Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Easy, easy," Rebecca says as Desmond wakes up without a sound. "You've been inside for a while. Take it slow, sitting up."

"Mmhm," Desmond answers and blinks slowly. "What date is it?"

Rebecca tries not to laugh hysterically like the insane woman she sometimes feels like. He sounds like a damn time traveler. Their lives are completely mad. "It's the sixteenth," she says instead quietly and watches Desmond stand up. No reaction to the words, not even a frown, nothing. He just nods and gets to his feet.

Rebecca looks after him with sense of mingled guilt and nausea as he wanders off to stretch his legs.

You can never really tell what's going on in Desmond's head these days, if you ever could. For all that they are reading the guy's memories and his DNA works like a teleprompter for history, Desmond himself is a closed book. The front cover is easygoing and constantly calm, but you can never tell what's going on beyond that surface.

Rebecca read once somewhere – probably in one of Shaun's books – that you will never know a man until you see him at his lowest. Desmond should be at his lowest – all the time they've known him, he's been at what anyone would call a man's lowest point. Kidnapped, used, abused and losing his mind to memories not his own – how much lower can you go, really? There's a good chance all this will end up with Desmond dead – with Juno singling him out and messing with him constantly…

But Desmond is calm. There's been one burst of anger, one moment of inappropriate humour, and that's… kind of it. Even those moments were like rocks being thrown at a pond's surface – there was a splash and a ripple and then the pond's surface smoothed out again and then there was no sign of either. There and gone, just like that.

It makes Rebecca worry. It makes Shaun itchy and nervous. Bill… Well he's never easy to read, so who knows what he thinks. He seems a bit disturbed though. Desmond is not handling the whole thing like you'd expect him to.

He hasn't tried to run, not once. Gotta give kudos to the guy for that. Still, Rebecca doesn't get him. She's scared all the time, and it's not her head on that chopping block. Why isn't he?

She doesn't ask. Desmond seems to have enough on his plate, and ever since Lucy he's been more distant – though part of our might be also the fact that he spends longer and longer times in the Animus. Where once Desmond could only do hours at time, now he can spend days at it, with no care for physical needs or requirements. Half of the time Rebecca has to wonder if Desmond even needs to eat anymore. He doesn't seem to be losing weight or wasting away though, so…

Rebecca tries not to think about the implications of that – but boy, Templar or not, she misses Lucy. Lucy got Desmond. They had a thing and when Lucy was still there, Rebecca was certain in the knowledge that Lucy took care of Desmond, that she knew what she was doing. It was just easier all around. Now… does any of them know what they're doing?

She misses the team lunches. Every Sunday one of them would cook and they'd sit down together and eat and talk about stuff that had nothing to do with Templars or Assassins or the end of the world. Afterwards, Lucy and Desmond would head off to train or walk or whatever they did, and Rebecca and Shaun could just hang out and argue about movies or books or who did what when and – god. When was the last time she even watched a movie?

Rebecca stares at the keyboard in front of her, feeling a bit like the ground under her is losing cohesion and she's about to fall through it. Then she looks to where Desmond had gone. He's sitting on a slab of volcanic glass, running hands over his neck. Past him, there's a flicker of golden light, and as Rebecca watches, Desmond hangs his head and then turns to face the digital ghost. He looks tired. A moment later he rises to follow her wherever she's leading him this time, to listen to whatever she has to tell him this time.

Rebecca doesn't envy Desmond. Not one bit. Juno haunts him all across the Grand Temple, she stalks his email and probably followed them out of the sanctuary too, in those few excursions they'd made. She'd probably haunt his dreams too if she could. Rebecca hasn't asked if she can. Desmond doesn't really sleep anymore anyway.

Being hounded by Juno all the damn time…

Rebecca shudders and then turns back to work. Since Desmond is out, she starts running a full systems check, dumping some old data from points of Connor's life Desmond isn't likely to live through again and then putting the whole system through a reboot. Might as well, just in case.

Desmond is gone for about half an hour before coming back. If Shaun and Bill even noticed, she's not sure. They've all gotten used to oppressive silences and Desmond not being present, so…

"Hey," Desmond says.

"Hey, Desmond," Rebecca says and turns to face him. "What did Juno want this time?"

"Ranted about how ignorant and stupid humanity is and what a mistake making us was, the usual," Desmond says and sits down on the Animus with a sigh.

"I'm running a reboot, you're going to have to wait a bit before going in," Rebecca says. Maybe that will keep him more… human a bit longer. "Why don't you get a bite to eat in the meanwhile?"

"In a bit, maybe," Desmond says and looks around – over the expense of the cavern and to where Bill and Shaun attend by the glowing barrier of Precursor tech, taking amongst themselves. "Hey, Rebecca? What do you think it is? The thing behind that wall?"

"I have no idea. I just hope it's worth all of this," Rebecca says honestly

"What if it isn't?"

Rebecca doesn't answer to that. There's nothing to say. If it isn't worth it, then they'll all die and none of it would have meant anything.

"Do you think Abstergo knows about this – about any of it?" Desmond asks quietly. "Do they know what's coming, do they have any idea?"

"I don't think they do," Rebecca answers and folds her arms. "Cross only went after the power sources to try and get you, because your were going after them. I don't think either he or Vidic knew what they were for. They wouldn't have used one as a bait of if they did."

Desmond nods slowly. "Yeah, I think so too," he admits quietly.

Rebecca casts him a curious look as he continues to stare at the wall. "Why'd you ask?"

"Just wondering if Abstergo would've tried to… do something of they did know," Desmond mutters. "We're just four people. They're a billion dollar company with thousands of employees. You'd think they have resources to do… something."

Rebecca swivels back and forth in her chair, looking at him. Even now, talking about this, he sounds so nonchalant. Like it's just everyday small talk and not about the potential end of the world.

"Lucy knew," Desmond says. "She found out with us. She would've tried to save the world, right?"

"I… hope so," Rebecca says quietly and looks away. It still hurts. Trying to wonder what Lucy would've done or what she might've felt hurts.

"She died before she could tell Abstergo, though, before she could tell anyone. Juno made sure of it," Desmond muses.

Rebecca hears the words but they take a moment to decompress. Juno killed Lucy before she could tell anyone. Not because she was a Templar, a traitor – but because she would've told Templars that the end of the world was coming.

"They… would've stopped us," Rebecca says quietly, but it sounds uncertain even to her ears. Would they have? It sounds right, that's what Abstergo does, it gets in the way and tries to stop Assassins from doing what they have to do, but…

"It's their planet too, it's where they gotta live too – why would they try to stop us from saving it? That's like trying to stop someone to trying to throw water on your burning house just because you don't like them," Desmond says and lowers his eyes. "That's suicidally petty, even for Abstergo."

Rebecca hums in agreement and then frowns. What if Abstergo had known? Could they have done something? Would they have done something? Well, why wouldn't they? Desmond is right. Abstergo and Templars have to live in this world too.

"Well, it's too late now," Rebecca says quietly. "Five days left. Even Abstergo can't do much with just five days."

Desmond blinks and looks up to her, and his eyes seem to clear from the storm clouds that had taken them over. He lifts his head. "Yeah," he agrees. Probably not. But…" he trails of and then shakes his head, standing up. "Yeah. Guess I should go eat something."

"But what?" Rebecca asks, watching him closely.

Desmond shrugs his shoulders. "But imagine how all of this might've had gone down if we could've worked together," he says. "It's just food for thought."

"They kidnapped you," she reminds him. "They killed people – they're trying to take over the world."

"You're right," Desmond says and turns away. "Dumb thought, huh?"

The discussion lingers in Rebecca's head. Whether it eats away at Desmond it's impossible to tell – she's not sure if he can think independently from the ancestor whose memories he's living anymore. Desmond seems to be less and less personally present in the memories he lives through – it's just Connor there. Whenever she looks at her screens, all she sees is Connor.

But she thinks about it, wonders at it, questions where Desmond even got the idea from, if it was something Juno said. And really – what would have happened if Abstergo had found out? She can't see them working together, but… it's their planet too. It's all their planet.

What the heck is the point of all the fighting they're doing and have done when the sun is going to wipe them all and ghosts from tens of thousands of years in the past are messing about with their future and past and – why?

What is Juno's gain is all of this? Just saving the world? No, Desmond already told them – what's behind the barrier benefits Juno somehow, and they have to be careful. Minerva and Jupiter wanted to save the world for the world, she – Juno gets something out of it, some personal gain. If… if that's even what they're doing. All they have to go on is her word. She's the one who pointed them this way…

But it took Minerva to make the key. Juno did something to the Apple, yeah, used it to take Desmond over, but it was when Minerva meet Ezio that the Apple was changed into the key of the Grand Temple.

And what was it that Juno says in one of her emails to Desmond…

Rebecca frowns and then turns to her computer, getting into Desmond’s emails and quickly looking through them. There. Among many other weird and creepy things Juno had told Desmond – YOU were not meant to exist. We conjured you – she told him there had been memory discs in the Grand Temple which she had thrown away. Discs meant for Desmond. Left behind by someone other than Juno, seeing she felt the need to get rid of them.

Rebecca suspects those discs probably would have had answers in them. Is it too late to try and find them…?

Four days to do. For days left for Desmond to find where Connor had hidden the final key. Four days to save the world. Most of those days she would be doing nothing. They'd all would be doing nothing. All three of them can do now is wait on Desmond and hope he finds the key in time.

Rebecca thrums her fingers on her keyboard and then calls, "Hey, Shaun? Any chance you could requisition a drone for me?"

"They are highly expensive surveillance equipment, Rebecca, not toys," Shaun says. "You'll need a damn good reason for one."

Probably better not to say the real reason out loud where Juno might hear. "How about investigation of ancient super high tech civilisation for the advancement of science and understanding?" Rebecca asks. "I want to send one down the holes all over this place to take a look at the guts of their machinery. Imagine all the things we could learn!"

"That is a good point," Bill says and folds his arms. "Chances are, we aren't going to get another chance like this. We never do."

Shaun leans back, looking grumpy and interested. "Yeah. Reckon you're right about that," he admits finally, looking put off – probably about not having thought it himself. "Alright. I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks Shaun! You're the best."

"I know."

The drone arrives that very day, delivered by a courier on a motorcycle who is there and gone before Rebecca even notices it. She's knee deep in wading through their previous recordings about Juno, Minerva, Tinia and everything they have so far gathered on the Grand Temple and the plans Those That Came Before seem to have for them. So far, none of it looks good.

"Hey, Becs," Shaun says and not very delicately taps something on the top of her head, something big and heavy. A cardboard box. "Gift for you. Feel free to express your undying gratitude and overwhelming awe at my resourcefulness now."

Rebecca elbows him on the side. "That's my drone?"

"That's our drone," Shaun says and holds the drone out of her reach before she can snatch the box up. "Now, why do you really want it?"

"For science," Rebecca says, launching from her chair and catching the box from Shaun's rather weak attempt of holding it from her. "Thanks Shaun. Wanna help me set it up?"

Shaun gives her a narrow look. "Science, really."

"And also stuff and maybe even things," Rebecca says, and on the word stuff she glances towards Desmond and on things she glances even more pointedly towards the glowing barrier. Shaun's eyes narrow even further and she thinks he gets it – he's been having a email cat-fight Juno ever since she told him off for advising Desmond against engaging with her. He probably spotted the email about the discs too, though if he figures out that is what this is about… who knows.

He helps her unwrap the drone anyway, clearing out the box and the styrofoam packing while Rebecca goes about initialising the drone and connecting it to her computer.

"Please remember that our mission comes first," Bill says, coming in to watch. "And our priority will be aiding Desmond. This can't take time away from that."

"It won't, Bill, promise," Rebecca says while hooking the drone's charging pad to the computer. Shaun had gotten them a fully charged drone, nice. "I'm going to just look around whenever there's downtime, see what's in places we can't get to. That alright?"

"I won't deny I'm curious too," Bill says, looking towards Desmond. "Go right ahead – but Desmond still comes first."

"Of course."

Desmond is currently only a day deep into his latest session and isn't likely to come up for air until tomorrow, or that evening the earliest. Still, Rebecca checks his progress and vitals and makes sure everything is going as it should before turning her attention to the drone.

Push of a button, and it's off, its controller vibrating slightly in her hands as it takes off and picks up speed. Assassin drones are generally quieter than the more civilian varieties, but in a closed, echoing space like the cave even that small bit of noise comes out pretty loud. It's far from Rebecca's first time piloting one, so she's not exactly surprised, but usually drones are used in wide open places, not in caves. She can do this, she knows she can do this, but… "Here's hoping the signal is strong enough to get through volcanic rock," she mutters and turns the drone's lights on.

"You lose that drone, the cost is coming off your pay," Shaun says even as he leans in to watch the screen between the controller sticks

"That would be more threatening if we got pay," Rebecca says and then aims both sticks sharply forward – sending the drone into a nosedive down unfathomably deep hole. While she and Shaun stare at the screen on the controller, Bill leans to watch the screens on Rebecca's stone desk, where the same footage is being replayed in slightly delayed recording.

"It looks like the mechanisms go much deeper than it appears," Bill murmurs.

"They probably go down hundreds of feet, it's just that there's tons of rock and also a deadly fall in the way," Shaun says and narrows his eyes as on the screen faintly glowing circuitry whirls by. "You think that's all for whatever's in there?" he asks, glancing at the glowing barrier.

"Probably. It would have to be massive, whatever it is, to be capable of protecting the entire Earth from the Solar Flare," Rebecca says and narrows her eyes. There's a depth meter on the drone, and it's already done fifty meters. The signal range on their drones is about a kilometre in clear conditions – but again, clear conditions don't regularly include volcanic glass and seventy thousand year old tech.

Please don't lose signal, Rebecca thinks and pushes the drone further down.

It takes a long time before the drone reaches bottom. Rebecca pulls it up just in time to avoid crashing it down to the bottom and then spins it around, searching the floor. Nothing there but rock and more rock and also bits of blackened glass, like the stuff that's all over the cave. No discs. Yet.

Time to start searching.

Juno starts getting suspicious of what they're doing about an hour in, her golden ghost appearing in flickers to hover by Rebecca's station. Rebecca has long since adopted the policy of see no evil hear no evil with her, and so she just puts on headphones extra loud and ignores whatever the spectre is trying to say, whatever she's demanding to know. Juno's not on their side, she's certain of that now, but at least she can't do anything but nag at them.

God, Rebecca hopes she can't do anything but nag at them.

There's a lot to explore in the caves around the Grand Temple –and there are a lot of caves. Some of them are man made – or… precursor made? – and some of them are naturally formed – most are mixture of both. Rebecca finds actual rooms, corridors, entire sections blocked off by collapsed walls and ancient flows of magma. The Grand Temple used to be… pretty damn grand, once. Or it might be what she finds isn't actually part of the Grand Temple itself, but the city it had once been part of. Still, the part they're in, it's literally just the tip of a mountain – what's beneath is so much bigger than any of them expected.

There's writing there, statues, symbols on the walls, mechanisms – but so far, no discs.

By the time Desmond comes to from his latest session, Rebecca has searched through dozens of rooms and corridors, and has found zero discs.

"Hey, man, come here – slowly, don't knock yourself out," Rebecca calls and pushes her headphones off. "While you were off, we got a drone to check out the place further – you know, go in places we can't reach? Come have a look."

She has a feeling that if the discs are gonna be found, she's not the one who can actually find them.

Desmond blinks at her blearily and then slowly gets up from the Animus, setting his feet down on the floor slowly and then leaning forward. He comes to life like statue, limb by stony limb. Rebecca tries not to notice. "A drone. Like, a flying drone?"

"Yep," Rebecca says, hopping up from her chair and holding the controller out to him. "Gotta bring it back up soon to charge its batteries, but it should be good for another half an hour. Here, take her for a spin."

Desmond blinks slowly and takes the controller in hand, squinting at the screen. Bit awkwardly he fits his hands on the sticks, and Rebecca gives him a quick tutorial on how to manoeuvre with the thing. Shaun lifts his head from where he'd wandered off to study the screen captures he'd taken from some of the more elaborate murals they'd found. "You crash it, you pay for it."

"With what, my blood? Little short on cash right now, Shaun," Desmond says – and of course, he gets the handle of the controller inside couple of seconds, his eyes going intense as he concentrates on the screen. Leaning onto her desk made of black rock, Rebecca wonders if Desmond gets tunnel vision. Soon he's speeding down routes and going in places Rebecca wouldn't have bothered to check – like in the Animus, even here Desmond just has to check every minute detail and shadowy corner, just in case.

They'd done a damn good job teaching Desmond to mind the details, hadn't they? It had been Lucy's idea originally – back in Abstergo, she'd introduced the collectible flags into Altaïr's memories to give Desmond something concrete to concentrate on. It helped him with synchronisation, gave him a sense of progress and accomplishment, or something. Rebecca, thinking flags were pretty boring, made them into treasures and feathers and stuff. Desmond, it turned out, was bit of a magpie for it.

It seems to be paying off now. In a few seconds, Desmond turns the drone into a bloodhound – it misses nothing.

 Shaun watches them for a moment and then gets up to his feet to watch. "Anything?"

"Hmm," Desmond answers, tilting his head as he tilts the controller – the image tilts too. He must be visualising himself down there – like he was in Animus. How cool is that, Rebecca thinks and then leans in.

Up, down, left, right, Desmond weaves through the tunnels like he knows his way – and there, finally, he finds what he must've been looking for. A gleaming circle of metal, propped against a bit of stone.

"Oh," Shaun murmurs, his eyes widening. They'd never seen them, aside from in drawing, but he knows what it is. Rebecca does too. Desmond probably knows it better than either of them, if what he told them about Animus Island and reliving last bits of Ezio's and Altaïr's lives was true.

A Precursor memory disc – the OG Animus technology.

"The drone has articulated arms with pincers," Rebecca says to Desmond. "Set it to auto hover and press the green button."

"Got it," Desmond says, and if he hears the strangled wail Juno lets out somewhere behind him, he doesn't react to it at all. He just ushers the drone forward and grabs the disk in the drone's three fingered grip, lifting it delicately from the floor. He tilts his head again, switches back to manual hover controls, and then the drone is off, speeding back and up, right and left and up, up, up, towards them.

"There is only lies in them!" Juno howls at them, making Shaun jump in alarm and Bill lift his head from where he was working on a computer, his eyes wide. "There are old stories, inconsequential, meaningless! They will only distract you, push you away from the route you are meant to travel! Leave them lie where they are, leave them!"

