprise, it was one of the figures lurking near the doorway who eventually answered Ezio's pleas. Ezio had been vaguely aware of the two people dressed in assassin's robes who had been standing by and watching everything, but in his concern over Desmond he'd dismissed them from his mind. A brief glance with his special eyes had confirmed they were allies, and after that, he hadn't paid any more attention to them. But the taller one stalked forward now, grabbing something from his belt as he approached.

Ezio glanced up at the approaching stranger, seeing grim determination painted across his face. He only had a split second to register that the weapon the man was now holding in his hand was some sort of axe. Then suddenly the man was looming next to Desmond, carelessly shoving Ezio aside to make room. He threw his leg over Desmond's hips so that he was kneeling over Desmond's chest, pinning Desmond's blackened wrist with his free hand against the floor.

The axe went up, high overhead. And then it came back down with ruthless strength, impacting against the tiled floor hard enough to crack the marble and severing Desmond’s arm from his body in a single swift blow.

The howl of pain that escaped from Desmond was horrifying, not because of how loud it was, but rather how quiet. The man had barely made a sound, yet from the twisted pain on his face, Ezio could tell that the injury must have been agonizing. He was just too weak to properly scream.

Ezio wanted to reach out to Desmond, to offer some sort of comfort, but at that moment the tall assassin flicked the blade of his axe, knocking the severed limb away from Desmond's body. With it out of the way, Ezio could now see that the arm had been cut off just above the bend of the elbow, and that the remains were now leaking not blood, but what looked like molten gold.

“What…?” Ezio breathed.

Blood or not, however, it was leaking a lot. Thankfully, just then the other assassin slid into place next to Desmond as his taller companion stepped back, the pair moving smoothly around each other like they'd been working together for quite some time. Before the taller assassin had even finished climbing off of Desmond, the shorter was already pulling off the sash of his more traditional assassin garb. As soon as the taller assassin was out of the way, the smaller one took over, wrapping the bright red sash around Desmond's arm as a tightly as possible to staunch the flow of golden blood, and —

That was Altaïr. That was Altaïr kneeling next to Desmond, twisting the red fabric tighter and tighter around Desmond's arm with a look of tense focus on his face. He was young, almost as young as he appeared in the earliest memory Ezio had discovered in Constantinople, but his features were unmistakable. That was Altaïr himself, right there.

Ezio could feel himself gaping.

He was thankfully knocked out of his stunned silence when Altaïr gave the sash a particularly harsh twist, making Desmond groan. Shaking his head to clear it, Ezio viciously told himself to get a grip. He was a master assassin! The mentor of the assassin brotherhood! He was better than this!

“Doctor,” he called to the shaking man who had fallen back against the wall when the tall assassin had abruptly amputated Desmond's arm. “The bleeding cannot be stopped for long. Please help this man!”

The doctor's eyes flickered between Ezio, Desmond, and the two assassins. He was pale, shaking slightly as he swallowed thickly. But after only a second longer, he pushed off of the wall and cautiously made his way over, his knuckles white around the handle of his bag. Still, he dropped his supplies next to Desmond and rolled up his sleeves, a mask of professional calm taking over his face.

“Q-quickly,” he called to the servants. “Heat some oil and some water, and bring me plenty of fresh bandages.”

The servants scuttled off to do as they were told, and Ezio finally moved away from Desmond’s side to let the doctor take over. The doctor checked Altaïr’s bandage, nodded to confirm that the work was sufficient, and then waved the other assassin away as well. Ezio found himself lingering awkwardly next to Altaïr and his tall companion as the doctor set to work trying to staunch the bleeding and sew up the remains of Desmond’s arm.

Ezio’s attention was mostly on watching the doctor work, but he couldn’t help but glance over at Altaïr out of the corner of his eye. He spotted the older assassin looking back at him, and Ezio startled a little to be caught under that intense gaze.

“Ah, pardon me for staring,” Ezio quickly apologized. “I am just…it’s an honour to meet you, Mentor.”

Altaïr stared back at him wordlessly.

Ezio glanced to his tall companion next, gesturing towards him. “Is he…one of your brother assassins as well?”