Desmond glances up at her. "No," he says, and presses the drone forward.

"Your purpose is clear now, your path ready for you – do not let yourself be diverted you from your purpose!" Juno snaps at him and flies right into his face. Shaun stumbles back with a sputter while Rebecca ducks behind Desmond because Jesus Christ – "All is left now is to find the Key, Desmond, that is all there is, that is all you must do now! Leave the whispers of the dead –"

The drone launches up from the hole, swinging in air and Juno shouts, turning as if to swat at the thing as it flies towards them. But in the end, she's just a hologram. She can't actually do anything to it. The drone stops to hover in front of Desmond, who hands the controller back to Rebecca without a word.

"Bloody hell," Shaun mutters.

With a strangled snarl, Juno turns and disappears. Desmond stands up and reaches for the disc. It looks almost exactly like a CD, except it's thicker, made of metal and shot throughout with golden circuitry. Lot of humanity's digital storage is based on the things, though, so of course it's similar. Digital memory – and the Animus itself.

"Son," Bill says, standing up and coming to them quickly while Rebecca waits with the drone controller. "You know what you're doing with that?"

"Yeah, I got a pretty good idea," Desmond says, and takes the disk in his hand. Immediately, the gold in it starts gleaming brighter, starts shining with inner light. Desmond stares at it, his eyes low lidded, and says nothing.

Rebecca quickly ushers the drone to it's charging station before turning back to look. "Desmond – Desmond?" she asks, reaching out to pat his shoulder, but he's not moving – he's not listening. His eyes are nailed on the disk – and they're glowing. She'd figured it would turn out something like this, but… "Well that's creepy."

"You don't say, Rebecca. Bloody Juno, almost gave me a heart attack," Shaun mutters, adjusting the front of his blazer. He gives frozen Desmond a uneasy look. "Rebecca, honestly now – were you looking for those things?"

"I honestly was, yeah," Rebecca says. "Seemed like Juno really didn't want Desmond to get his hands on them, so… I thought he really should get his hands on them."

"This might complicate things," Bill says, stepping closer to Desmond and putting hand on his wrist, testing his pulse and then checking his breathing. Then he looks at the disc, uneasy.

"I think things were a little too simple, don't you?" Rebecca says and folds her arms. "This close to the end… we should get all the information we can before we commit to anything. And we should especially check out the stuff Juno doesn't want us to know."

"Hmm," Bill answers. "Well, I can't deny it has been frustrating being led by the nose like we have been."

"No kidding," Shaun says and waves a hand over Desmond's sightless eyes. "Should way maybe try and sit him down or something? If he falls over here, he's going to crack his skull and then we'll be really screwed."

"Yeah, good idea," Rebecca says and quickly reaches for her swivel chair, pushing it behind Desmond and holding it still while Bill and Shaun carefully push unresponsive Desmond to sit down on it. He doesn't even blink. Rebecca winces. "His eyes are going to be so dry once he's done."

"How long do you reckon this will take?" Shaun asks, making a face.

"No idea," Rebecca says. "The latest info we have about this was with Altaïr's memory discs, the Masyaf Keys, and we don't know how long it took for Ezio to go though them either. Hours, probably. Um. Do we have eye drops or…?"

Bill reaches forward, taking Desmond's frozen face between his palms. With his thumbs, Bill gently closes Desmond's eyes. It makes Desmond look like he's very intensely listening to something only he can hear, it would be funny – if it wasn't for the glowing bit of tech in Desmond's still hands.

"There," Bill says and awkwardly pulls his hands back. He clears his throat and tries to pretend like he wasn't just stroking Desmond's cheeks. "I guess we're playing the waiting game again."

"Again," Shaun agrees. "Here's hoping he'll be done before the Sun burns the Earth, yeah?"

"Here's hoping."

Chapter Text

Desmond comes back to himself with a crick in his neck and weirdest sensation in the back of his throat – like he's maybe been eating sand or something. It's always bad, coming to from Animus session but this is a bit worse. In Animus you have full – or sorta full – control over what happens and what the person whose memories you're living is doing. In the memory discs, you don't have any control at all, you can't even disengage from the memory – you're just an entrapped passenger and the memories play themselves however they like, with no way out until the memory is done.

Rebecca is sitting beside him on the ground, with a blanket spread out under her and her back leaning against the slab of volcanic rock she uses for a desk. She looks like she's asleep. No sign of Shaun or dad. It must be in the middle of the night then.

Trying to not to make noise, Desmond rubs a hand over his neck and looks down to the disc. It's no longer glowing, sitting inert on his palm. It's warm, though. Whether it was the mechanisms within it that warmed it, or his touch, who knows. It's not working anymore anyway – with any luck, it never would again.

Slowly Desmond sets the disc down to Rebecca's desk and then tries to make up his mind on what to do. One thing is sure, though.

They've fucked this all up, haven't they?

No sign of Juno yet. He can feel her though, looming nearby, a invisible presence, ever watching. Desmond doesn't think she knows what's on the disc – like the temple, Minerva keyed it to his DNA, only he can access it like only he can ultimately use the Eye. She wouldn't have been able to view the memory, dead or alive. But she must have a suspicion, and now she's waiting for him to give his thoughts away.

Desmond gets up and walks away from the chair, from Rebecca's desk, from the cavern in general. Up along the winding route that leads up into the world outside, his footsteps quietly clattering against the platforms they'd nailed into the cavern floor to get all their equipment down. The sky is pitch black outside and he isn't sure what day it is. It's cold and there's a bite of frost in the air.

Safely outside the Temple's influence, Desmond finds a place to sit down and freak out on. It's where sleepy Rebecca eventually finds him, her steps easily recognisable by the slight creak of her sneakers and how lightly she walks. Shaun bangs his heels when he walks – and Dad's footsteps tend to be soundless.

"Sorry," Desmond says. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"Should've – I was sitting there for a reason," Rebecca says and yawns. "Are you okay, Desmond?"

Desmond doesn't answer, looking down to his hands. They're remarkably steady despite everything. "You got electronics on you?"

He can feel the strange look Rebecca gives him but she answers anyway. "Phone, headphones, headset, watch…"

"Turn them off – Juno can use them to listen to us."

"… oh," Rebecca says. There's sounds of shuffling and jingle of phone turning itself off as she goes through everything she has. She finishes with her smart watch, turning it off and sitting beside Desmond on the piece of rock where he's sitting slumped. "That bad, huh?"

"Not… bad exactly, just… Juno really wanted to keep it from us for a reason," Desmond says and hangs his head for a bit, running his hands over his neck, trying to force the tension out of there. He doesn't succeed. "The Eye, it's not… it's not for saving the world from the solar flare. It's nothing like that."

"… shit," Rebecca says. "So we're just wasting our time?"

"No, not exactly. I mean, it can save the world, probably," Desmond says and swallows. "It just… can do other things."

There's actually no limit to what it can do. The thing is a goddamn omnipotence machine. It can literally alter the whole damn universe. Past, present, future and everything that ever was or would be. He isn't sure he can dare to say that out loud though, if he does he thinks he'll end up laughing like lunatic.

"It was Tinia's memories on the disc – Jupiter's," Desmond says quietly. "About Minerva and Juno and them working at the temple. Minerva was the one who made the Eye – the thing behind the barrier, the thing we're trying to get at."

"The… Eye?"

"You know – like the All Seeing Eye?" Desmond asks. "Minerva was the one who figured out the Calculations, the Algorithm of the Universe – how to see into the future. The way they see us from the past, it was her work, right? The Eye was kind of the culmination of that. It manipulates the Calculations."

Rebecca looks at him like she maybe gets it – but doesn't want to say it. "And manipulating the Calculations, you can… stop a solar flare?

"You can do pretty much anything you want," Desmond says. "With that machine you can do anything. It could probably just switch off the Sun if that's what the user wanted. It can… do anything." It sounds bit lame, but he doesn't have the mental strength to put it better right now – the disc left him all wrung out.

"Right," Rebecca says. "That's good then, right? And It's gonna work?"

Desmond shakes his head. "Yeah, sure, if we do what Juno wants, it's probably gonna work," he mutters. "Kill me in the process and release Juno into the world, but sure. That's not what it was for, though. Minerva… Juno said it in the beginning, right? When they discovered the calculations, the Isu first tried to look behind, to go back, give themselves the time they needed to save themselves. They couldn't do it, but Minerva worked at it anyway. She didn't finish in time, died before it was done, but they could still see in to the future. So she knew that in the seventy-five thousand years in between, the machine finished itself. Would finish."

Rebecca says nothing, watching him worriedly.

Desmond is quiet for a moment, trying to get his thinking in order. He isn't sure what he's thinking right now. Minerva and Tinia had gone through so many potential futures towards the end. They set up the stepping stones, selected paths – found Desmond and made his DNA into the key. And then Juno…

"When Juno figured out what the Eye could one day do, she…" Desmond shakes his head. "She tried to kill them. There was a fight and Juno died here – but her domain was the spirit one, preserving minds in technology, kind of like how Clay turned himself into AI? Juno did that to herself. Minerva and Tinia trapped her there, it was all they could do and they couldn't get rid of her or it would break the Eye, so… she stayed stuck here."

"Shit," Rebecca murmurs. "Godly drama, huh?"

"Yeah," Desmond answers and stares out of the cave, into the hills and forests outside. "Minerva and Tinia couldn't work at the Grand Temple anymore, with Juno trapped here, so they went elsewhere tried to finish their work. They could see work at the calculations, but manipulating them was harder. That's why Ezio was so important, he was… kind of beyond Juno's reach, somehow. I don't know. I guess he was getting closer and closer to me, I guess, genetically speaking. Everything else, Juno tampered with. Assassins and Templars both."

"Wait – how long has this been going on?" Rebecca asks quietly.

"Ever since we started fighting for the Pieces of Eden," Desmond says and rubs a hand over his eyes. "Ever since Altaïr and Al Mualim and the Vault under Jerusalem. It was all Juno's doing, the whole thing. The corrupting influence the Pieces of Eden have? That's Juno. She's the one who's kept this war going, behind the scene, urging us on, using both of us"

"Goddamn," Rebecca says, looking away. "Does that mean that… our whole history, that's, that's her? She's been doing this for centuries? Why?"

Desmond sighs. "So that one day, when I used the Eye, there'd be nothing to stop her from taking over," he says and glances back at the temple. "I use that Eye and she'll be free – and most of our technology is based on theirs. She can just slip into it, slip into all of it. The internet is basically a red carpet, all laid out for her. And we made it that way. Assassins and Templars. Trickling in their tech and covering up its origins, and fighting over the scraps, never asking what the hell is even the point."

"But…" Rebecca starts to say but doesn't continue. "We've been fighting for centuries for the free will of humanity – now you're telling me we've been doing it all on orders? Gotta tell you, not very comforting at this stage of the game."

"Not one bit, no," Desmond agrees with a sigh and falls quiet. Outside, some late winter bird is making noise. His mind feels a bit like soup. And in the background there's Connor and Haytham and their thoughts and beliefs over the Temple and the Isu. Haytham had never believed in the Good Will of Those That Came Before – he'd always been suspicious of their gifts and technologies, never trusting in powers he didn't understand and didn't know the motive behind.

Templars, in a weird way, had always been more suspicious of the Isu, even while Juno manipulated them the worst. Assassins trusted more easily, but never did much anything with the Isu technology, preferring to hide it instead of using it. Templars used it, but only as means to an end. Despite all this fighting, the Pieces of Eden were never the end goal, just the tool. In the end, both circled around the PoE's like planets trapped in their orbits, unable to free themselves.

Desmond doesn't know what he's thinking anymore. Just that… they all fucked it up. Juno fucked them over. And he really wishes Lucy was still there, or Clay, maybe both – he wants to talk with them about this. They would be able to make sense of it with their mixed world views. Everything seems to be fragile all of a sudden, fragile and fleeting and malleable.

"This is the power we will leave to Desmond Miles,"  Minerva said to Tinia. "It will be up to him to decide how to employ that power."

Yeah, fuck you too, Minerva, fuck you too.

"So what are you going to do?" Rebecca asks and looks at him.

Desmond shakes his head. "Whatever's going to happen, I'm not going to be here to see the aftermath. However I use that Eye, I'm not going to see the 22th of December," he says. "That part is written in actual goddamn stone."

"Desmond…" Rebecca says quietly. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Desmond says. "Me too."

Worse thing is, death isn't the only option he has. And the other options are really too damn tempting. "Still have to find the final Key," he says with a sigh and gets up. "I think I'm close to it now. Connor is almost done. Let's just… finish that first. Then I'll decide what to do."

"Alright," Rebecca says and takes his hand, squeezing it. "Whatever you do, though, I'm behind you. Hundred percent."

Desmond looks at her. She has no idea what kind of things he could do. No idea at all. "Thanks, Becs," he says anyway. "I appreciate it."

Rebecca tells the others while he's in Animus. Desmond is kind of glad to miss out on it, playing Connor's life out instead, back to the end, to the death of Charles Lee and finally retrieving the Key and hiding it. He doesn't even want to know what his Dad and Shaun think of the potential omnipotence at Desmond's fingertips – he doesn't even know what he thinks about it. Aside from how tired he is of all of it.

There is this constant, incessant feeling of we did this wrong and we were all fooled. And they had been – because there had been glimpses of could have beens and would have beens there. Jerusalem was always the start, but it wasn't supposed to be the start of a war. Juno made it that way. It could have been different. Everything could have been different.

And the thing is, that early Templar Ideology… Desmond has never managed to shake this idea of what if about it. Sure, there had been shitty aspects to it, Robert de Sablé had been unscrupulous about some ways he went about his plans and the people he employed were kind of terrible… but there had been that one, the doctor, who had just wanted to use the Apple to heal people, to cure people of various mental illnesses. And their goal had been peace in the Holy Land, peace through force and order maybe, but…

How was what the Assassins did better? All they did was remove leaders and leave behind a power vacuum, which in the end only sent a lot of those courts and cities into chaos, resulting in more fighting and more deaths. And sure, it was Al Mualim who did that and he was a Templar too, but still…

Altaïr had had his doubts too. The longer the Hunt of the Nine had gone on, he'd come back more and more conflicted about what he was doing. The last thoughts of the dying plagued him, how strongly they believed they were trying to make the world a better place. Those doubts lingered in Desmond. What if they could've, what if they would have? What if Juno hadn't fucked them over?

What if they would have succeeded?

Assassins hadn't even been fighting for the free will of mankind back then. That's what Altaïr turned them into, after. Before that, they'd been just an order of warriors with a code and a creed. Encounter with the Apple changed him. Changed the Assassin's Brotherhood. Set them on the inescapable course of a never ending war with the Templars.

And here's Desmond, at the very end of it, thinking… what a waste of time.

Desmond comes back to his body with a slow blink. Everyone's standing around him, waiting intently, worriedly. "I know where the key is," he says and glances to Rebecca's computer. She has the date on the screen now, date and time. 20th of December, 7.32 pm. One day left, if even that.

"Then let's go," his Dad says, already moving.

Desmond says nothing, just gets up, ignoring the worried look Rebecca is giving him, the way she exchanges glances with Shaun. One day left, probably less. Few hours would be used to get the key and get back to the temple. After that, it's the final countdown to the end of the world.

He has to make up his mind.

They set out – Desmond and his dad getting to the back of the van while Shaun takes the wheel and Rebecca hops to the front with him. Desmond hangs his head and tries to ignore the way his dad is looking at him – at least they're out of Juno's view now, though she can still probably hear them through all the damn electronics. Still trapped in the temple, but… she can reach out.

"Desmond," Bill says quietly. "Rebecca told us about the Eye. What you learned on the disc."

"Yeah, I figured," Desmond answers and rests his forehead on his palm, his elbow on his knee. "Hell of a thing, huh?"

"Once you use it…"

"Yeah."

Bill is quiet for a moment as the van trundles on over the gravel road and eventually to proper smooth asphalt. Shaun and Rebecca are both quiet in the front, but they must be listening. It's a long moment of tense, uncomfortable silence. A lot of the silences between them are like that, though, so Desmond barely even notices that it has a new sort of timbre of unease to it. Not until his dad speaks again.

"You don't have to do this," he says quietly.

Desmond looks up at him incredulously. "What, really?"

Bill gives him an awkward look and folds his arms across his chest, leaning back. He looks incredibly uncomfortable. He doesn't take the words back, though. "It's your life, Desmond," he says quietly. "I know I haven't been the best father, but I hope I'm at least not the type of monster who will sacrifice his own son," he mutters. "It's your life – it's your choice. You don't have to do this."

Desmond says nothing, just staring at him. Really? Really. He could just let the billions of humans out there die in the Solar Flare, sure thing. Hah.

Shaking his head, Desmond looks down at his palms, at the glint of the hidden blade on his right wrist. The whole history and legacy right there, one he couldn't escape and which would have always came back to bite him in the ass, no matter what he did. Assassin's Blade was always going to find him, somehow.

Running his thumb along the edge of the sheath, Desmond looks to the back of the van and out of the tinted windows there. It's getting dark, getting late.

It is late and he's out of time. All the decades he's lived through and all the thousands of years they've had – tens of thousands of years and hundreds since they first learned of the Solar Flare… and it's all down to hours now. Juno had done her thing too damn well, slicing out whole swathes of time and deleting whole slews of options, cutting it all down to the wire. And it's only by accident Desmond even has these few hours now.

If Juno had her way, he wouldn't have learned until the final fucking seconds.

"Once I use the Eye, it will burn out, that's what will kill me," Desmond says, not looking up at his dad. "It's how Minerva designed it. She thought it was too dangerous to even exist, and she's right, so… it can be only used once and then it will self destruct. And take me with it."

"Why?" Bill demands. "Why take you?"

Desmond shrugs. "Accident, probably," he says. "I don't know. I don't care." And he doesn't have the will to blame her anymore. Why Minerva made the machine kill him doesn't even matter at this point. She did and that's how it is. Whatever.

It's the moment before he dies he's more worried about.

"Before the Eye burns itself out and kills me… I can do… anything," Desmond says quietly and shakes his head. "I'm going to do what Juno planned me to do, I'm going to supercharge the magnetosphere and shield the planet from the Flare, just like she planned. But… I can do other things too."

Bill nods slowly. "And what are you going to do, son?" he asks quietly.

Desmond looks up at him and presses his lips together. They've gotten closer, and it's obvious that his dad has some regrets, mistakes he's hoping to fix, but… He's still William Miles, the Mentor of the Assassin's Brotherhood. And what Desmond has brewing up in his head kind of breaks all the tenets, doesn't it? Except maybe one. Nothing is true, everything is permitted. Ironically, how fucking true is that coming out to be.

"I guess whatever I can to make it better," Desmond murmurs and looks away. "Gonna prioritise saving the world, though. Sorry Dad. Don't think I could live with myself otherwise."

Bill reaches out to grip his shoulder, firm and just toeing the line of desperate, but supportive anyway. Desmond lays his hand on top of his and leans into it, and pretends, just for a moment, that it's all going to be alright.

In the end, it takes him less than ten minutes to find the Key in Connor Davenport's grave.

And time is still ticking on.

"Hey, Rebecca," Desmond says, hopping out of the van, the disk shaped key in hand. "Can I talk with you for a moment? Alone?"

His Dad and Shaun glance back at him and Desmond shuffles his feet, awkward. It's probably a bit rude, especially at this stage, to keep secrets, but… what can he do, really? His dad wouldn't understand and there is no way in hell Shaun would agree to what he has in his mind and he has to talk to somebody. Rebecca is all there is.

"Sure thing, Desmond," Rebecca says, easy and open, and waves Shaun off. "What's up?"

Desmond waits until Shaun and Bill go, both of them throwing glances back at them, partially curious and partially understanding. Wonder what they think it's about. Last goodbye maybe?

"You said... whatever I do, you're behind me," Desmond says. "You mean that?"

Rebecca blinks and then becomes serious. "At this point… yeah. Hundred percent," she says, looking between the Key and him. "Thinking it's not going to be good, though."

"It's probably not," Desmond agrees and sets the Key on a piece of rock. He doesn't know how it works, really, but it's Isu tech, so there might be… something about it which will let Juno hear them through it. Better not risk it. "Come on – let's get out of electronics' range. I got… something to ask you. Or run by you, I guess."

They walk a bit further from the car, Rebecca turning her electronics off as they go, powering down her phone and turning her smart watch off. "Okay, all done," she says and looks up to him. "What is it, Desmond? What are you going to do?"

"I… think I'm going to fuck up all of history," Desmond says quietly and looks at her, watching her expression carefully. If she thinks it's stupid… "Juno's been messing with us and Templars since Altaïr's time. I want to go back and… stop her from doing that."

To her credit, Rebecca doesn't look like she thinks he's lost his mind. Actually, she kind of looks like she was expecting it. "It's probably going to take more than just that, Desmond," she says quietly, watching him seriously. "If she can influence people through all the Pieces of Eden… it's gonna take more that just changing the start."

"Yeah, I know," Desmond agrees quietly. "But I can't just go back and destroy her here without destroying the Temple - we still need it. But if I get there and cut her off somehow before she can start changing things and making a mess of everything, then maybe…" he trails off, frustrated. "I have to try."

Rebecca frowns, rubbing her hands together. "Eight hundred years, Desmond," she says. "Eight hundred years of potential manipulation and changes to history. That's… a lot."

"Yeah," he says and grimaces. Eight hundred years and a few hours to plan it. "I think I'm going to have to try it anyway. Will you help me?"

She's quiet for a moment looking at him and then blowing hot air into her hands. Then she nods. "Alright. What do you need?"

Chapter Text

Shaun has some… regrets. A lot of them, actually, and though he would like to not dwell on them, dwell on them he does, with all the what-ifs and could've-beens there in, worrying on each point until he's turned it into a vase for all of those what-ifs, something to hold onto all of the potentials and maybes and – overall it's probably not very healthy. But they're Assassins. Their lives aren't very healthy.

Desmond is the first living thing he's regretted and he regrets it a lot. Regrets the months spent being suspicious and aloof, not getting close. There'd been reasons – good reasons, Shaun feels – but all of those reasons seem increasingly worse as they get closer and closer to the finish line.

First, Desmond was bit of a pushover. Didn't even try to escape Abstergo – that just rubbed Shaun in all the wrong ways. Desmond just laid down and took it and, just… who does that? There's being lazy and then there is Desmond Miles who rolls with the punches of a fucking kidnapping. It just did not agree with Shaun on any level, and who cares if there was little Desmond could've done in the situation – he didn't even try. That was the first point of contention for him.

The second one, the arguably worse one was that… Desmond was an Animus Subject, and according to Lucy, the best one they ever had. They got clearer pictures, longer sessions, whole narratives out of Desmond where their previous best, Subject 16, only got flickers of images and blurry moments hard to discern the meaning or purpose of. Compared to all the previous subjects who were like film projectors that couldn't roll a film properly, Desmond is a digital library of videos.

And all the previous Subjects, one and all, went a bit nuts. Including the bastard running the show, Subject Number 1, Vidic. Desmond being the best and brightest of the lot just meant that he was going to go insane that much faster. Any day now, they'd find him writing obsessively on the walls with his own blood. Right?

No, never happened, the most Desmond did was freeze up and stare at nothing for a bit. After Lucy, he didn't even bother to comment on his bleeding effects anymore, if he even had them. Insane or not, the guy is infuriatingly stable – and Shaun isn't sure he's ever seen him write on anything, never mind walls. The guy doesn't even write emails.

Lastly, Desmond could've been an Abstergo plant. After all, what did they really know about Desmond and the nine years he spend running? The guy says he was a bartender, they have the records of it, sure – but really. He stayed out of the Assassins' and Abstergo's radar while working in a service job. According to Lucy, he had fake IDs, didn't use his real name, and only got caught when purchasing a motorbike he had to put in his fingerprints and really, fingerprints? How did Abstergo get his DNA read from fingerprints submitted to the DMV?

There's just something that doesn't add up with Desmond.

So Shaun kept his distance, tried to keep a clear head, tried not to get attached, get involved. Desmond is just the job and that's it – get his memories, get the ball rolling, and hopefully one day get out of the whole Animus Mission and go back to running Assassin teams. That was his plan and he was going to stick to it.

Until the end of the world started. And Desmond let them know stopping it was going to kill him. Sacrifice him on the literal altar to actual roman gods.

There are hours left now, and fuck. Shaun has regrets. He regrets that in his last final fucking hours, the only one among their tiny group that Desmond turns to is Rebecca. Not him, certainly not his dad, but Rebecca – the one who put him in the Animus and, arguably, made him lose his mind. Hell, if Lucy was still around, it would probably be her – the actual Abstergo plant. There are three people here on Desmond's literal final hours, and of them he only trusts one.

Everyone dies alone, sure, but fucking hell.

It just isn't right.

Shaun hesitates for a while, watching from the side as Desmond and Rebecca lean over Rebecca's computer. He pretends for a moment that they're writing a will for Desmond or something like that – but no, that won't be it. For one, Desmond doesn't have anything much to leave behind and for two… Rebecca looks too damn determined for it to be something as simple as that – and she doesn't look sad enough. They're planning something. Desmond is going to sacrifice his life – and they're planning something.

And Shaun can't pretend he doesn't know what that something is. They're just not very subtle about it, are they?

He turns away, to his own computer. Juno is suspiciously absent, probably preparing for her final push or whatever. Bill has wandered off to the wall, to stare at it like it's about to kill his son. They still have to open it – according to Desmond, they have a few hours left, and if he uses the Eye now, there's a chance it will be just a bit too early. So they're waiting, counting down to the end… and Rebecca and Desmond are planning something.

Shaun rubs a hand over his face and then opens his laptop, opens the files there. Three months and thirteen days they've been at this, and through several centuries, from Renaissance to Civil War and bits and bobs in between. Before that, the Crusades. It's a lot of time to cover. Thankfully, Shaun doesn't delete his files – he has everything saved up. Including all the files Lucy brought back from Abstergo, carefully screened through for bugs and viruses and even so kept quarantined.

Viewing it all would be an issue, though. It's thousands of files. Too many to print. And where Desmond is going, well… Shaun doubts there'd be a way to recharge things back there. His phone, maybe, if he brings in a solar charger.

This is so stupid, but – Shaun has regrets. Who knows how many Desmond has, with all the power of several ancestors and all their histories and mistakes.

So he starts selecting files and printing out the more important ones. Dates, names, places, explanations, yeah, but more importantly maps, devices, culture and symbolism, methods, meanings. Then, thinking about it, Shaun prints out a whole slew of first aid and sanitation guides. And then how to make medicine from plants and a whole small folder for making penicillin alone. With Desmond's luck, he'd die of infection before he even got anything done. Actually might as well do a thing for dysentery and scurvy and… Actually he should just give Desmond some of his books, shouldn't he?

Shaun ends up printing almost hundred pages – a whole thing of printing paper goes into it. It's probably more than Desmond feels like carrying around, however it's gonna work, but Rebecca is getting things for Desmond too – and yeah, Shaun did spot her packing away a solar charger into Desmond's backpack, so that's one thing less to worry about. Shaun puts everything on the SD card just in case. Several SD cards. Then, thinking about it, he downloads everything into his phone and then takes the whole load and walks over to Rebecca's desk.

They both jump as he drops the whole load of papers, two books, the SD cards and the phone beside them on the stone table. "There."

"Shaun?" Rebecca asks, quickly closing whatever she's doing on her computer.

"Maps, names, places, historical explanations, so on and so forth," Shaun says and hands his phone over to Desmond. "Got everything downloaded onto this too, just in case. Try not to lose it immediately. And here, everything backed up on these. Please tell me you're taking back up phones with you, and at least a tablet if not a laptop. Is the charger you're bringing good enough to charge them? Maybe you should take backups. Do we have more of them?"

Desmond and Rebecca stare at him, wide-eyed, and then Desmond glances up quickly to see where his dad is. Still by the barrier. Frowning, he turns back to Shaun and doesn't say anything.

"How'd you know?" Rebecca asks then.

"It's my job to know," Shaun says and folds his arms. "And you're not very good at hiding things."

"I thought you'd be against this," Desmond mutters.

"I am," Shaun mutters. He's very carefully been avoiding thinking about the implications, because, bloody hell, implications. "But I figure you got this opportunity for a reason, and if you're going to try it, I might as well make sure you know what you're doing, at least some of the time. You're heading back to Altaïr's time, right?" That seemed to be a key feature in Desmond's thing after what he learned from the disc anyway, how everything started.

Rebecca shifts guiltily as Desmond glances at her. "Yeah," Desmond says slowly.

"Do you know what you're doing?"

Desmond tilts his head a bit. "I'm going to get the Apple before either Templars or Assassins do," he says. "And take it from there."

"Typical," Shaun says and then jumps a bit as a golden spectre whirls past them, making a noise – but not staying. Juno, coming or going, who knows – who bloody cares at this point. "What are you researching?" he asks then, turning to Rebecca.

"Er – stuff Desmond can grab along the way?" Rebecca says and opens the window she had on. It's a list of Abstergo's known warehouses and Assassin hideouts – and various other things, what Assassins know about headquarters and storage spaces of various groups of organised crime and so forth.

Shaun narrows his eyes. "Grab along the way?" he asks. "Some of these things are in bloody Argentina, how are you going to grab them?"

"With the Eye," Desmond says and shrugs. "I don't know if I can, but it is kind of all-powerful. And I don't want to go back empty handed – if I can use it to reach out and equip myself…" he trails off. "A bit more efficient than bringing things here."

Huh. That's actually smarter than Shaun expected. Also really bloody scary. "Okay, you can maybe do this. Why not just… go back and delete Juno's AI or whatever from history?" he asks.

Desmond shakes his head. "She's interwoven herself into the Temple," he says regretfully. "It's part of the reason why it finished at all. I take her out, and the Eye won't work. And we need it. Even if this," he motions to the computer, "works, the solar flare is still always going to happen. And in the future, people need to stop it somehow."

"Ah. Well… shit."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees and looks at him. "Any suggestions on what else I should bring?"

Shaun rubs a hand over his neck. What else to bring to a trip back in time. One way trip, probably. "You probably shouldn't bring more than you can carry, unless you want to irreversibly change the damn timeline," he mutters and then gives Desmond a suspicious look. Desmond clears his throat and looks away. Great – there's hoping the damn timeline is still here when Desmond is done.

Not thinking about the implications. The world is ending anyway, Desmond is going to sacrifice himself to save them – the guy kinda deserves this. Probably. Fuck it.

"Information is the thing you need the most," Shaun says through gritted teeth. "Information about history – the future. Sciences, engineering, medicine. Stuff you might need so that if something happens, you can fix it yourself. You're bringing guns?"

"Sort of."

"Ezio's bracer," Rebecca explains. "With the gun – it's relatively easy to make and easy to load and doesn't take any premade bullets, just balls."

"And materials to make bombs," Desmond says. "Like Yusuf taught him."

"Who?"

"Ah, that was – when I was in coma. Another Assassin, Yusuf Tazim taught Ezio to make bombs in the memories I lived through. They were pretty handy and can probably be made with what's at hand then," Desmond says and shrugs. "Gunpowder and stuff might be an issue, though, so Rebecca is finding me some in this time."

Shaun stares at him. "I guess I should be glad you're not bringing a fucking sniper rifle," he mutters.

"I was thinking about it, but I wouldn't know how to fire it and bullets would be an issue," Desmond admits.

Oh god, he's actually putting some thought into this, they're all doomed. Shaun rubs a hand over his forehead and looks at Rebecca. "How are you going to get Ezio's bracer – that thing has probably rusted through ages ago. Scratch that, it definitely has."

"I'm getting the designs, and the materials so that Desmond can make it himself once he gets to the other side," Rebecca says and nods to the screen. "Some of more modern parts fit. Also, a whole bag of balls for it, stuff like that."

Shaun's mind is kind of trying to bend itself backwards, imagining it. "Can you even smith?" he asks Desmond rather plaintively.

Desmond gives him a look. "I grew up on a Farm," he says. "An Assassin Farm. It's been a while, but I think I can figure it out eventually. And I watched Leonardo da Vinci do it. What's a better training than that."

The guy is actually doomed. The whole timeline is doomed.

Shaun stares at Desmond probably for too long in a sort of dismayed horror – the guy starts awkwardly shifting his footing eventually. "This is a terrible idea, isn't it?" Desmond asks.

"Yes. It is." Shaun says slowly. It's a terrible idea and they have only a couple of hours left, probably, to make it work somehow. Shaking his head, Shaun turns around to get back to his laptop. "Give me a moment, I think I should have a guide on blacksmithing somewhere."

Everything seems to be going a bit dark around the edges of his vision. Probably not a good sign. Oh god, doomed, they're all doomed.

Rebecca hesitates and then gets up and follows him. "Hey – Shaun?" she asks while behind them Desmond folds his arms and turns to Rebecca's computer. "Do you think, maybe… I mean…"

"No," Shaun says and digs into his files again, looking for the right guide. He did two months at the historical museum, learning stuff about how things were done during and around the Renaissance, and that included blacksmithing. He should still have the pdf – ah, there. "I am not going back to medieval times. And you'd lose your mind there, without computers and internet and everything. You know you would."

Rebecca grimaces like she agrees, but she still frowns, folding her arms and leaning onto his slab-of-a-rock desk, looking back to Desmond. "What he's planning, he's going to need all the help he can get," she murmurs. "I – yeah, I'd probably be useless, but you –"

"No way in hell, Rebecca," Shaun says, and gets another SD card and starts to download everything he has on it. Fuck it, what's the worst that could happen – end of the world? Hah. "I would go mental and die of dysentery. I'll take my chances here, thank you very much."

Rebecca is quiet for a moment. "It just feels like…" she trails off and grimaces. "Well, it might not even work. Desmond says the chance that he'll just flat out die without getting to do much more than what Juno intends is pretty high. Trying to take us with probably wouldn't even work…"

Shaun leans his hands onto the volcanic rock, his arms straight and his head bowed for a moment. Die. Yeah. That. "Fuck," he mutters and reaches to rub at his eyes under his glasses. "Find him a first aid kit or something, okay? A good one. With all the bells and whistles."

"You got it," Rebecca murmurs and puts a hand on his for a moment, squeezing his fingers painfully against the rock. Then she heads back to her computer, to talk to Desmond quietly.

"This is fucking mental," Shaun mutters and waits until the download finishes.

One hour. Half an hour. Fifteen minutes.

Desmond loads his backpack with everything Shaun got for him and then stares at the list Rebecca had found, with all the things he could and should try and grab with the cosmic omnipotence machine before it fried his brains out or whatever. Shaun tries not to think about how it works – what Desmond is actually doing and how it might affect everything. It really might, probably would, wipe them all out of history. Not that Shaun has asked Desmond exactly what his goal is going to be, but he can figure it out. It's not very complicated. It would thoroughly alter history, if Desmond succeeds.

Yeah, they're all going to be wiped out, aren't they?

Bill, if he suspects anything, doesn't say it – he gives them space up until the moment Rebecca closes her computer and Shaun shoves his laptop into Desmond's backpack for a good measure, because, fuck it, what is he even going to do with it after this? He's probably not even going to live through this. Shit. He might not exist at all soon.

They'd always figured this stuff would kill them sooner or later, but… not like this.

And then Desmond takes out the Grand Temple key they got from Connor Davenport's grave, and time's up.

"Guess this is it," Desmond murmurs and looks at the Key. It's glowing faintly in his palm. Then he looks away, to the Precursor disc sitting by Rebecca's computer and reaches to take it too. "Yeah," he murmurs and shoves the thing into the pocket of his jeans. "This is it."

"We're right behind you," Rebecca says and takes Desmond's hand in hers. Shaun steps to his other side, resting a hand on his shoulder. It's about as much as he can do without choking up.

Bill looks them over with an unreadable expression and then nods to Desmond. "Let's go."

Together they turn to the barrier and begin the long, final walk. And at the end of it, Desmond will be gone. Whatever happens, Desmond will be gone. Gone.

Bloody hell, Shaun really regrets never getting Desmond to mix some drinks for them. They'd talked about it back in Monteriggioni, but Lucy had a strict no alcohol policy, and drinking under the gaze of Bill Miles was just wrong, so it never happened. A weird thing to regret now, but… Desmond is a bartender. Was a bartender. It would've been nice to see something he could do, outside of all this Animus bollocks.

It's a long way to the barrier – long, and over all too soon. Then Desmond is inserting the key into the awaiting slot on the glowing barrier, and, just like that… it's gone.

Beyond it there's a pedestal, on it a large orb – on the other side Juno, waiting for them.

"Thousands of years," she says to Desmond. "Thousands of years and so much effort. You can't ruin it now."