He had a feeling that the answer was no. Though the tall man was clearly an assassin from the way he dressed and how he moved, his features did not suggest someone from the Levant, nor did his assassin robes resemble Altaïr’s in any way other than the white hood. Still, they’d arrived together, and worked well together. Perhaps this man was from a different branch of the order?

But Altaïr still just stared at him. Ezio could feel a nervous sweat breaking out on his temples.

Finally, after letting Ezio squirm for what felt like a full minute, Altaïr opened his mouth to speak…and then a string of words in a language Ezio didn’t recognize came out. Ah. Right. The ancient mentor would not speak Florentine. He likely had no idea what Ezio was saying.

Humming thoughtfully, Ezio tried a simple greeting in the few other languages he spoke. French made both Altaïr and his companion perk up in recognition, though neither of them seemed to speak it. Turkish inspired no response, and the less said of the few words Ezio knew in Spanish, the better.

At one point Altaïr’s companion tried a few of his own words, but none of them were familiar to Ezio. The three were left staring at each other, frustration thick in the air as they all collectively realized that there was no common tongue between them.

“Ah, forgive me,” Ezio apologized, ducking his head sheepishly. Even if Altaïr and his companion didn’t understand the words, he hoped the tone made his meaning clear enough. Still, there was no more to be gained trying to communicate with men who didn’t speak the same language. That was something they would have to deal with later. First, Ezio needed to speak with his father.

He spotted Giovanni standing across the room, speaking softly to his mother and older brother. Claudia and Petruccio were nowhere to be seen, so Ezio assumed they had been sent back to their rooms to avoid the worst of the chaos. He hoped that they had left before Desmond’s arm had been removed — such a bloody sight was not one for innocent eyes, and Claudia had not yet been exposed to such violence at this age. Assuming that she was as young as she looked. Ezio still wasn’t entirely convinced that this wasn’t the afterlife.

His father broke off from his whispered conversation when he saw Ezio approaching, standing straighter. His expression was tense, but he still pulled Ezio into a fierce embrace as soon as Ezio was close enough.

“My son,” Giovanni breathed against his hair. “I am so glad that you are alright.”

“I’m fine, father,” Ezio insisted calmly. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of his father’s arms wrapped around him. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes, and he tried and failed to keep them in. It was just so hard to resist basking in Giovanni’s warmth. He’d lost his father when he was seventeen, and he thought he’d never get the chance to experience his embrace ever again.

His father seemed to sense Ezio’s upset, because he let the hug last a bit longer than he usually would. But eventually he pulled back just enough to rest his hands on Ezio’s shoulders, searching his face. “Are you hurting? Do you feel lightheaded at all?”

“No, father. I feel fine, now, thanks to Desmond,” Ezio told him.

“Desmond?” His father’s eyebrows rose. He glanced towards where the doctor was working, before turning his attention back to Ezio with a frown. “You know this man?”

“I do,” Ezio confirmed with a nod.

“What is he?” his mother asked, her eyes fixed on the pool of golden blood that surrounded Desmond’s arm.

Ezio looked over as well, noting that Desmond’s skin had finally stopped glowing, though the metallic sheen still coated whatever parts of his body it had already spread to. His eyes were open, but empty, staring blankly up at the ceiling without blinking. The right eye remained completely golden, even the white of it now appearing as if it was made of the precious metal. It gave him an otherworldly look, despite the way he was stretched out helplessly on the floor.

“I…don’t know,” Ezio admitted slowly. “I think he may be some sort of…god?”

His mother gave him a sharp look. “Don’t say such heretical things!”

But Ezio could only shake his head sadly. “I have met another already. A goddess. She spoke to me. Called me the Prophet. Do you not remember me telling you this, mother?”

“No,” she said, bewildered. “Ezio, what on earth are you talking about?”

“Perhaps his…episode has addled his mind,” his father suggested, looking concerned.

Ezio was starting to get a sinking feeling that this was not the afterlife after all. Still, to be sure, he addressed his father next. “Father, you remember the Templar plot to take over Firenze, yes? It cost you your life!”

Both of his parents jerked back as if they’d been slapped. “Ezio! What is the meaning of this?” his mother demanded.

“Uberto Alberti betrayed you when you tried to stop the Pazzi family conspiracy! I watched…I watched you and my brothers hang!” Ezio insisted.