"I'm not going to ruin it, Juno," Desmond says, while Bill frowns and Rebecca clutches onto Desmond's hand harder. "I'm doing what you want, aren't I? I'm going to use the Eye to save the world, just like you wanted."

"Not like this," Juno says and steps forward. "You know our stories now, you've seen how we failed, where our arrogance led us. But I know the way now, Desmond, I know how to make it right. This last deed must be done right and unhindered by bias – only do this," she says desperately, motioning to the pedestal. "Only this and nothing more."

"Son?" Bill asks. "What is she talking about?"

Desmond doesn't answer. Shaun drops his hand from Desmond's shoulder, awkward and uneasy, while Desmond gently loosens his hand from Rebecca's. "Unhindered by bias – that's a lot coming from you, Juno."

"I did what I had to do –"

"You did what you wanted," another voice speaks, and Shaun turns sharply to see Minerva, stepping forward out of nothingness. It obviously surprises Juno, to see her, she positively gapes at the other Precursor – but not Desmond. He doesn't even turn to look. "You only ever did what you wanted, Juno. None of it was for the world, only for yourself."

"You – but how?" Juno asks. "You left, you destroyed the device –"

"Did you think it was the only one – that I could not build another?" Minerva says to her and then turns to Desmond. "The path you are taking will change everything, Desmond – are you sure?"

"Not one bit. I'm going to do it anyway. I have to," Desmond admits, while Juno lets out a strangled sound of objection.

"You cannot!" she snaps. "You will undo everything! You will ruin everything!"

Minerva reaches out to touch Desmond's hand. "There will only be one chance, Desmond. You will not reach this place again," she tells him quietly. "And all you will ever have is the time of a mortal man – you will never see the result of this."

"I know," Desmond says and smiles, lifting his hand, and Minerva's with it. "Still going to do it."

"Then I will help you," Minerva says and turns to face the Eye. "I will help guide the way."

"Desmond," Bill says and steps forward, frowning. "What is this, what are you going to do?"

"Sorry, Dad," Desmond says and glances back at him. "I figured you wouldn't agree to it, so… Rebecca and Shaun can explain."

"Thanks, Desmond, mighty nice of you," Shaun says sarcastically, and the asshole just grins at him.

"It is time," Minerva says. "The flare has begun. Soon, it will reach this world. It is time."

"Gotta go," Desmond says and looks at them. "Thanks, guys. For everything. And, ah – I left some recordings. They're in the Animus. If there's time, you can… you should go through them."

Bill opens his mouth and then reaches and grabs Desmond into a hug. "I don't know what you're doing," he says. "But I trust you, son. Good luck."

Desmond squeezes his eyes shut and nods. "Thanks Dad. I appreciate it," he whispers and draws a wet breath after Bill releases him and steps back.

"Give 'em hell, Desmond," Rebecca says, her lips quivering.

"And try not to get killed," Shaun agrees, and his lips are not quivering and anyone who says they are is lying.

Desmond nods, his eyes glistening. Juno is gone and as Desmond turns to the Eye, Minerva fades into golden flickers and then it's just Desmond. "You guys should back away – like, a lot," he says and lifts his hand towards the glowing Eye. "This is… this is probably gonna be rough."

They back hurriedly away and once they're at a safe distance, Desmond turns away. There's no break, no moment, no breath. No preparation. No second thoughts. This is it.

Desmond puts his hand on the pedestal.

Chapter Text

The treasure isn't there.

Kadar looks up, fending of another attack as Malik hovers over the golden casket above, it's lid pushed off, teetering on the edge of the box. There is nothing in it – Kadar can see it on Malik's face, on his frantically searching eyes and his slightly parted lips – he is looking for the famed treasure, and it is not there. The Ark of the Covenant is empty.

They have died for nothing.

"Stop him!" Robert de Sablé shouts and one of the knights pulls out a bow. Malik moves and the arrow misses him, but the fight continues. On Kadar's both sides, there are soldiers, bearing down. Robert de Sablé himself has his eyes on Malik.

And Altaïr is gone, the path he'd been thrown through had closed behind him, collapsed. He could not come to their aid, even if he wanted to. And Kadar isn't sure he would want to – Altaïr had not been much like he had expected him to be. Only way they have is back the way they came from, and the route up there is too slow, too open, retreat would not be easy. Already the way on the ground floor of the cave is blocked.

Kadar is going to die. The realisation comes to him on the edge of a blade, clashing against his sword with a force he can't quite halt. There are too many soldiers and Robert de Sablé, though not engaged in combat with him, is too skilled and too strong. Kadar is going to die here. Malik is up above him, by the Ark, on the level with the walls on the opposite side – he can make it if he jumps far enough, he can make it and run, but Kadar is blocked off. He's going to die.

It makes him calm – that's unexpected. He is trained and has prepared for the possibility of death. Malik himself had taught him, told him, "Death comes to us all and it need not be feared. Nothing waits us on the other side, no Hell and no Heaven, we go to death like to sleep and in it we have rest. But don't look to seek it, brother. Welcome it when it comes, but fight its entry to your house."

Assassins die young, they die alone, they die unknown and unseen, slipping away from the Brotherhood sometimes without word and without sound, leaving the rest of them to wonder where they had gone and what fate had befallen them. Kadar would die before being initiated, unknown in the broader scheme of the Brotherhood – but he would die remembered. Malik would remember him. Malik would live. Kadar will make sure of it.

But he hadn't expected the calm. The quiet certainty, the almost dizzying lack of fear. He is going to die, and he is no longer afraid or alarmed.

"Brother, jump!" he shouts and swings his sword at the nearest soldier – it goes too wide, too far, but it makes the soldier back away. "Run, tell Al Mualim what happened here – run!"

"Kadar," Malik says, helpless.

"Jump!"

"Neither of you is going anywhere," Robert de Sablé snaps and grabs the bow from the soldier still holding it, wrenching out a fistful of arrows from his quiver. Most of them rain on floor but one of them stays in his hand – he sets it on the string and draws the bow with speed and strength that's more than alarming.

Malik attempts the jump – it's a long way from where he is, on the wall with the Ark, but Kadar knows his brother's capabilities, with proper launch he can make it, he can make it –

The arrow catches Malik on the arm, tears through the fabric of his sleeve, and he comes down too soon – he cannot reach for the ledge. He crashes down instead, and Kadar sees him roll just in time to stop his ankles from breaking – and then a blade catches Kadar.

A blinding, nauseating blow across his stomach and the sound of cloth tearing. He feels the warmth of blood spreading across his stomach first, sees it spread across the white of his gambeson. The pain comes only moments after and with it the realisation. The skin of his stomach is torn open in a long cut. He can't tell the severity of the damage, but the blood comes out vividly red and plentiful – even if his insides are not torn, the blood loss would kill him.

This is how he is going to die. That is fine – it doesn't hurt as much as he feared, when he first contemplated death, years ago. This is fine. Kadar looks up – Malik has rolled past him, he's clear of the soldiers; if he runs up the ladder fast enough, he can make it.  

"Run, brother," Kadar says. "Run!"

Malik looks back, he assesses the situation in a single blink – he must see it too. There is no way for them to both make it. If they both turn and run, the soldiers would pick them off with arrows. And Kadar is injured mortally now. The pain is a distant thing, but he already feels a little weaker, the floor tilting under him – he would never make it out of here alive.

"Run," Kadar tells him again, calm, and turns to face the soldiers. Robert de Sablé is coming at them with his sword – Kadar barely makes it in time to block him. He hears more than sees the knife Malik throws, halting the process of another soldier – then Malik runs, his feet clattering hard on the wooden ladder.

Kadar stays and faces his fate without fear. He might have died for nothing in the end, the treasure they searched for isn't even there, but his brother would live. That is good enough for him. One might even call it a honourable death, if such thing exists for Assassins.

"Safety and peace, brother," he murmurs after Malik and then lifts his sword just in time to meet the blade of Robert de Sablé, which bears down on him with the weight of a boulder, too fast and too strong to be stopped. Kadar's sword falls, comes close to his shoulder, almost cuts him instead of his opponent, he makes out from under it just in time and tries to guide the knight's sword away – but Robert de Sablé is already moving to another attack. Another clash of blades, even harder this time, and Kadar doesn't have the strength to stop it.

He falters, and as he does, Robert de Sablé switches to one handed sword play – and uses his free hand to land a heavy blow on Kadar's temple.

The sight of his brother escaping is the last thing Kadar sees.

There's thunder. Is it raining? He feels cold, wet, his fingers and toes are numb. Everything is dark. A flash of light and a crack of thunder – a thud, someone walking, falling? Kadar isn't sure. Everything is so slow.

A weight on his stomach and pain. Someone touching him. Face in the shadow, barely visible – familiar. "Altaïr?" he asks, but it comes out without a sound, barely a breath.

"Hold on," a voice says. "I'll get you out of here."

World stops and stills and then moves. Pain makes nausea bubble in Kadar's belly, deep and overwhelming – he is being lifted up, pushed and prodded and then there is something at his back, cold and hard. Wall. He's propper against it and Altaïr crouches over him, tearing into his clothes, ripping his gambeson open and tugging his tunic from under his belt. Air is frozen against the skin of his belly and there is pain that cuts deep and undeniable into his very core.

Kadar looks down and sees nothing but red mess and ruin.

"Leave me," he gasps. "I am not long for this life."

Altaïr glances up at him and it is – strange. His clothes are wrong. Dark robe and hood, nothing like Assassins hood. Had he been forced to don on a disguise? Malik told Kadar that Altaïr never deigned for such things, thought himself above him. Kadar had always thought his brother must be too harsh on the Eagle of Masyaf, Malik always had a sense of fairness about him that bordered on harsh, and the praise Altaïr garnered rubbed wrong on him. Altaïr must not be against it, after all – here he is, wearing civilian clothes, not a sign of Assassin's robes in sight and –

"Ngh," escapes from Kadar's throat. Time has moved without him realising – Altaïr is now bandaging his stomach with white cloth so clean it seems to shine. There's a thicker wad of cloth against the cut, Altaïr is wrapping it tight against Kadar's stomach now, pinning it in place.

It makes pain bloom like flame all across Kadar's belly. His insides must be torn.

"Altaïr –" Kadar says and then stops. There are lights in distance. Where is he? In the Temple of Solomon, he thinks, but the edges of his vision are dark, he cannot quite tell. Those are torches, however, and men carrying them. "Enemies," he says.

Altaïr glances back and stands up and then he's gone. Kadar watches it all happen but understanding is sluggish. Altaïr climbs a wall and sits in wait – when the two soldiers come through the opening in the wall, he drops down on them silently like a cat on hunt – both soldiers go down in clatter of armour but without making a sound otherwise. There is blood on Altaïr's blades as he pulls them back – he has two hidden blades now, one on each arm, and as Kadar watches the blades disappear past his wrists.

Altaïr extinguishes the torches and comes back to him. "Time to go," he says, finishes binding the bandage, and then Kadar's world tilts. Altaïr tucks his head down and rolls Kadar's whole body to his shoulders, lifting him up with Kadar's thigh on his right shoulder, and his arm on his left.

The pain of weight coming onto the injury pulls Kadar under just as Altaïr turns to the ladder, and begins to climb.

Kadar dreams of blades and flashes of blood, the crack of thunder in a cave and Altaïr, holding in his hands something that glows blue. There is pain, intermittent and lingering and then there is nothing. Something on his lips, a voice telling him, "It's medicine, drink up," and then nothing. Voices murmuring quietly. Light behind his lids, but he can't seem to open then. His body being shifted. Something wet and blissfully cold on his forehead. Pinch of pain on his arm, dragging sensation under his skin. Calm.

Everything is quiet when he wakes up. He is lying down on something soft, his torso bare under a blanket. To the right of him there is light, an oil lamp with a steady, small flame burning at its nozzle. It lights up the face of a man sitting by it, legs crossed and book in his lap. Altaïr – except…

Kadar's breathing must've changed and given him away because the man looks up. Kadar tries to make sense of his face. It is so much like Altaïr's that the similarity confuses his mind – this man even has a scar exactly where Altaïr has a similar cut. But something about him is different. The expression, the eyes. Kadar can't quite put a finger on it, but he knows, somehow, that this man cannot be Altaïr. He's wearing wrong clothes too. The dark robe from before has been changed into a white one, now – but it's a scholar's robe, not an Assassins'.

The man closes the book and rises up silently, coming to his side. Kadar says nothing as the man touches his forehead first and then his neck in gesture which is surprisingly gentle. "Fever's coming down," the man murmurs and then pulls the blanket down to check at Kadar's stomach. Kadar looks down and finds his stomach bandaged, the bandage clean of blood. There is no pain. He was cut across the stomach in a blow that should have claimed his life in those conditions, but there is no pain.

"Why doesn't it hurt?" Kadar asks and finds his voice coming out soft and slurred, almost drunken.

"Some very good medicine," the man who is not Altaïr says and pulls the blanket back up. "Are you cold?"

"No," Kadar says – and even so, the man reaches for another blanket and pulls it on him. "Who are you?" Kadar asks.

The man doesn't answer. "I'll get you something to eat," he says instead and stands up. He's tall, Kadar thinks and watches him as he goes, across the room and then out. He's alone in a room he doesn't know, in a place he has no memory of arriving in. He should be afraid.

Time moves slowly, softly. The man must have given him opium. The thought should be alarming, but it isn't. He's been tended to, his injuries seen to. How the man did it, Kadar doesn't know, but he is not dead.

The room he is in is barely more than a cave, he finds. It's man made but rough – the walls are badly formed, plastered unevenly with clay. This is not the room of a rich man. Perhaps a bolt hole, and not a permanent residence. There are no tapestries to keep out the cold and there's no proper fireplace or even a brazier. There is a chamber pot by the door, though.

Kadar makes to get up, but his arms shake and his shoulders feel weak – he falls back on the pillows without making any effort. There he lies, lost in the blurry sensation of weakness, until the man comes back.

With him he has a roughly made bowl, filled to the brim with steaming soup. "Here," he says, coming to Kadar's side. "It's thin enough that you should be able to just drink it."

"Thank you," Kadar murmurs and then blinks. "I cannot get up."

"It's the medicine," the man says and sets the bowl down on the floor to help him up, piling up pillows behind him and easing him back against them. "Do you think you can hold the bowl?"

"Not without spilling it," Kadar admits, and then has to be helped to eat. The soup is an odd mixture of fish and beans and roots, but it's been seasoned with something that gives it an odd but pleasant enough taste. And Kadar, much to his surprise, finds that he's starving.

With the man's help, he drinks the whole bowl in slow sips. The man says nothing as he helps him, just waits patiently until he is done and sets the bowl down. "You should sleep some more," he says then.

"I need to use the chamber pot."

The man glances at him and then nods and goes to bring it closer. He helps Kadar up enough to use it, the whole affair a little embarrassing, but the man makes no comment, only holding him upright until he's done and then waiting until Kadar has covered himself up again before helping him down.

"Who are you?" Kadar asks again. He cannot image Altaïr ever doing something of this nature, but the man looks so much like him. "How did you find me – why did you help me?"

The man takes the chamber pot back to the doorway, closing its lid and then coming back to pick up the soup bowl. "Sleep," he says and then he's gone.

Kadar stares after him, after the closed door flap – eventually he sleeps.

His skin has been sewn. Kadar stares at the neat line of thin stitches that run across his belly as his odd saviour and healer wipes the area with a cloth doused with something clear that stings in his nose – it makes the cut burn, but the man assures it's necessary. "It helps clean the wound," he says.

There is no sign of swelling or inflammation, the area around the cut is barely even red. "How am I not dead?" Kadar murmurs in wonder. He remembers the cut going deep. Surely it should have been infected at least, but instead it looks cleaner than an old scar – like a wound already healed and not one fresh enough to still bleed if he moves wrong.

The man doesn't answer, finishing wiping the area around the stitches and then reaching for something. He is keeping his tools out of Kadar's view, hiding the medicine jar with his sleeve as he takes a dollop of some odd, viscous looking grease and starts spreading it directly over the stitches. This time, Kadar feels nothing, only the after effects of the cleaning potion he used first.

"You should be good to go in a day or so," the man says. "I'll give you some medicine to take with you, which… might look a little odd to you, but please, take them." He turns away, takes out something that rattles like a child's toy, and then shows Kadar a handful of white pellets. "Eat one of these every morning and every evening," he says. "I'll give you enough of them for a week, that should be enough to make sure the wound heals alright."

"What are they made of? Opium?" Kadar asks, fascinated.

"Something like it," the man says and puts the odd pellets away. "I'll give you something for the pain too, which you can take when you need it. That should see you through."

"Thank you," Kadar says and looks at his face. Still so much like Altaïr's and still so strangely unlike his. "But please – why are you doing this? These medicines must be… valuable. Why use them on me?"

The man shakes his head. "Just take them, alright?" he says and then reaches for a wad of cloth and a roll of his thin white gauze which he uses to bandage Kadar's belly. Kadar holds still as he does it, pinning the cloth in place with the gauze, once more marvelling at how clean and thin it is.

As the man starts to tie up the ends of gauze, Kadar catches a glimpse of them – the metal of the bracers hidden under his sleeves, the hidden blades. "You have all your fingers," Kadar murmurs and lifts his own hand. His fourth finger was removed, as per tradition, when he became a novice.

The man who looks like Altaïr looks at him, at his hand and the bracer on Kadar's arm – he hasn't taken it off, something Kadar wonders at and appreciates in equal amounts. Again, though, he doesn't answer, keeping his secrets to himself. Still, the hidden blade is an Assassin's tool and this man has two of them, can use them, he even has techniques specifically designed for the use of two. Kadar has never heard of such thing.

"You must know what I am," Kadar says, "and where I come from. When I leave I will tell my superiors about you."

"I know," the man says calmly. "I won't be here anymore when you do."

Kadar nods – he figured as much. "Can you not give me anything to tell them?" he asks rather hopelessly. "This is all so strange and I do not understand why you helped me."

The man says nothing for a moment, pulling his hands back and looking at him. It's a contemplative but calm look, and it sits on his features as well as the harsh scowl sits on Altaïr's. The familiarity and that dissimilarity is still so striking.  "You look like someone I know," Kadar says, his tone imploring, begging for answers. "Who is your father, do you know?"

Now the man sighs and shakes his head, turning away. He collects his medicine and tools and turns away, packing them into a pouch at his belt. "If you're feeling well enough for questions, I can have someone help you back to the bureau," he says. "You're past the worst point now, the rest is just rest and time."

"No, please," Kadar says. "I won't ask anything else."