“Ezio!” his father said sharply, cutting off anything else Ezio might try to say. Despite being mentally older than his father, Ezio couldn’t help but flinch back at that harsh tone. His father was rarely truly angry with him, but Ezio could sense the man’s fury now.

“Cease saying these horrible things!” Giovanni demanded. “Uberto Alberti is a good friend of our family! Your mother has seen enough today, and this is not helping!”

Ezio wanted to protest, but a quick glance at his mother’s face was enough to change his mind. She looked like she was on the verge of fainting, clutching at the cross necklace hanging from her neck for support. So, rather than try to continue prodding his father and testing if he truly was in the afterlife, Ezio let it go, ducking his head in shame. “Forgive me, mother. Father.”

His father’s rage settled, his shoulders slumping. “It is alright, Ezio. You’ve just been through something…trying. It’s only to be expected that you would be a bit confused afterwards.”

“As you say, father,” Ezio agreed easily, recognizing that he would not be able to convince his father of the truth of his words. But when he glanced over his father’s shoulder, he spotted Federico staring at him with horror written across his features. It seemed that Federico at least was paying attention to Ezio’s warnings, though from his shocked expression, Ezio could tell that he, too, did not remember his death.

This all but confirmed it for Ezio; however it had happened, he had somehow found himself in the past, not the afterlife as he’d first assumed. Somehow he and his family were alive again. It was hard to say exactly what the date was, but if he had to guess based on studying the other members of his family, he would place the time as somewhere shortly before his father and brothers had been executed. Perhaps only a few months before.

His lips thinned. That meant that he did not have much time if he wanted to prevent their deaths. And he would prevent it somehow. He swore it to himself.

Still, there was some time before that would become an issue. For now, he should probably deal with the god that had burst into his life, along with the great Altaïr himself and his strange companion. He looked towards the two assassins next, eager to change the subject with his father.

“The two who came in with Desmond,” he began, gesturing towards them. “I do not speak their tongue. Perhaps you could try talking to them, father?”

Giovanni looked over at the other assassins, his shoulders tense. Ezio could tell that he found Altaïr familiar, at least, though there was no recognition in his eyes. To be fair, he could say with confidence that the statue of Altaïr hidden beneath Monteriggioni was not the best likeness, now that Ezio had met Altaïr in person.

“I will see what I can do,” his father said slowly. He briefly glanced towards the doctor, seeing that he was still busy with Desmond, and then made his way across the room to approach the two assassins, Ezio trailing behind him.

Altaïr and his companion had taken to leaning against the wall of the dining room, watching the doctor work from beneath their hoods with looks of intense concentration on each of their faces. Their heads both swiveled towards Ezio and his father as they approached, however. His father came to a stop before Altaïr, perhaps subconsciously recognizing him, and he gave them each a strained smile.

“Hello,” his father started off, in Florentine.

“They do not understand,” Ezio muttered under his breath. “I’ve already tried French, Turkish, and Spanish as well.”

His father whirled to give him a startled look, but apparently decided to question Ezio on how he’d learned such a variety of languages later. Instead, he faced the men again and, after a brief moment of thought, started speaking in a tongue that Ezio didn’t recognize.

Just as Ezio had tried, his father rotated through a few different languages, searching for one that Altaïr and his companion might know. They managed to find a bit of common ground with one of them, but based on the pained expression on his father’s face, Ezio doubted it was one that they’d be able to actually use to communicate.

“Arabic, as to be expected,” his father reported with a resigned sigh. “He has that look to him. Unfortunately I only know a handful of words in the tongue.”

“Is there someone we know who might be able to help us?” Ezio mused. If they had been in Roma during the era of his brotherhood, he could already think of a few of his recruits who could assist them, but that was many miles and years away. Perhaps one of his father’s allies could help, though.

His father hummed thoughtfully for a moment, before he let out a soft noise of triumph. He waved Federico over, and Ezio’s brother soon joined them.

“Yes, father?” Federico asked as he came to stand next to Ezio, his eyes darting over towards the tall assassin every few seconds.

“I need you to hurry to the bank,” his father instructed, even as he gestured towards one of the servants to bring him a quill and some parchment. The items were quickly procured, and his father jotted down a brief note before folding it up and handing it over to Federico. “Give this to Luca, and bring him back to the Palazzo at once. Hurry, my son.”