The man glances at him. "Somehow I doubt that," he says wryly and collects his book from the floor. "Rest up, Kadar."

Kadar looks after him and frowns. He's not sure when he introduced himself to the man. Did he? It must have happened when he was delirious with fever.

Voices wake him up and Kadar looks up, blinking. He's cold and shivering and there is an ebbing pain that the medicine usually keeps at bay – he must've slept long enough for its effect to wear off. It's not a pleasant sensation, to feel how close to death he'd come.

His saviour is just stepping into the room, and he's being followed by two women in ragged robes – beggars, it looks like. He's talking to them quietly. "… you can leave him by the bench there," he says, taking something from his belt. He's wearing a new set of clothes again – he has armour now, a dark and dirty gambeson which looks like it was made for a man heavier than him, and a cowl with chain mail. At his belt he has a dagger. He looks like a warrior, now, rather than a scholar. "Do you think you can do it?"

"Just leave him? I think we can manage that," one of the women says and they turn to look at Kadar, who struggles to sit up. As he watches, his saviour hands the women something – coins, it looks like – which they quickly hide under their ragged robes and turn to him.

"Time for me to go, then?" Kadar asks, rather disappointed. He had not learned much of his saviour, and what little he had learned only roused many questions.

"You've healed cleanly," his saviour says and comes towards him. He has something hanging from his arm – cloth and gambeson. Kadar's own – all have been cleaned and patched up. "I think you should manage now. Here, your clothing."

"My thanks," Kadar says and then has to be helped into the tunic – stretching out his arm pulls at the injury painfully. He sighs as he gets the tunic on – but the gambeson makes him hesitate. It will be heavy to wear. "Dare I beg of you for another dose of that medicine?" Kadar asks wistfully.

To his surprise, the man who looks like Altaïr smiles at that – something Kadar has never seen Altaïr himself do. The man kneels down and then reaches for the pouches at his waist, taking out a folded piece of white cloth. In it's folds there are some of his medicinal pellets. "Here," he says and hands the packet over. "These are for the pain and these for the infection," he takes out another wrapped cloth – this one black. "Twice a day, Kadar, one in morning and one in evening until you run out. Do not stop taking them even if you feel better."

"Why not?"

"Sometimes even if you feel better you're still sick in some small way, and the infection might set in after," the man says. "Just take them all until you run out, please, and you should heal fine."

Kadar nods and takes both cloth parcels, taking one of the pellets for pain before sealing the little packet again. His savour hands him a water skin and Kadar downs the pellet. "Thank you," he says. "I wish I could repay you."

The man considers him for a moment and then helps him into his gambeson, the beggar women waiting behind him, watching with interest. "Tell Al Mualim that what he seeks is a trap," he says. "There is an evil will lingering in those treasures and it will corrupt all who reach for them. Assassins are far from immune."

Kadar's eyes widen and he opens his mouth to ask, but the man is standing up. None of his tools are left in the room, everything had been taken out – and the man is in armour. He looks fit to travel. He's going to leave Jerusalem, then, and all hope of finding him again would be lost.

"Tell him," the man says and turns to leave.

"Please – a name at least," Kadar says. "You saved my life, I would like to know who to credit for it!"

The man hesitates at the doorway. "No," he says then and offers Kadar an apologetic smile. "I don't want the Assassins after me, sorry. Just take your life and go, Kadar."

Kadar shifts to his feet. "Then, safety and peace upon you, brother. And thank you. I won't forget this."

The man offers him a slightly wider smile at that – then he's through the doorway and gone.

"Well," one of the beggar women says and looks at him. "Time to take you where you belong, then."

"I suppose it is," Kadar agrees and rests a hand on his stomach, healing miraculously well thanks to the nameless saviour. He checks that he has the medicine packed safely in his pouches and then takes his cowl and pulls it on. "How do you know him?"

"Dear man, if he won't tell you, why do you think we would break his confidence?" the woman asks and then comes to catch him as Kadar wavers where he stands. "Off we go, then."

The other woman comes to Kadar's other side, and together they half drag him away from his healing room. Outside it there is a larger room with a fireplace and pots and pans – and other people, men and women and children, living quietly in a commune it seems. The poor of Jerusalem, a lot of them pale westerners, it looks like. What a place for an Assassin to hide.

"He paid you to take me," Kadar murmurs, wondering at it. "Did he pay you to hide us?"

"Oh, he paid us for a lot of things," the other woman laughs.

"Shush," the other, older woman, says. "We will take you where he told us to take you, and that will be the end of it – and I thank you to ask no more questions. We might be poor, but we have our honour too, and he traded with us fairly. We won't break his trust."

Kadar is disappointed but not surprised. "Honour of beggars," he says. "I am humbled. Please forgive me."

The woman squints at him, like trying to figure out if he's mocking them. Then she harrumphs, and together with the younger woman she hauls him away, through the room and out to the alleyways of Jerusalem's poorer district. They make a surprisingly easy time of it, moving at steady pace and keeping well out of guards' view. The one time a guard does pay them any mind, the older woman nags at the man sharply, saying something along the lines of, "Look at what god has given me; a wastrel of a son, drunk again at noon! I toil all day to keep him fed and watered and he pays me back with wasting away all our coin –"

Kadar loses track of the words – the medicine, he realises, starts working somewhere in middle of the spiel. He lists to the side and then the guard is gone and they're moving again, the women half carrying him the last leg of the journey.

"There," the women say and land him on a bench just across the Assassins' Bureau in Jerusalem. "You have been given kindness," the older woman says, pushing his head back to rest against the wall behind him. "Don't waste it now."

"My thanks," Kadar slurs. "To him as well, if you see him again."

"We'll pass it on," the beggars say, and like wraiths vanish between one blink and the next. Kadar stares blearily at where they stood. The Assassins Bureau is just there, right across from him, something he didn't think he'd ever see again. Home away from home and safety, just within reach. He's alive. He faced his death and lived, after all.

That's how the Rafiq of Jerusalem eventually finds him – staring at nothing, alive and still marvelling at his own survival.

Chapter Text

Altaïr chafes, and it isn't only the hands and the heels of his feet that suffer under the punishment. His mind rebels it and as much as he hates it, he understands it – and perhaps hates it all the more for it.

Al Mualim has put him back in the practice ring – told him to run drills, to spar, to practice his swordplay like a juvenile novice new to his sword and too young to understand the damage it can do. It is a waste of his time and skills and everyone knows it – Al Mualim knows it better than anyone – but here he is anyway, facing against yet another novice who reaches too far with his sword and who opens too many lethal points in his guard and whom Altaïr would dearly wish to put in his place but…

But he has been at it for six hours now. Six hours of relentless beating and circulation of opponents. Farim is in charge of the training now, and Altaïr can see the pleasure he gets in seeing him brought low – and so he has given Altaïr no rest and no break. On each circulation, Altaïr gets a new opponent, another novice to face off, and then another and another. At first Altaïr could teach them their lessons without difficulty… but six hours is still six hours.

His arms are shaking now.

"What's the problem, Altaïr?" Farim asks over the noise of swords meeting and blows being exchanged. "You're lagging behind – are you truly so much of a novice that you can't keep up with simple training? Or have you grown so soft of late that the energy of youth surpasses you?"

Altaïr grits his teeth and says nothing – he knocks aside the hesitant sword coming at him and then trips his opponent to the ground with a foot behind his heel – the novice goes down without the skill of mitigating the blow and knocks his head on the hard packed dirt. He cries out, the child, and drops his sword. On battlefield, there would be dozen ways Altaïr could kill him now.

All he does now – all he can do, is take the blessed break and breathe. His clothing sticks to his back and his hood sags with the sweat soaked into it – it's more of a hindrance than a shelter now, half of his actions are done blinded by the beak. He's exhausted in a way he hasn't been in years.

"Ishan, switch with Mumin," Farim calls and Altaïr's opponent rises from the ground, reaching embarrassedly for his sword as another novice, fresh from moment of rest and awkward, steps in front of him. Ishan, like Mumin, is barely a man, voice yet broken. Altaïr could destroy him, had he but the energy left to do so.

"Well then," Farim says, folding his arms and not even hiding his smirk. "Get to it, show us how it is done, Altaïr, how one wields the blade like Master Assassin."

When Altaïr had been young and habitual visitor of the practice fields, he was the favourite of his teachers. He had seen others suffer this abuse, yes, boys too young and too stupid to obey and follow instruction, or too insolent to accept tutelage without putting their own flair to it. Altaïr had loved practice then, lived for it – eagerly waited for the time he could put it to more practical use. He had been the perfect student and rarely had to be put in his place – seeing it happen to others had always filled him with a dark sort of pity for them. Of course, they deserved it, the fools, they should have known better.

Altaïr draws a breath and lifts his sword and wonders if Farim will work at him until he collapses. He thinks he might. And soon Altaïr's pride won't be enough to keep him on his feet – soon he will turn and walk away from this blasted field, and then Farim would run straight to Al Mualim. And Altaïr has disappointed their Mentor enough.

"Engage!" Farim snaps and Altaïr moves, only to be stopped by another voice.

"Stop – Altaïr, come here."

He looks up, resisting the urge to tug at his hood – one eyed from under it he sees Al Mualim on the platform overlooking the practice field. The old man looks over them and then turns away and for a moment Altaïr wonders if it was his exhaustion and bitterness that conjured the voice and the old man had said nothing at all – but Ishan immediately lowers his sword, looking deeply relieved and Altaïr does the same.

"Saved by the Master once more," Farim says and walks over to them, looking displeased. "But even his patience with you wears thin, I think. Soon, he will only turn away and you will have nothing left to hide behind."

"I have never hidden behind anything nor am I about to start to," Altaïr snaps, his own patience worn down to it's last strands. "I am still your superior in skill and experience, Farim, you should do better to remember it." Lest that skill be used against him, he thinks but does not say out loud, not in front of the students.

"Not according to what I saw today," Farim sneers and holds out his hand. "Your sword, novice," he says then with obvious glee. "You are not permitted to carry it, after all."

Altaïr dearly wishes to thrust the damn sword through Farim. He hands it over instead and then gets off the field without another word. The stairs make his thighs strain after the work out he's gotten, but it's still a relief, not to be holding a sword.

Al Mualim is waiting him above. "Malik is in the physician's office – go get him and then come to my office," Al Mualim says. "I have news, and you both will hear it together."

"Yes, as you wish," Altaïr says and bows his head. Al Mualim says nothing more, simply walks away, and Altaïr turns to head to the door leading to the wing with the healing rooms.

He has not seen Malik since the day when he'd came back, bleeding and furious and mourning a brother. Altaïr hasn't exactly avoided it, he has nothing to fear from Malik, but the man has been scarce. In all likelihood, he has been absconded in the halls of the physicians, where they do what they can for his arm.

Or when they don't, Altaïr corrects himself when he finally finds Malik, sitting shirtless on a cot with sweat of pain on his brow and his injured arm gone. So, it had to be amputated after all.

Malik's years as Assassin were over.

"Al Mualim summons us," Altaïr says.

Malik looks up and despite the pain and exhaustion and what looks like fever of infection, there is powerful fury in his eyes. "And he sent you to carry the summons," he snarls and pushes himself up. His knees shake visibly as he walks over to the side, to grab a robe, a new one, still clean white. It's not an Assassin's robe, the front has more elaborate patterning than Assassin's are given.

Under the robe there is another, a black one.

Ah. So that would be Malik's fate. Where Altaïr had been demoted for his failure, Malik would be promoted for his.

Altaïr grits his teeth on the remark he wants to make, knowing it will only make Malik lash back in kind and he doesn't have the energy for it after the day's sparring. "I trust you know the way," he mutters and turns. Malik snaps something after him, but Altaïr is already out of the door, and making his way down the narrow corridor.

He chafes and it is infuriating that there is nothing he can do or say to make it better. His clothes are soaked in useless, wasted sweat and he is hungry, thirsty and in terrible need of a bath. Who knew if he would be given the chance of fulfilling any of these needs. He hadn't yesterday – even the cooks are punishing him and his entry to the bathing rooms has been barred.

They want to break him, Altaïr knows this. There would be little rest and respite until they'd brought him as low as they thought he deserved – and there isn't a soul in this castle who does not think it deserved. Not one.

Altaïr heads up to the castle proper, up the stairs and around the main hall, and finally in front of Al Mualim. The old man doesn't acknowledge him in any way, not until Malik makes his ways up there, some five minutes later. The new Dai looks even worse out of the chambers of healing and under the light of day – his skin is has a sickly, grey pallor to it.

Now Al Mualim turns to them. "I have news of Jerusalem," he says and waves a small piece of paper in air, a letter carried by a bird no doubt. "Kadar has been returned to us – alive."

"… what?" Malik demands while Altaïr scowls, confused.

"The Rafiq in charge of Jerusalem found him outside the bureau just a day ago," Al Mualim says and unfolds the message. "Someone had attended to his injuries and it looks like he will make a full recovery."

Altaïr casts a glance at Malik – Malik who'd raged and mourned and asked for his life in return for his brothers. Malik who it now looks like had only abandoned the said brother. "Ran away too soon, brother," he murmurs.

"You be quiet," Malik snaps and turns to Al Mualim. "Kadar's stomach was split open – I saw him go down," he says, not exactly in tones of excuse but still trying to excuse himself. "There was no way to get him – I was certain the Templars wouldn't spare him."

"Well they did, or perhaps simply left him to die, unknowing and uncaring of his ultimate fate," Al Mualim says and holds out the message – not to Altaïr, but to Malik. "There is the question of who saved him and why – and what they might know."

Altaïr doesn't lean in to look as Malik reads the message. Al Mualim is staring at him and Altaïr meets his eyes, trying not to appear as tired and filthy as he feels, reeking of sweat and covered in dust as he is. He doesn't know why he is here, but he can guess. He can also wait, even if it grates.

"Hmm," Malik says. "Someone other than us and the Templars knows of Solomon's Temple," he murmurs. "And got there in time to intervene…"

"So it would seem," Al Mualim says and looks between them. "It seems that the issue of the Temple is not yet resolved. If this man knew of the Temple enough to make his way inside and to the chamber where the treasure once laid, he might yet know where the treasure might have been taken. Altaïr, Malik – I have a mission for you."

"What is it that you require of me?" Altaïr asks.

Al Mualim harrumphs at him. "Malik, are you fit to travel?" Al Mualim asks.

"In a cart at most – I'll fall off a horse if I try to ride," Malik admits bitterly.

"Very well," Al Mualim says. "I am tasking you with the management of the Jerusalem Assassin Bureau, Malik. It has been without a proper Dai long enough – you will take over Naveed's duties, and the leadership of the Assassins in the city."

Malik blinks with surprise but bows his head. "I am honoured in your trust in me, Mentor," he says.

"Altaïr will go with you. Take a cart and all the provisions you need for the journey, and ride for Jerusalem," Al Mualim says and turns his eyes to Altaïr. "You are still ranked a novice, Altaïr, and a novice you will remain until you have proven yourself otherwise. You will work under Malik and together you will search for the fate of the treasure that was supposed to lie in Solomon's temple. Find what happened to it and, if you can, secure it."

They are Assassins and their business is blood and murder – and Al Mualim tasks them with treasure hunts. It too chafes – but he bites his tongue on it. "I can reach Jerusalem faster if I ride alone," Altaïr says. It is only true – travel on cart would take twice, if not trice as long as it would take him, alone on a horse.

"You will do as you're told and travel with Malik," Al Mualim snaps at him. "You will see him safely to Jerusalem and to his new post. Is that understood?"

"… Yes, Mentor."

"No," Malik says and reaches to place the letter on Al Mualim's desk. "Let Altaïr go ahead. Chances are, whoever aided Kadar will hide now, as he did not come forward with him he must have something to hide. The longer we delay, the less there will be to find. Let Altaïr go ahead and begin the investigation – I will catch up with him after, and we will convene with his findings."

Altaïr casts a glance at Malik but doesn't let his surprise show. He would not have expected aid from Malik, or for him to not take the opportunity to bring him to his own, slow, level. Everyone else in the castle certainly would have taken it.

"Hmm," Al Mualim answers and nods. "There is wisdom in your thinking," he says and looks to Altaïr. "You would do well to learn from Malik, my son," he says wryly. "He does not let his pride or personal feelings get in way of his duties."

"If that is all," Altaïr says through gritted teeth. "I should go and prepare for the journey ahead."

"Hmph," Al Mualim says. "You will go at once," he says and turns away. He takes something from the side, a familiar sheath – and in it Altaïr's sword. "Here," he says and lays the weapon on the desk. "The rest of your equipment you have not yet earned back, but I will not leave you without a weapon. Go, Altaïr – and do not waste Malik's wisdom."

Altaïr takes his sword and bows his head in lieu of answering.

"I will leave the management of the investigation to you, Malik," Al Mualim says and considers the pair of them. "I will leave Altaïr to you, for now," he says then, wry and amused. "May your wisdom prevail where mine failed and may you teach Altaïr humility and respect where he has none. He is to be your student, until he proves himself better or else fails and will be treated accordingly. Use him as you will."

"I am not –" Altaïr starts to say and then grinds his teeth together at the sharp glare Al Mualim sends him.

"A honour to be sure," Malik says, every word dripping with bitter sarcasm.

Al Mualim smiles and then looks to Altaïr. "Do not fail us again, Altaïr," he says. "Go."

Altaïr straps his sword back to his waist and takes little comfort in it as he and Malik bow and step back. Altaïr can feel the bitter fury bubbling inside him, it's good enough to burst but he says nothing. Silence would be better part of valour here – and according to those around him, he seems to have little of it to begin with.

"Go to Jerusalem," Malik says as they walk away from Al Mualim's office and now he sounds only tired and tense. "Kadar is in the Assassin's Bureau there – find him and learn what he knows, and investigate what he's found out. Do not act before I arrive, however. Only watch and listen."

"As you wish," Altaïr says, bitter.

Malik casts him a glance which is full of contempt. "You deserve all of this, Altaïr," he says. "I await eagerly the day when you realise it yourself."

Altaïr just barely keeps from sneering at him. "Anything you want me to tell to the brother you abandoned to his fate?" he asks.

"Tell him I'm coming to him soon," Malik says and turns away. "Now get out of my sight."

Altaïr harrumphs and then heads off. He has provisions to find and little hope of persuading the surly cooks to give him any – and chance is, the master of the stables would be ill willing to give him a good horse either. And then he has several days of riding ahead of him – after several days of relentless training behind.

This will not break him, he decides.

He won't let it.