“Yes, father,” Federico said, bowing to his father. He briefly looked to Ezio as he walked past, fear and confusion in his eyes, but all too soon he slipped out the door, off to complete his errand.

“Luca will be able to help us. He is new to the bank, but he is a skilled translator who speaks dozens of languages, and I trust him implicitly,” his father explained, wiping away a stray drop of ink from his fingers with a handkerchief.

“Is he an assassin as well, then?” Ezio questioned mildly, figuring that was the only way that his father would trust someone who he hadn’t known for very long.

His father went still for a moment, before whirling on him. “How do you know about that?” his father hissed quietly, his eyes wide.

Eyes widening, Ezio quickly realized his mistake. Of course, his father had never told him the truth about the assassins before his death. Ezio had only discovered his father's secrets afterward. If he was truly in the past, then he should not yet know that his father was an assassin.

Ezio thought about lying, or trying to deflect, but he quickly decided against it. His father would be able to sense the dishonesty, and right now he needed Giovanni’s help; he couldn't afford to break his father's trust, not when everything was so confusing and uncertain.

“The truth is, I…I am an assassin as well,” Ezio reluctantly admitted, praying his father would listen to him. “Or, I was. I…I had been one for…for decades, before I eventually gave up the blade to live a quiet life with my wife and children. I do not know how to explain it, father, but…I have lived a full life. I remember it. I remember dying, and yet…I am here now. I have no way to explain it, other than perhaps it is an act of God.”

His father studied his face for a moment, as if searching it for some sort of lie or weakness. Slowly, he reached out and cupped Ezio’s chin in his hand. “You really believe this. Don’t you?”

“I watched you die, father,” Ezio told him, refusing to look away from his father’s stare even as his voice cracked. “I remember burying you, and my brothers. I have fought Templars and faced gods. I have seen Masyaf and Constantinople and Roma, and I have rebuilt Monteriggioni from the ground up. I am still your son, but I am not the boy I was this morning. Not anymore.”

“Impossible,” his father breathed.

“Look at him.” Ezio gestured towards Desmond. The doctor seemed to finally be finishing up, just wrapping a bandage around the stump of Desmond’s arm, but the golden lines were still visible tracing up his neck and shoulder. “There is a man who bleeds gold, lying in our home. Look at him.” He gestured to Altaïr next. “Look at his face. You should recognize him. He is Altaïr himself. The mentor and architect of the brotherhood. This man should be dead for centuries! I saw his bones with my own eyes! Yet here he stands, even younger than you. Are these not impossible things? Yet here they are.”

His father’s eyes darted from Desmond to Altaïr and then back to Ezio. As Ezio spoke, he’d grown more and more pale, unable to deny the proof that Ezio was offering. As Ezio finished, he started shaking his head in denial, but Ezio knew that it was only a matter of time before his father accepted the truth. He was an assassin, after all. Strange things were commonplace for them.

“Father, please,” Ezio murmured. “You know I speak the truth.”

His father licked his lips, looking cornered. “I…”

He was saved from having to speak, however, when the doctor suddenly rose and declared he was finished.

“The young man’s wound is significant, but it almost appears as if his body has begun to repair itself on its own before my very eyes,” the doctor reported as he approached them, wiping his hands clean on a rag and occasionally glancing back at Desmond with a look of wonder. “For a normal person, I would be concerned that blood loss and infection might kill him, despite my best efforts, but something tells me that neither of these things will be an issue for him. Regardless, I will leave a few tonics and poultices which should help with the healing. Please get him to bed as soon as possible.”

“We will. Thank you, doctor,” Ezio’s father said, reaching out to pat the man on the shoulder in gratitude. “We are in your debt for your assistance. I will make sure you are paid handsomely for your work, as well as a little extra to thank you for your…discretion in this matter.”

“Of course,” the doctor agreed easily. To Ezio’s relief, there was no glimmer of avarice in his eyes as Giovanni mentioned his payment, only satisfaction at a job well done. He found his eyes flicking towards the doctor’s left hand, searching for a brand mark on one of the fingers. He didn't see one, but he got the sense that the doctor might have been an ally of the brotherhood, especially given how familiar with him Giovanni seemed to be. An assassin’s work was dangerous, and someone had to be patching up his father’s more serious injuries, after all. And as much as Ezio adored his mother, she was no genius with multiple talents like Leonardo had been.

It briefly occurred to Ezio that if he was in the past, he would get to see Leonardo again, and was cheered up immensely by the thought.

The doctor retrieved his supplies and gave Giovanni a friendly and knowing smile, all but confirming Ezio’s suspicions. “I am glad I was able to be of service to you and your family once again. I would like to return tomorrow to check on the patient, though, to inspect his dressings and make sure the wound is healing nicely.”

“That would be splendid, thank you,” Giovanni agreed, before letting one of the servants take over guiding the doctor out of the room. Once they were gone, Giovanni turned back towards Ezio, Altaïr, and the tall assassin, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

Sensing that his father was growing overwhelmed, Ezio decided to take charge of the situation. He had once been the mentor of the order, after all, current age be damned.

“Father, perhaps we should prepare a room for Desmond and the others,” Ezio suggested. “The doctor said that Desmond should be in bed, did he not?”

“Yes…yes, you’re right,” Giovanni agreed, sounding lost in thought.

“Altaïr and his companion can join him there as well,” Ezio continued, gesturing towards the other two assassins. “Then, when Luca gets here, we will be able to speak with Altaïr and perhaps finally get to the bottom of what is going on.”

His father just looked at him, his expression full of pain and confusion.

“Father,” Ezio said quietly, soothingly. “There is much for us to talk about, I know. But there is time. We can speak more about my revelations later. For now, should we not tend to our guests?”

His father stared at him for another long moment, but then shook himself out of his stupor. “Yes,” he said, still sounding slightly shaken, but like he was trying his best to ignore it. “Yes, that is probably for the best, my…son.”

His father's little moment of hesitation before calling him son did not go unnoticed. Ezio's expression didn't shift, but it felt like he had been stabbed through the chest with a hidden blade. His heart sank into his stomach as he realized that, with everything that had happened this morning and all of the changes Ezio had undergone thanks to suddenly regaining the memories of an entire future life, there was a small chance that his father might no longer see Ezio as his child.

Had he really earned a second chance to be with his family and see them healthy and whole, only to lose them again because of these new memories? The thought was enough to break his heart.

Ezio didn't allow any of his inner turmoil to show on his face, however. He merely bowed his head, and said, “May I take Altaïr and the others to the Blue Room, Father?”

If his father thought putting their unexpected guests in the nicest guest room in the Palazzo was an unwise choice, he didn't let on. Instead he merely waved his hand in dismissal, his face already crumpling as he lost himself to his thoughts.

“Thank you, Father,” Ezio murmured respectfully, before turning to face the assassins.

Altaïr's attention had been on monitoring the surrounding room as Ezio and his father spoke with each other, but when he saw Ezio turn to him, he straightened. He looked at Ezio expectantly, and Ezio tried his best not to get flustered at once again being the focus of such a legendary assassin’s gaze.

“Come,” Ezio told him, adding a gesture as well to hopefully make it easier for Altaïr to understand. Thankfully it must have made sense, because Altaïr and the other assassin followed after Ezio as he made his way back to Desmond.

Ezio started to reach down, intending to pick Desmond up to carry him. But before he could, the tall assassin scooped Desmond up into his arms instead. Ezio pouted for a moment, annoyed that he’d been shoved aside, but then he realized that this would only make things easier. Ezio was physically seventeen again, and he’d lost all of the muscle he’d gained as a trained assassin. He likely would have struggled under Desmond’s weight, no matter how thin and frail the other man looked right now with his missing arm.

So, with another gesture, Ezio led his new companions out of the dining hall and into the hallways of the Palazzo Auditore. It had been so long since he’d been here that it took him a moment to recall where the guest wing was, but once the memory returned, he started off with confidence.

“Here,” he said when they eventually reached the guest suite, opening the door so that the tall assassin could walk through. The man had to duck his head to make it through the doorway, but once inside he quickly walked over to the bed. With surprising gentleness, he placed Desmond down on top of the mattress, almost reverently, before taking a step back to hover at the bedside.