By the time he arrives in Jerusalem, Altaïr is more than worn and beyond even anger. The horse he'd been given hadn't been anywhere near their best, no – an old mare that had foundered only two days into his journey and he'd been forced to trade it, poorly, with a farmer on the way – and the man's work horse was ill trained for riding, which had slowed his journey still. Out of provisions, filthy and exhausted, Altaïr positively limps his way to the gates of Jerusalem.

A sad state of any Master Assassin to arrive at mission location, isn't it?

Getting through them is no issue – he has done it before and he can do it again – but he is saddle sore and past the point of patience and he doesn't feel like scaling the walls. So, instead, he abandons his horse at the gates for whoever to claim, and approaches a group of scholars, lingering by the gates.

"A coin for each of you if you slip me through the guard," he offers, brisk and daring them to refuse.

They give him a startled, worried look. "My son, I would be happy to help, but," one of them says and glances away. "We cannot possibly go. One of our own is kept by the guards here – they are accusing him of heresy, we cannot go through before we know what is to become of him."

"Heresy?" Altaïr asks.

"The guard went through our luggage – he was carrying a Latin Bible," another scholar admits, almost embarrassed. "They took issue with it."

Altaïr sighs, annoyed. Religion – world would be so much simpler and clearer without it and all the issues it causes. "Very well," he mutters. "Where is your brother kept?"

They point him to a guard station where number of the local guard are going through people's luggage and poking through carriages. There, sitting desolately by an abandoned crate, is a man in scholar's robes, hanging his head – at his feet is what looks to be the content of his packs, spilled all over the ground. Books, scrolls, writing supplies – most of it trampled into the ground.

Altaïr doesn't have the patience to be subtle about it. There are good number of guards busy in the task of taxing the travellers and the scholar sits alone, held in place not by a guard but by his own obedience. Altaïr blinks, looks at the situation through the eyes of an Eagle and then, annoyed, goes to grab the man.

It takes a minor scuffle with the guards and Altaïr's blade in one of them before he gets the scholar free, slipping away from the resulting chaos with the man as other guards stream in to investigate. All they will find is the body, however, it should keep them occupied for a moment.

Maybe he should've scaled the walls after all.

"There," he says and shoves the man at the scholars. "Now help me through the gates."

"You killed that guard," the horrified scholar murmurs.

"Yes, and he would've had you killed as example for others with similar sympathies as you," Altaïr says impatiently. "Or, if not killed then certainly imprisoned and tortured. Now help me get through the gates before they notice you're gone."

The scholars exchange nervous looks, but they form ranks around him anyway and Altaïr bows his head, hiding among them. They leave the bustle in front of the gates of Jerusalem behind and make stately pace towards them, where the guards look them over, exchange a few words – and a coin or two – with the guard there. Ultimately, they get through.

Altaïr leaves the scholars behind without a word once they're past the gates and makes his way through the streets and then, when the crowd starts truly getting in his way, he makes his way above them. It's a little more noticeable to those few guards stationed on rooftops, but Altaïr knows the rooftops of the city well enough to stay out of sight.

He is travel worn, hungry, thirsty and in need of some sleep – at this point he isn't certain he would even care if he was seen.

Soon, he's traversed over quarter of the city, and the Assassin Bureau looms ahead. Altaïr drops in without a word and winces at the way it makes his thighs sting – he should have taken moment to stretch after riding.

Then he sees Kadar, lying on the pillows piled in the corner under the shade of the wooden grating above. It really is Kadar, and looking much better than Malik the last Altaïr had seen him – asleep, but with much better shade to his skin than his now one-armed brother.

Altaïr leaves him to sleep and stalks inside instead, into the shade of the bureau. Naveed is sitting behind the desk there, with a shelf of books and scrolls at his back and map spread across the table in front of him. Jerusalem's Bureau's front is that of a bookbinder and scribe, and they make a decent amount of money by replicating maps and writing letters.

Malik better be right handed, to manage that cover.

"Altaïr," Naveed says, surprised. "I expected you two days ago – did you have issues making your way?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle," Altaïr says and looks outside, to Kadar asleep on the pillows. "You have gotten word from Masyaf while I was on the road?"

"Only to expect you two days ago – and Malik a week from now," Naveed says and cleans the brush he'd been using to write on the map. "And to keep Kadar here and see to his recovery, not that there's been much to do there. The man's healing like a boy of ten – I suspect he could go back to his duties already, if Malik hadn't ordered his rest."

"Malik told us Kadar had his stomach cut open," Altaïr comments.

"And judging by the scar, it was. Whoever tended to him is handy with a needle and thread – the wound was stitched, healing beautifully when he arrived," Naveed says and then takes out a scroll, handing it over. "I have questioned Kadar at length about what he experienced and took care to write it down before he forgot the details. Here."

Altaïr accepts the scroll and then moves back to the light outside. Kadar is waking up now, but Altaïr ignores him in favour or reading. It's not very complicated or long in total, but it is very confusing.

I was unconscious perhaps few hours. I was woken by a man, crouching over me. I thought I knew him at first, his face like that of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, so I trusted him to tend to my wounds. I witnessed him acting as an Assassin, performing an expert assassination on a pair of Templar guards with a hidden blade on each arm, which only proved that early presumption. I passed out as he hoisted me up to carry me away.

Altaïr scowls and glances at Kadar, who is blinking up at him. Kadar opens his mouth to say something and Altaïr turns back to the report.

I don't know how much time passed, days most likely, before I was lucid again. My wounds had been tended to and I was given medicine by the same man who saved me from the Temple. He did not give me his name, but his resemblance to Altaïr was still uncanny. He tended to me without asking for repayment or making concessions, giving me powerful medicine that quelled the pain and kept infection at bay. I do not believe I would have lived without his care.

Naveed must have asked more about the mysterious saviour here, because the next part is solely description of clothes and actions and suspected skills, with especial care spend to detailing his obvious medical skills, with supposition of, he might be trained as a physician – certainly he knew what he was doing. And more worryingly, Kadar tells of the man's two hidden blades - one at each arm.

In the end, though, the mysterious man had decided Kadar was going to recover and had sent him away, carried away by beggar women from here it turned out they'd been staying – among the poor of Jerusalem. He said he would leave, and I doubt he would have left much behind, but if there is any hope of tracking him down, it will be among the beggars.

Altaïr rolls the report and looks down to Kadar. Kadar is still staring at him, thoughtful and contemplative. "You have something to say, say it," Altaïr snaps. Malik certainly had.

"I thought I might have imagined it, but no – you really do look exactly like him," Kadar says and nods to the letter. "The man who saved me – he looked just like you, Altaïr, down to your scar."

"… what?" Altaïr demands. A similarity he can buy, though not well – his features are leaner than those of most men, his frame somewhat thinner – but the scar, as well? "You're certain you weren't hallucinating?" he asks suspiciously.

"Very certain – his features never changed and I spend enough time examining them to be sure of them. They were real, as was his scar," Kadar says and stands up from the mound of pillows, supporting his stomach as he does. He isn't wearing a belt – likely to keep the weight off the injury. "Do you have brothers, Altaïr?"

"No," Altaïr says, giving him a suspicious look. "What can you tell me about him?"

"Not much more than is in there," Kadar says. "I don't know why he saved me, I don't know how, I don't know what he wanted or if he got it. All I know is what he did, and what he did is in there."

"You must have seen more," Altaïr says. "His clothing, for one. What did he wear?"

"Different thing every time I saw him. Peasant's garb, scholar's white – last I saw him he was armoured like a mercenary," Kadar admits. "He was also planning to leave and looked like he was prepared for travel, but I don't know for sure if he left the city. The beggars might know, but they refused to tell."

Still, he is staring at Altaïr like searching for something in his face. Altaïr scowls at him, disliking the look and yet not knowing why. Kadar has been humble and reverent the last he saw the man – all that seems to be gone now, and all there is left is deep thought that reminds Altaïr of Malik. Kadar's experiences have made him think. Time would tell if that would be for better or worse.

"And he did not give away anything of his motives?" Altaïr asks. "And you didn't ask?"

"I asked – he never answered," Kadar says and gives him a look. "It's hard to interrogate a man who's saved your life, especially so when the man is providing you with care. When I pressed the matter, he offered to bring me here, so I let it slide and watched him instead of questioning him."

"And what did you learn?" Altaïr demands irritably.

Kadar considers him and nods. "He's a far kinder man at heart than you, Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, and I doubt you two share blood," he says, as if it's a decision he's making. "But like I wrote to Al Mualim, I also suspect he is the one who claimed the treasure at Solomon's temple before we ever reached the place. So what that means ultimately… I cannot say."

Altaïr grits his teeth and doesn't give away the fact that he never got to read the letter. "Where precisely did he treat you among the poor – can you show it on map?"

"The approximate location, yes – I lost the track of twists and turns when the beggars were carrying me," Kadar says and then moves inside. "Naveed, have you a map of the city?"

"Of course I have a map of the city, where do you think you are?" Naveed says and brings one forth. "There, as accurate as any map of any place you are likely to ever find. One of the best I ever drew, if I say so myself."

"It's a fine map," Kadar assures the man while Altaïr shakes his head impatiently. The novice looks over the map and then points. "It was around here," he says. "The building was roughly made, the walls plastered unevenly with red clay. Outside there was a stack of mouldy hay in an alcove and I think I saw a cooking pot outside. They had no doors, just cloth flaps to cover the doorways."

Altaïr looks over the map and nods. "It's a start," he says. "But first – have you no hospitality for an Assassin fresh off the road, Rafiq?" he asks Naveed. The man should have offered him something to drink at least.

"An Assassin, yes," Naveed says and smiles wryly. "But I serve no novice. You can find food and drink in the pantry and can clean up by the fountain. Don't soil it, though, Altaïr – others use that water too."

Altaïr sends him a glare but bites his tongue. "So be it," he says instead and turns away, feeling Kadar's curious look at his back.

"Novice?" Altaïr hears Kadar asks as he heads outside again, and to the fountain merrily singing there.

"Did I forget to tell you?" Naveed asks, with tones of amusement and pleasure. "Al Mualim has punished Altaïr for his failings with a demotion – he's a novice once more, and to be treated as such by all the Assassins of the order. You and him are kin in rank now, young Kadar."

"Tch," Altaïr mutters to himself and drags his cowl off. He can push through this, he thinks. He has dealt with worse than opinions of others, and he has never cared for them before – why start now?

Kinder man than you, bah. He's an Assassin. He needs no kindness. He'd wash, eat, drink, and then he'd head out and get to work and think of it no more.

Chapter Text

Desmond is almost used to it, how slow everything happens. Maybe it was Animus fucking up his worldview – likely – or in the future everything just happened naturally faster – also likely – but in the past, in this time… everything takes so much time. From little things to small things, from important to unimportant, everything takes its own sweet time.

It takes days to gather funds and supplies for travel. Days more to do the actual travel. Where in the Animus Altaïr crossed over distances in minutes and then later in a blink of an eye, shift of a memory frame, for Desmond it just… takes time. Logically, he knows it would, distances in the Holy Land aren't short, everything isn't within spitting distance of each other. Still… the days are so long, and so slow at times. There's no other way to do it, horse travel is fastest you can go short of ocean travel, and yet…

Waste of time. It keeps bouncing in the back of his head, a constant reminder. So much time wasted.

He's forgotten a lot about the Holy Land. Altaïr's story had been… streamlined and sped up to the best of Abstergo's ability – unlike with Ezio, who Rebecca and Shaun were fine taking time with, Abstergo didn't want to know Altaïr's story – they wanted just the one thing from him. So all the memories had been just skimmed over as quickly as they could be, the details scrunched up to their absolute minimum until everything happened before Desmond could even keep up. The assassinations, the world and the time, the culture and the history happening in the background… it all just sped by.

He remembers it all, yeah – but nowhere to the detail Shaun's notes about the Third Crusade tells him. There are whole sections of cities, entire buildings and little cultural things that the first Animus just glossed over. People aren't repetitive cardboard cutouts of each other, duplicated to infinity to save on processing. The world is detailed and alive and… a lot more complicated than he remembered.

Maybe it's just as well that things take so much time here, it's a lot to get used to.

Pushing back his hood a little, Desmond looks up to the gates of Acre – Akka, as the locals call it. Of the three cities Altaïr had done most of his work in, Acre is the only one under full Christian control – though the Templars go in and out of most of the cities, only in Acre they can do it openly, so it’s where most of them are. And it's where Desmond needs to start.

Probably. At this point, he's kind of winging it, really.

First, though, he just needs to get in.

Dismounting his horse, Desmond leaves it by some piles of hay – someone would claim it by the time they'd figured out no one was coming back for it, probably. Giving the mount a pat and then leaving it, Desmond considers the gate. In the mercenary's garb he won't be able to use the scholars the way Altaïr would – he has to climb the walls. Well, it would stretch him out after the ride.

Passing by the main stream of people going in and out, Desmond sneaks up to the walls. Acre, unlike Jerusalem, has had rough time of it of late – the walls are in a pretty bad shape. It doesn't take long to find a place to climb, though waiting for opportune moment to actually do it is another thing. Acre has a lot of guards, a lot of knights, and all of them are on high alert.

It takes him about half an hour of patient waiting, but eventually there's an opening – they're changing guards by the gates. During that time, Desmond makes a run for it, running a few steps up the broken wall on the southern side of the gates until he reaches a broken bit of stonework and can haul himself up. After that, it only takes pulling himself up and through the hole in the wall and he's in, and a moment later he's down on the streets, blending into the crowd.

All the cities of the Holy Land are diverse, you can hear a whole slew of languages in them, but here there's a lot of western chatter in the air too. Old English, French, German… the place is a hodgepodge of languages.

Desmond takes his time wandering around and stretching his legs – stealing a fruit here and there and some coin when he gets the opportunity to restock after the journey. If he was Altaïr he'd make a beeline for the Assassin Bureau, start everything from there, but he isn't and he can't go there – and he isn't here to kill anyone, as far as he knows. So he takes his time.

Eventually, the same as in Jerusalem, he ends up in the poorer parts of the city – which are, unsurprisingly, guarded a little sparser than the rest of the parts, and ignored more often. There, like in Jerusalem, women beckon at him and men size him up and everyone looks for a money pouch and begs for coins.

Whether it's because of the armour – which is Arabic in design – or his skin, the first beggar to approach him addresses him in Arabic, rather than attempting any western language. Helpful, that.

"Please, sir, I lost my husband in the siege, I have nothing and my children are sick and starving," the woman pleads coming close enough to grab at him – she doesn't dare to, though, probably because of the armour he wears.

Altaïr was probably easier to grab – the man comes across humble in his Assassin's robes, funnily enough.

"Have you any coin, any coin at all?" the woman begs. "Only a little bit, please."

"I can give you some for information," Desmond says, but keeps his hands still and doesn't give away where he actually keeps the coin – too many eyes watching, too many potential pickpockets. "I'm looking for a place to stay out of sight – place where guards don't go."

The woman hesitates, looking at him warily. "Place to sleep only?" she asks. "I know some girls –"

"Place to stay ," Desmond says. "No girls, I don't need company in my bed."

It makes her frown a little, until he finally brings out a coin. He has no idea what the value of money is in Acre yet – these things fluctuate in closed up cities, and it always depends on who you're talking to, how much value they put on a piece of metal. This one puts a lot of value to this particular coin, it looks like – her eyes widen noticeably.

"A place to stay out of sight," Desmond says pointedly, closing his fist around the coin before she can make for it. "And maybe some aid in some small tasks I might have."

"What sort of tasks?" the beggar woman asks, now much sharper, shrewder.

"Navigating the rumours of the city only," Desmond promises. "Nothing dangerous, nothing demanding, I promise. And," he adds because it helped a lot back in Jerusalem, "I also know a bit of medicine, so if you or someone you know is sick I might be able to help a bit – free of charge, unless you need expensive medicine."

He has her attention now. "I know a place," she says. "It is well out of sight, if not terribly comfortable," she scowls and then glances around. "Give me the coin."

"Give me a place first," Desmond says and smiles. "Don't cheat me, sister – I can make this worth your while, but if you take my coin and run, that will be the only coin you get from me."

"Tch," she answers. "Come this way, then, and quickly."

The place she takes him isn't the best one – it's barely an alcove, with no door, only some old curtains spread out over a hole in a wall. It looks like people have used it to sleep before, though, and it looks like those people didn't stay for long.

"There, your place – now give me the coin," the woman says.

"I think I will give it to someone who won't waste my time," Desmond says and gives her a look. "This place is an invitation to thieves."

"It is well hidden and dry!" the woman complains, "And guards do not come to this alley, no one does."

"No one but some of your friends with knives and empty pockets, I'm sure," Desmond says and puts the coin away. "Thank you all the same."

The woman sputters after him, but Desmond walks away anyway, ignoring her and looking for another beggar to ask the same of.

It takes three before he finds one who takes him seriously – an old woman with poor eye and poorer leg, who looks him over and chuckles. "You're the one who has the girls beside themselves," she mutters. "I see, I see. Come, child – I have a place for you, with roof over your head and door you can lock. Only look over my child first, if you truly know medicine – she coughs phlegm and won't take food."

"I'd be happy to help if I can," Desmond says honestly and gives her coin – by now he's tested all the money he has on the beggars and would be thieves, and the copper pieces, low in value, seem safe to hand out without making people too greedy. "How long has she been sick?"

"A week and a day now," the woman says and motions him to follow her. "And we haven't the money to catch the eye of a physician – this way."

She takes him through some alleys and winding paths to a house half collapsed – it looks like it's suffered the brunt of a catapult during the past sieges. The family inside has done what they can to repair the house, but a whole wall is still collapsed, and the holes in it are covered in clay and rough stones, not brick.

There, by a cold fire place, lies a girl of about eight, coughing weakly into her hands.

Desmond pushes off the chainmail adorned cowl and then checks her over. During Kadar's recovery he read through lot of the medicinal texts Shaun had given him, and there'd been lot about the deadliest illnesses in middle ages. And common cold was one of them – which kind of looks like what this kid has. Coughing up phlegm, difficulty to breathe, obviously clogged up sinuses and fever… yeah.

At least she's not showing the signs of pneumonia.

Desmond looks up to the mother. "What do you burn for heat?" he asks. "Dung?"

"I cannot afford wood," she admits miserably.

"Then keep her away from the fire – breathing in the smoke might make her worse," Desmond says and considers the girl. He doesn't feel like using more modern medicine on her – there's chance he's going to need it later and it's not he can get more. "Do you have any spices here, any herbs? Can I look through them?"

There's not much there, nothing that would actually help with the cold – but there is enough local herbs and roots that Desmond can mix together something that will keep the girl stocked up on vitamins and electrolytes at least. He whips together a blend that passes for a tea – it's noxious enough to pass for medicine, anyway. "Boil some water, as clean as you can find, and mix couple of spoonfuls of it to it and have her drink it as much as she can as often as she can," he tells the mother. "Keep her warm in the meanwhile, and away from the smoke of the fireplace. If she is not feeling at all better in a week, find me again."

Honestly, drinking something warm would probably help the girl more.

"What happens if she doesn't feel better?" the mother asks, alarmed.

"Then I will go find a merchant with some more exotic herbs to use," Desmond answers and shrugs. "Your daughter is not in danger, sister, she just has a cold – keep her warm and dry and make her drink warm things and she should be fine in time."

"Thank you," the woman says, frowning, and looks at the mixture of herbs he'd made for her. "Thank you – let me make this for her and then I will show you a place you can stay."

Of course, by the time he settles in that said place, the word has spread and there is a whole slew of sick people lining up at the door. Desmond expected it, though – it happened in Jerusalem too. It was a bit of a time sink but… it did help him build the network there that much faster.

It's not a bad way to integrate yourself in a poor population, is it – and definitely not a bad thing to do. If he can help people at all…

So, he sets the house up for it. Chamberpot by the door and beside it a table, a bowl of water and a bar of soap he'd stolen from Jerusalem. No towel, though – it would just get dirty and become breeding ground for bacteria, probably. He lights a lamp, considers the fireplace – nothing to burn in it yet though, he'd have to get wood somewhere. It would be a cold first day, huh.

Whatever. Desmond opens the window a crack, and welcomes in his first patient with, "There's water and soap by the door, wash your hands first and then get in."

And so his settling in Acre begins.

He spends the first couple days in Acre building up a network out of the poor. It's partially built on favours and partially on money, as he treats some and bribes others – by his third day in Acre, he has about dozen people bringing him rumours and news about what goes on in the city. He also has a whole slew of people hanging around the house – women and children and sickly men, who saw the value in sticking around a man who knew how to treat the ill.

All in all, not a terrible way to settle in.

"They are bringing in people from Jerusalem," one particularly industrious beggar man named Raza tells him while Desmond mixes in a sort of general booster top handout to the poor of Acre. There have been some very hungry months in the past and a lot of his patients are just flat out starved and on the brink of scurvy – right now, getting just some vitamins and minerals into them would go a long way. "They bring them in secret, bribe the guards and hide them away in the hospital. I think they are slaves."

"Do you know how many people?" Desmond asks and considers the herbal mixture. It would make a terrible drink by itself – it would work better as seasoning for a broth or something, but not many in the poor have the means to actually make food. Might be worth his time to save up for a good cooking pot again and just… set it up on the street to feed whoever comes across.

"Dozens," the beggar says. "And dozens are carted away dead too."

Desmond frowns a little at that. The hospital is run by the Knights Hospitalier, specifically by Garnier de Naplouse, their Grand Master and member of the Templar Order – one of Altaïr's targets. Desmond has some mixed memories of the man from Altaïr – he'd been one of the straws that had started breaking Altaïr's back and making him doubt everything. On one hand, terribly cruel medical practices, breaking legs of patients so that they can't run, stealing patients for experiments. On other hand, the guy was healing the mentally ill… or so he said.

Templars had such a good sounding intentions in theory – in practice though… well, the theory wasn't that great either, really, not always. On the surface maybe – but then they draped it all in some terrible trappings. Just another brand of wasting time.

Desmond takes a kettle of hot water and a spoonful of the herb mixture and mixes them in a rough clay cup. He hands the mixture to Raza. "Drink this."

"What is it?"

"Hopefully something that will let you keep the rest of your teeth – drink it and tell me how's the taste."

Raza gives the cup a suspicious look but drinks it – making faces all the while. "Eurgh," he says.

"That good, huh?"

"I have eaten boots that tasted better."

Desmond nods and bundles up the herb mixture away. Better start saving up for a soup pot, then. "Keep an eye on the hospital if you can but don't get too involved," he says. "Have you seen any Knights Templar around there?"

"Not really, no, they keep to the northern districts – although," Raza says, wiping at his mouth. "I have seen more of them by the harbour. Not many, but some, yes."

"Bringing in more members?" Desmond wonders.

"Well, there's always knights coming and going, who can keep track of them?" Raza shrugs.

Desmond hums in agreement – he would have to find the one who could. "Thank you, Raza – here, for your troubles," he says and hands him a few copper coins. "Stay safe out there."

"You as well," Raza says and then slinks away from the room, clutching his coin.

Desmond looks after him, and then packs away his herbs. There's no one in the room, so he dares to take out one of his phones and open Shaun's files. He needs to build a stove and an oven for proper cooking, and mixing medicine – just setting a pot on top of a fire out on the street like he did in Jerusalem probably wouldn't be too safe here. Acre is likely where he's going to be staying for the foreseeable future – better be a bit more careful about drawing attention.

Of course the million files on the phone include instruction on medieval houses and how to build structure. The bastard included pretty much everything, didn't he?

"Thank you, Shaun," Desmond murmurs and puts the phone away. Should he start building up an identity locally, maybe an occupation to go with it…? He could still go the pretending-to-be-a-mercenary route, but it might get a bit too risky in the long run, in a city governed by knights and soldiers. Healer would probably get him noticed too, eventually. Maybe a medicine seller? He can make medicine, after all – Shaun included a whole load of recipes he can use, and he's mixed drinks more complicated than some of them. It could be a start.

Start for what, though? Desmond's not sure he knows anymore.

First things first, though. He needs more information on the city, he needs to establish himself better and then once he knew a bit more, then…

There are Assassins in the city, of course. Desmond checks up on them carefully once the rush of the first few days passes and he has little more time in hand, without so many patients to tend to. The Rafiq of Acre is an old but clever man named Jabal. The Assassin Bureau of Acre serves as a scribe shop on the side – which probably only helps the old Rafiq keep in touch with the rumours of the city, as he writes letters for various people, including knights, to be sent elsewhere. Aside from that, Jabal runs a tight ship as far as the city's Assassins go.

If Desmond didn't have the Eagle Vision, he probably wouldn't even notice them. They blend in better than the Assassins of Jerusalem, use more disguises, and slink away from any action on the streets without taking part in it. They are keeping track of the knights though – including Garnier and what he's doing in his hospital. For now they're not doing anything about it, but they're definitely prepared to. Whether it's local Assassins naturally keeping track of points of interest, or if Al Mualim had ordered to keep track of his rivals in the Templar Order, though…

Either way, Desmond keeps his distance to the Assassins, and concentrates on both building his network of informants and the information itself. Templars have free run in the city and they're not shy about making the most of it – and it's not only the poor and the sick that suffer because of it. The knights – not only Templars, but most all the knights – are actually more demanding of the rich of the city. It makes sense, a lot of those people were installed in Acre during the Ayyubid control of the city before the Guy of Lusignan started his siege and "reclaimed" the place for Crusaders, but…

It's definitely not making the knights many friends in the place. Some, yeah, there's people in Acre from various stages of Crusader and Ayyubid campaigns, so the city is a boiling mix of Christians, Muslims, Jews and there's even some other faiths there – Desmond actually spots some Hindus and even an Asian trader who looks like he might be a Buddhist. The city really is a melting pot of faith – well, the whole region is. Christians and Muslims have the majority, though, and things are tense between them – with Christians flourishing under Crusader rule, the Muslims fume.

Desmond looks over a fight between some kids from both groups – just a minor fist fight with insults thrown at both sides. It's kind of hard to keep track who is who in the fight – all their insults sound the same, all their accusations are similar. Both, it sounds like, lost fathers and mothers and brothers in the siege. Both blame the other side.

Neither Templars nor Assassins believed in religion or god. Assassins ignored it – Templars either oppressed it or used it to their advantage. Desmond isn't sure if either side fully understands it. Probably not. Because they know the Truth, they just… belittle it and dismiss it as nonsense. Thought that world would be better place without it.

It's not that simple, though. Nothing is.

Desmond leans his chin on his knuckles, wondering. One of the kids in the street goes down with a bloody nose and a lot of wailing – it puts an end to the scuffle for a moment, as the boy who hit the now profusely bleeding kid hesitates guiltily and others look around, waiting for someone to hear the shouting and come to intervene. In the end, the fight breaks up there, each group withdrawing to lick their wounds.

Desmond waits for a while to make sure that the bleeding kid didn't break a nose and then moves on, walking along the edge of the roof and looking away. The grievances run deep in this city. In all the cities of the Holy Land, probably, wherever the Crusaders had steamrolled over the land and whereever the Ayyubid empire and Salad ah-Din had claimed it from the Crusader kingdoms. It's a lot of grievance.

There is no way he can bring any peace to this city, not any more than the Templars have – Assassins wouldn't be able to do it either.

That's not even the point, not the reason he is here. But… it's getting kind of complicated – the reason he actually is here. He's removed the Apple from the equation, but the Templars are still planning and plotting and the Assassins are still poised for an attack, and Desmond isn't sure what he can do about them, if anything. Even with the network he's building, he's still just one man against two rather massive organisations, and both of those organisations are still moving ahead with their plans.

Running a hand over his scalp, Desmond sits down on the edge of the roof and tries to figure out what to do next. Getting the Apple was easy. Choosing to help Kadar was easy. But now… now he's not so sure what he's doing or what he should do next.

Not being in a hurry to do things just kind of throws him off the loop a bit. He's forgotten how to do this whole wait and see thing. It's just a weird change of pace. Not entirely unwelcome one, or unfamiliar one. This is how he spent most of his life, really… but harder than he thought to get used to it again.

Desmond's kind of lonely. He hadn't really expected that.

Probably should've, though.

Desmond ends up opening a medicine stall in a souk.

It just seems like natural progression from what he'd been doing before, and it's a way to earn a bit of money which doesn't involve pickpocketing or robbing people – something he can definitely do, but which might prove a bit risky if he keeps up with it for too long. Becoming a merchant is just… easier, really, and more comfortable overall. A bit closer to his original job, even.

It takes him couple of weeks to put the whole thing together, but it's something to do while his informants build up the profiles of the city and he makes himself a permanent part of their lives. Eventually, after about a week trading for ingredients – or stealing them where he couldn't trade for them – and mixing medicine, he bribes the proprietor of the souk to not ask too many questions and puts together a small catalogue of basic medicines. Most of them are simple things for headaches, inflammation, infection, stomach aches and so forth - nothing too advanced but generally useful.

There aren't too many other merchants in the souk – couple selling fish, some selling grain, all asking the sort of prices that don't bring too many customers to the place. The place looks downright abandoned, really – which is probably why the proprietor takes him on at all.

"Not too many new sellers looking to peddle things, except some wretches trying to sell their carpets," the proprietor, man named Bahadur complains. "And the knights ask such taxes to make a businessman's head spin. You bring us some new customers, you hear? And may Allah help you if your medicine proves sugar and poison."

"You can test it yourself, if you'd like," Desmond says and nods to the man – who looks like he has a bad rash. "I have something for skin lesions if you'd like to try it."

"Do you indeed?" Bahadur asks with interest. "Well, I suppose I must test it – to prove the effectiveness if your medicine, of course. What is it made of?"

"Various plants – tell me, do you know what causes the rash? Where did it begin?"

"Oh, I've always had it, the damn thing – comes and goes as it will. It's usually on my hands, but it's this blasted weather, made it appear on my neck this time…"

Desmond is silently diagnosing Bahadur with what sounds like eczema and offering the guy a pot of fairly basic Aloe Vera based moisturiser when Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad finds him.

Chapter Text

Altaïr is starting to get truly annoyed with the mysterious healer by the time he's reached Akka. There'd been many stories about the man among the poor and the beggars, even the whores of Jerusalem had stories to tell and for all that the man's likeness to Altaïr had aided his search and investigation, his secretiveness is by now truly getting under Altaïr's skin.

Somehow the mysterious man had procured the loyalties of the downtrodden in Jerusalem to the extent that they stood up to an armed Assassin, even under the threat of pain an injury and the lure of money. It would be impressive if it wasn't in the way and the lengths Altaïr had to resort to get the man's direction out of the beggars went well beyond what he considered reasonable. It would be awhile before he would be received well among the poor of Jerusalem – but he had gotten his answers.

In Akka Altaïr knows better than to discredit the likeness between him and his prey. It's still irritating, something about the warmth his looks receive rubs him the wrong way, but this time he uses it to his advantage instead of expressing insult for it.

"I am searching for my brother, have you seen him?" he asks the first beggar he finds and determinedly bites his tongue on his own impatience. "He looks much like myself."

The first couple have no answers to give him, likely they haven't even met the man, but the third one sees the similarity and stares at him in that now familiar astonishment. "Yet I've seen him," she says slyly. "But is it worth my time to tell you? He's never mentioned a brother, you know, maybe you're estranged."

For all that they come from a city ransacked and partially brought to ruin, with many hollowed out buildings and bodies on the streets, the people of Akka are infuriatingly demanding. Altaïr is fairly sure his quarry pays the beggars too, which only makes the matter that much more annoying. If it hadn't already proven disastrous in Jerusalem, Altaïr would've dearly loved to use more direct methods of procuring information from the wretched woman.

But he's learned and so this time he pays her instead, putting coin in her awaiting palm until she is satisfied. She pockets the coin before finally giving him a direction, finishing it with, "Go through the alley with the broken walls, a red cloth covers the door to the right there – go past it and to the very back, the last door belongs to the Healer."

Altaïr doesn't ask, though he wants to. Healer? Instead he nods. "Thank you," he says and leaves.

He finds the right house without problem and finds the area swarming with local poor. The last place of residence the supposed Healer had occupied had been similarly populated, with the area around it closing in ranks and cutting Altaïr off when he tried to do his investigation. He'd managed in the end, but how close he got to breaking the First Tenet again was probably better left unsaid. Malik certainly hadn't been impressed, and Kadar…

It is just as well that the man grew out of his hero worship.

"I am looking for my brother; I hear he stays here," Altaïr says, approaching one of the women who are washing clothes with heated water outside in the alley – the whole alley is full of steam. "Is he here now?"

"Hmm?" the woman hums and peers at him with interest. "Well, you look the like. What you want from him?"

"It's a family matter," Altaïr demurs. "I can't say."

"Right," the woman muses, eying him as Altaïr tries to appear as harmless as he can, with a sword at his side. The woman looks at it now and pokes at the steaming vat of clothes. "Well, you'll likely find him at the market now," she says finally. "Though I don't know how long he'll stay there – always moving and doing, that man."

Finally. "I am new to Akka – which market do you mean?"

"The small one east-west from here, with western roof and green banners by the entrances."

Altaïr nods and turns to leave, having gotten what he wanted. The woman blinks after him and tsks. "Damn, you're a rude one, aren't you?"

Altaïr ignores her and heads away. This close to his elusive prey he doesn't particularly feel like stalling. The sooner he gets answers, the sooner he can report back to Malik, return to Masyaf and maybe get rest from this infuriating mission and perhaps be assigned missions more befitting his abilities.

The marketplace has few customers when he arrives and fewer merchants, most of the alcoves for stalls standing empty and those few occupied being only looked at briefly by the haggard customers before they move on in search for more reasonable prices. Akka, it seems, has a dearth of merchandise and wealth of taxes, if the prices merchants put on their goods is anything to go by.

It's left the place almost deserted, which means there isn't near enough crowd to blend in, even the benches in the souk sit empty – so when Altaïr finally finds the one he's looking for, there is nowhere to hide, not for him and not the man.

There, in the shadows of the dusty, almost empty market place, Altaïr finally sees it – the reason so many look at him so strangely now. He has only ever seen his own reflection on polished plates and on the surface is still waters, and even then he hardly spend time memorising his own features – but he can see it, he can feel it.

His double in looks stands with his head inclined towards an obviously wealthier man, talking to him with an open expression and casual body language while the man examines a pot of some sort of grease. As the other takes some on his fingertip and smears it on his own neck, the Healer turns his head and blinks at Altaïr, slow and almost curious and then turns back to the man in front of him to finish what Altaïr only in hindsight realises is a transaction – his double is actually running a market stall.

Altaïr dips his chin lower – the hood hides his features, maybe the man didn't see and didn't mark the similarity, the importance? Chances are he only recognises the Assassin's robes Altaïr wears and knows their importance, but that's it.

Altaïr watches, concentrating until he sees clearer and hears despite the distance in between.

"... Please take it as a gift," the Healer says. "But be careful with it – if it makes your skin irritated or makes the rash worse, stop using it immediately and wash the area you used it on with water and soap."

"Why – what will it do? Why does your medicine make things worse?"

"It's not meant to, but it has a lot of ingredients and some people are more sensitive to some of them than others – and all medicine works a little differently for everyone. It's just in case – we wouldn't want to make things worse for you," the Healer says soothingly. "Just be careful at first – if there is no irritation within the next two hours then it should be safe to use in future."

The customer frowns. "What kind of medicine works differently for different people?" he demands. "Are you selling faulty merchandise after all?"

The Healer sighs. "People are unique, they have different susceptibilities," he says. "All medicine works differently for different people – I'm just honest about it so that I don't put anyone in danger. Generally my medicine works, yes, but generally doesn't mean much of you are the one for whom it doesn't, right?"

"Hrmm…" the customer answers.

"Wouldn't you rather know, than take something blindly and then suffer the consequences?" the Healer asks.

"I would rather take something that works," the man grouses.

The Healer arches his brows at that. "Have you found something that works?" he asks politely.

The customer doesn't answer.

The Healer nods, satisfied. "Just take care at first and watch for how your skin reacts," he says. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Bahadur? I'm still in the middle of setting up the stall."

"I'll leave you to it then – but I am testing this," the customer, Bahadur says, waving the poor of medicine at the man. "In the meantime, try not to lose us any more customers."

"I'll do my best."

Bahadur heads off, still peering suspiciously at the pot of grease. By the stall the Healer hesitates and then turns to Altaïr. He tilts his head slightly, and Altaïr isn't sure if it's an invitation or not. He definitely has the man's attention, though.

It's a public place – but a sparsely populated one, with no customers currently paying much attention to the medicine seller, or to Altaïr for that matter. It's why Altaïr dares to stalk forward instead of waiting for a more opportune moment – though he can already imagine what Malik would think of it. The Healer, medicine seller, whatever the man is, stands his ground and waits until Altaïr has crossed the distance.