“I’ll bring you a chair,” Ezio offered, glancing around the room until he spotted one in the corner. He brought it over and offered it to the tall assassin, who merely took it with a thankful nod of his head and placed it next to the head of the bed. He sat down on it gingerly, almost as if he was expecting it to collapse under his weight, but when the wood held, he slowly relaxed.

“I am Ezio, by the way,” Ezio introduced himself to the tall assassin, deciding to refrain from using his full name. The tall assassin may not understand the whole string of it as a name rather than words in a language he didn’t understand, after all. For emphasis, Ezio pressed his hand against his chest. “Ezio.”

The man looked at him blankly for a moment, before understanding lit his eyes. “Ezio,” he echoed, pointing to Ezio.

“Yes,” Ezio nodded. He pointed to Altaïr next. “Altaïr.” And then Desmond. “Desmond.” Finally, he pointed to the tall assassin, his eyebrows rising in a wordless question.

“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” the man answered, pressing a palm to his chest to indicate his name.

Ezio froze for a second, the string of quick syllables too fast for him to catch. It was certainly unlike any he’d heard before. It had been spoken so quickly, Ezio had a hard time understanding if it was a single full name, or more than one. “Ra…ho…”

“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” the man repeated more slowly, looking amused.

“Raton…ha…”

“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” Altaïr growled from his position by the door, clearly unimpressed by Ezio’s struggles with pronouncing his companion’s name.

However, to Ezio’s amusement, the tall assassin winced at Altaïr’s pronunciation as well. He smiled weakly, and then after a moment’s pause, he once again pressed his hand to his chest and said very deliberately, “Connor.”

“Connor,” Ezio echoed, the simpler name much easier to say. He wasn’t sure if it was the man’s family name or first name, but hopefully it would suffice. “A pleasure to meet you, Connor.”

Altaïr grumbled something under his breath, presumably in Arabic, and turned his hooded face away with a huff. The newly dubbed Connor, however, just gave Ezio an pleased grin, and said something in his own tongue that Ezio chose to interpret as ‘nice to meet you, too.’

Introductions settled, Ezio looked to the man laid out on the bed. Desmond had thankfully fallen into unconsciousness sometime shortly after he’d lost his arm, and he was still asleep now. His brow was pinched with pain, however, and Ezio could see his eyes darting frantically around behind his eyelids as he slept. His rest was obviously not peaceful, and it pained Ezio to see him suffering so.

Though he had never even had a conversation with Desmond, Ezio had been chasing after the man his whole life, searching for answers. The mystery of who or what he was had always been lurking at the back of Ezio’s mind, ever since the first moment he’d heard Desmond’s name spoken by a goddess. Now that the man was finally here in front of him, it almost felt like Ezio had known him for years. But while he didn’t know what he had expected Desmond to be like, it certainly wasn’t this; someone injured and hurting and looking so incredibly small and young in the large guest bed, the remains of his arms wrapped up tightly in many layers of bandages. Though Ezio may have been physically younger than Desmond at the moment, the memories of his years lived weighed on him heavily and made him feel ancient as he stared down at Desmond’s tormented expression.

Seeing Desmond lying there, wounded and weak, Ezio no longer saw a god. He only saw a young man who was hurting. Just a man. One who needed as much rest as he could get to heal.

Remembering how he would settle his children whenever they had nightmares, Ezio went to sit carefully on the edge of the bed, reaching to gently pick up Desmond’s remaining hand to cradle in his lap. Ezio rubbed the knuckles with his thumb, murmuring soft prayers under his breath to hopefully sooth Desmond’s mind.

It took a while, but eventually Desmond began to relax, his face smoothing out as he fell into a proper sleep. Still Ezio held his hand and continued to pray, uncaring of his audience. They, too, watched over Desmond in silence; Altaïr from his position by the door, Connor in his chair. Though Ezio imagined that both of the men were confused and wary to have found themselves in a time and place unknown to them, surrounded by people they couldn't understand, neither seemed eager to leave Desmond's side. It was a sentiment that Ezio fully understood. Though there was much to discuss with his father about all that had happened, Ezio found that he was reluctant to leave the room, and the others, behind.

Together the three assassins stood vigil over the strange, glowing boy who had fallen into their lives, turning everything upside-down.