The man wears nondescript robes, dark hood covering most of his head but it's not enough to hide his features – it has no beak. Close up, the similarity between them is even more noticeable, even the angle of the scar across their lips runs the same. It's eerie and Altaïr can feel himself scowl, while the man in front of him only looks at him interestedly.

Altaïr can't see weapons at first glance but he can sense them in the way the man moves his arms – there is a sense of weight there, one the man isn't quite yet used to.

In Jerusalem, there had been evidence of a smithy in this man's former residence – a handmade furnace and a rough hewn stone anvil, used to build something. Judging by some of the scraps of metal left behind, Altaïr can guess what that something was, too. The man had made his weapons, and now he's making medicine. Engineering, alchemy, healing, all the while building loyalty in the poor.

Strange talents, for a thief.

"So," the man himself speaks finally. "How is Kadar?"

Altaïr blinks. "Alive thanks to you, I hear," he says, sizing the man up. He sees no hostility, the man doesn't seem prepared for a fight or conflict – he seems remarkably at ease, with only the barest hint of tension on his shoulders. "You know who I am, where I come from?"

"Mm. You're staring at me like looking for a jugular – I can guess why you're here," the man answers, his tone wry. "I suppose Kadar passed on my warning and now Al Mualim wants answers."

Warning? "Yes," Altaïr says, narrowing his eyes and searching the man's familiar features for secrets and hidden truths – but though the shape and arrangement of his face is familiar, the look upon it isn't. Altaïr can't read him. "How did you find Kadar? Why did you help him?"

"If you see someone hurt and decide not to help even if you are able to, doesn't that make you a little bit responsible for what happens to them?" The Healer asks. "If I hadn't, what would that make me?"

Altaïr scowls. "So you helped him out of the goodness of your heart with no ulterior motives whatsoever? And how is it that you found him at all? The place where he was wasn't exactly the town square – it was well hidden and hard to get to. Why were you there?"

The man arches a brow at him. "You haven't guessed it yet? That's a little hard to believe. What do you think I will say?" he asks curiously. "Are you expecting me to try and lie to you – or tell the truth?

Altaïr presses his lips together. Something about the way the man forms the word, the tone of his voice, it's… odd. Familiar. "I expect you to answer," Altaïr says, a little ill at ease with this now. The man is too calm, too at ease. "Or if you won't, then make your peace with the cost of keeping your silence."

Now the Healer's both brows rise and he looks almost surprised. For a moment he stares at Altaïr searchingly and then he shakes his head. "You can't kill me. Or you can try, maybe you will succeed, but then Al Mualim will never know what happened to the Apple," he says quietly. "Or what I know."

"There are ways to make men talk and you should consider it carefully before you make me use them."

The Healer looks disappointed in him. Altaïr scowls at him, taken aback – the only one who has ever looked him like that is Al Mualim and he has the cause for it – there was a respect and trust broken. This man doesn't even know him. He has no right to be disappointed in him.

Altaïr squeezes his hands to fists and glances around. The souk is nearly empty, only few people looking into the other stalls. No guards.

The Healer sights and glances around. "Can we not do this here?" he asks almost plaintively. "I was hoping to make business here."

How put upon the man sound is the last bit of insult Altaïr can stomach. He is a Master Assassin, the matter of his demotion is nothing but a symbolic game that does nothing to detract from his abilities – this man has no right to disregard him. That decides it, then. Altaïr would beat the answers out of him and then they would try this again, with the man properly humbled.

His mind made Altaïr winds his arm back, giving his opponent no warning – and his fist meets nothing as the man steps aside. Altaïr moves to follow with his other fist – and has it knocked aside by a quick, expert block by the other man's arm.

In those two quick moves Altaïr knows – he's underestimated the man after all.

"Fine," the Healer says, drawing a breath and lifting his fists, taking a stand. "Let's do this, then."

Altaïr launches at him and it's nothing like what Altaïr had been prepared for. He's beaten information out of countless of people and yes, of course they fought back, sometimes even did damage – but not like this. This isn't a civilian with secrets to keep, not even a soldier.

Two sharp jabs to his stomach and a block that ends with his wrist grabbed and nearly dislocated and Altaïr knows he's fighting against a fellow Master Assassin.

He pushes through the realisation and answers in kind, looking for openings and weaknesses. There aren't many, and the man lets him use none of them. A block by his opponent reveals the armouring of his bracers – there are metal plates under his sleeves, much like in Altaïr's own, more openly worn bracer. Hitting them rattles Altaïr's already possibly sprained wrist painfully, steals the sensation from his fingers – and then there is a hand, grabbing him by the back of his head. Altaïr twists, feels a foot behind his ankle and feels the fall coming – he turns in the middle of it and catches himself on his hands instead going down to his back, rolling away from his opponent and then back to his feet.

The Healer makes pursuit and without further ado kicks Altaïr in the back with brusque efficiency, sending him to the empty alcove opposite his stall. Altaïr catches himself on the wall, turns, and stops.

The man's fist stops just a breath's distance from his nose. The impact would have broken his nose, knocked his head back against the stone, possibly given him concussion. And under the fisted fingers, glinting at the man's wrist, is steel polished and sharp – a hidden blade on his right arm, not his left. All the man would need is to trigger the blade and it would stab through Altaïr's head.

"Wanna keep going?" the Healer asks, pulling his fist back just enough to give it momentum of he chooses to deliver the blow after all. "I really don't want to mess up your face, but I will if you make me."

It's not an empty boast. In this short scuffle, Altaïr has landed no hits whatsoever – and suffered several. Granted he fights more with blades than fists these days, but regardless – it's as sound a beating as he's gotten since he was a true novice.

"Who are you?" Altaïr demands. "You are an Assassin, aren't you? Where do you come from – who sent you?"

The Healer considers him silently for a moment and then tilts his head. "Desmond," he says. "My name."

Altaïr scowls, trying to place the name. Western, maybe? "And?" he presses.

"And that is all you're going to get," the Healer, Desmond, says and looks away, lowering his fists. "That sounds like the guards," he comments and nods to the sound of oncoming footsteps. No clank of plate so it's not knights at least, but there's definitely the sound of swords and armour, clattering. At least three of them. "Someone must have heard us, huh?"

Altaïr lets out a curse. "This isn't over," he snaps at the man and to his surprise Desmond smiles.

"I'd be disappointed if it was," he says and backs away, holding his hands up in open gesture, letting him come away from the alcove. "There's a opening in the roof four stalls to the left," he says and glances to towards the sound of the footsteps. "Go now and you might make it."

Altaïr snarls at him but the guards are coming and this isn't worth risking his life. He knows where to find the man now, he can get at him later.

So Altaïr pushes away from the empty stall alcove and runs.

Why not kill him? Desmond had the opportunity, a clear shot at him with his blade. Or he could have tried to hold Altaïr still until the guards got to them. The man seemed to be a legitimate merchant in the souk, all he needed to do is point a finger and have the guards hopefully do the rest – but instead he bade Altaïr to go, even pointed out an escape route. Why?

And why do they look so alike?

Altaïr stews in these questions, waiting outside the souk, keeping an eye on those who step outside. No sign of Desmond yet, though there are more customers going in than before. Altaïr suspects he knows why – medicine sold at a market is generally cheaper than one sold at a more established shop and Desmond, it seems, knows his business when it comes to cures. Word about him would spread in no time, in a city like Akka, starved, disease ridden and wretched as it is.

Healer, engineer, alchemist and now a Master Assassin. And he looks just like Altaïr.

A religious man might have taken it as a sign, a higher power showing him what he could have been. Altaïr isn't a religious man though, and the coincidence of it only irks him. Irks and worries him.

He hadn't been terribly close to his father before the man's sacrifice and doesn't know much about his life. Desmond looks to be about his age, perhaps older, perhaps younger… and Altaïr's mother had died in childbirth. Umar Ibn-La'Ahad had lived for several years alone with Altaïr to raise – task which he had eventually left to the rest of the Brotherhood in order to do his duty for the order as a Master Assassin. Who is to say Umar did not seek comfort in arms of a woman not his wife during those years? Many Assassins did – partaking in the fruits of Masyaf's gardens whenever they had the time.

But surely in that case Al Mualim would know of Desmond. The man has had training, extensive training – who could have given it to him but the Brotherhood at Masyaf? Only Desmond does not come from there – surely Altaïr would have met him before, their likeness being so great...

A child conceived out of Al Mualim's sight and trained outside the order then?

Preposterous. Altaïr might not know much about his father but he knows the man was a dutiful, respected member of the Brotherhood – he wouldn't have kept such a thing secret from their Mentor. The child was likely to have the Gift as well, which would've only made bringing him into the fold that much more important…

Unless, of course, his father didn't know – but then how did Desmond get trained? And what was the warning he'd given to Al Mualim and what is the Apple he mentioned. The treasure from the Temple of Solomon? Why is a bit of gold this important?

There are too many questions and Altaïr doesn't like their implications. So he waits outside the souk for an opportunity to demand some answers.

It's not until late in the afternoon when wind has turned westerly and blows wet ocean air into the city that Altaïr spots Desmond leaving the souk. He's carrying with him some empty looking sacks and satchels – likely what he brought his merchandise in with – and though Altaïr can't see it, he suspects he has a much fatter money pouch as well.

He also has the attention of some local ruffians it looks like. A group of men move to shadow Desmond from an alley near the souk – they too had been watching and waiting. It makes sense. A new merchant fresh from his first day's sales would make an inviting target, wouldn't he? And it looks like Desmond sold most of his merchandise as well – he might've made quite the profit.

How the man, the supposed Healer who carried Assassin's tools, would deal with the threat would be interesting to see.

Altaïr shadows them on the rooftops, keeping his eyes on Desmond as the man walks away, seemingly ignorant of the shadows he has. He does look up once and Altaïr halts before jumping from one rooftop to another – was he seen? Desmond doesn't stop though, only continues on – turning eventually into a smaller, narrower alley, dark and out of sight of the few guards doing their rounds.

There, the thieves ambush him – four of them now, two moving to block the exits in the narrow alley while the other two rush at their quarry, knives at the ready and fists flying. Altaïr leans in, waiting to see how Desmond would deal with an attack by blades rather than by fists, if skill in combat includes knife fighting…

But Desmond doesn't fight.

He dances away, under the fists swinging at him, launching into a dash from a near standstill – and the next thing he is jumping up the wall, catching a protruding bit of wood on the sandstone and hauling himself up with the speed and skill of any proper assassin. He's up and out of his attacker's reach within seconds.

Then he's pulling himself up on the very roof Altaïr is sitting crouched on. "Please don't hit me now, that would be very unfair," Desmond says and Altaïr arches an incredulous brow at him as the man pulls himself up on the roof's edge and waits there, crouched, for Altaïr to act. Altaïr doesn't.

"Why didn't you fight them?" Altaïr asks. "Not as good with blades as you're with your fists?"

Desmond gives him a look. "Why fight when I can… not?" he asks and stands up, dropping his mostly empty satchels on the roof and peering down. The thieves are looking up, one of them pointing for a ladder on the opposite roof, but ultimately they don't follow. "Oh that's just disappointing," Desmond mutters as the thieves give up and hurry off, scampering away on the bottom of the alley. "Thieves here don't scale walls?"

"They do where you come from?" Altaïr asks, watching him warily.

"They did where I learned. And they used to be for hire too. Handy, when there were guards to be distracted," Desmond hums and scratches at his chin, his stubble rasping against his nails. "I suppose they aren't organised here, the thieves. No thieves' guild or such. Hmm."

Thieves' guild? Altaïr gives him a look and then straightens up. Sun is setting over Akka, and their shadows are long on the sandstone rooftop, stretching over the edges and into the shadows below. It casts Desmond's face in shadows too – in those shadows Altaïr can see the gleam of his eyes, reflecting on what little light there is.

He has Eagle's eyes.

"Who are you, really?" Altaïr asks, flexing his fingers, keeping his hand close to his sword. "And what were you doing in the Temple of Solomon?"

Desmond looks at him and then he laughs. "Obviously I was stealing the Apple of Eden from under all your noses," he says. "I got there before you and I took it away. Then I went back to see if anyone else came after it, which you did. I found Kadar, and then I helped him. I'm pretty sure you should've figured this out by now. "

"And now I have confirmation from your own lips," Altaïr says and glares at him. "And where is the Apple of Eden now?" he asks, and the name of the treasure only makes him sneer a little.

"Now that I won't tell you," Desmond says and smiles, tucking one of his hands into the folds of his robes, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet casually. "And you can't beat that information out of me."

"Can I not?" Altaïr murmurs and draws his sword. "Let's see how good you are with blades."

Desmond looks down at the sword and then up at him. "Don't do this, Altaïr," he says quietly. "I really don't want to fight you."

"Then tell me," Altaïr snaps. "Who are you, how do you know my name? Where is the treasure you stole?"

The man just shakes his head at that. "I'm sorry," he says.

"Not good enough," Altaïr says and grips his sword tighter. "Speak, or I will carve the truth from you."

Desmond sighs and looks up at the sky, looking weirdly tired and disappointed again. Altaïr could attack him now, land a blow before the man could draw a blade or activate his hidden blades – but he doesn't. He hesitates instead, waiting to see if the man would answer.

Finally Desmond seems to make a decision and closes his eyes. "Do you want to know what it is?" Desmond asks, opening his eyes and looking at him. "The treasure, the Apple of Eden. Al Mualim didn't tell you what it is, did he?"

Altaïr narrows his eyes. "Tell me," he says.

Desmond smiles. "He didn't, then," he says and picks up the bags from the roof, hoisting them to his shoulder. "The Apple of Eden has powers – not magical powers, not divine, nothing like that. It's… hard to explain how it works, but it can do things, it can tell you things. It can give people a lot of power, and if you already have power it will make you more powerful." He shrugs and looks at Altaïr. "All at the low, low cost of your free will, as the Apple of Eden slowly corrupts you into doing what she wants, rather than what you do."

Altaïr searches his face. It's nonsense. None of it makes sense. "And how can it do that?" he asks incredulously, not believing a word of it.

"It's an extremely old and extremely powerful bit of machinery with a malevolent mind attached to it," Desmond shrugs. "Templars want to use it to free the Holy Land, though free it for what is a bit suspect. Al Mualim wants to use it for more or less the same, but without Templars tampering with things. Neither thing will succeed, though – all the Apple can do is enslave people."

Of course. "And you?" Altaïr asks. "What do you want to do with it?"

Desmond shrugs. "Do you want to know more?" he asks, tilting his head invitingly. "Put the sword away."

Altaïr hesitates. He had thought the treasure was some sort of religious artefact, like the supposed Lance of Longinus from the First Crusade or something of the sort, something that might rally the Christians or the Muslims to act. Something that had to be removed from the equation before it would motivate people to new atrocities. That, Altaïr had felt, was the best case scenario.

But… he'd also known there was something more going with the treasure than Al Mualim told them – the fury the old man felt when he failed to find the thing already told him that much, but since then… Al Mualim's preoccupation with the treasure is odd, it is unusual, it is concerning. And there is a secrecy to it all that grates – Al Mualim never said what the damn thing was for, what he wanted it for. It wasn't even about keeping it from Templar Hands – their Mentor wanted the treasure for himself.

For it to be a device with utility…

"I don't believe you," Altaïr says finally. "You're spouting nonsense."

Desmond tilts his head, thinking about it. Then he reaches for his robe, to take something from under it. Altaïr lifts his sword warily, but it isn't a weapon he reaches for. It's instead a piece of metal, flat and even like a coin but far too big. In the middle of it, there's a hole and its surface is sectioned by straight lines that cut through the cracks formed by those lines, Altaïr can see gold.

Desmond turns the disk in hand and it begins to glow in unearthly golden light without a source. And it is not reflection of light or secret flame burning out of sight, it is far too bright. With the sun setting at his back, it looks like Desmond has caught a portion of it and is now holding captured rays in his fingers.

"I can prove it," Desmond says, while Altaïr stares at him, his sword lowering. Desmond smiles. "So again – do you want to know more?"

Chapter Text

Altaïr is a curious and industrious man at heart – though he's good at suppressing it. It's what made him such a good Mentor in the past Desmond had lived through – and it's what makes him follow Desmond now, despite knowing so little and trusting even less. Normally though Altaïr doesn't act on his curiosity, he resorts to obedience and order first – or he did, anyway. Al Mualim had made a mistake there, in isolating Altaïr and limiting the knowledge he had access to – it makes Altaïr frustrated and when he's frustrated he doesn't think things through to the extent he usually would. He doesn't restrain himself to the same level he normally does.

In a funny way, Al Mualim had only sped up his own downfall and Altaïr's development by trying to bring the man down a peg. But who knows – maybe he'd planned it all along. The Old Man of the Mountain had said he was trying to teach Altaïr a lesson, try and teach him wisdom... and learn Altaïr had. Probably not the way Al Mualim had wanted though.

Quietly Desmond wonders if the Hunt for the Nine is still happening here, with the Apple removed from the situation. Does Al Mualim still make that bid for power, without the tools of the Isu at his disposal? Considering that Altaïr is hunting him and the Apple, and not the Templars in the city…

Either way, Altaïr is following him bow, stalking him with a hand close to sword hilt and fingers flexing. Desmond can just feel him sizing up his back, looking for a place to stick a blade. He wouldn't, though. Desmond had piqued his interest now – Altaïr wouldn't kill him until he got what he could out of Desmond. And hopefully once he had that, he wouldn't want to risk it at all.

This is still probably a very bad idea.

Desmond walks on, leading Altaïr to his house. His usual neighbours are there – Hadia is folding dry bandages which they'd been washing that morning and Agatha is smashing some broken pieces of pottery into fine powder, to be used in making of new ceramics. They look up as they hear them come and Agatha waves a hand at him, stained with red clay.

"I see your brother found you, then," Hadia says.

Desmond casts a glance at Altaïr, who started at him from under the beaked hood. "Yes, he did," Desmond says, a little bit amused. "And I have some things to talk to him about in private, so we'll be heading inside and possibly getting drunk – unless you have something for me?"

"Karam came about, his knee is acting up again. I told him you were busy and to come around later, once the markets closed."

Desmond considers it and then looks through his satchels. He'd managed to sell most of everything he set out to sell, but there was still something left – including a salve made specifically for joint pain. "Here," he says, handing it over. "Give this to him when he comes – I don't think I have the time to see him tonight."

She agrees, taking the salve and hiding it in the folds of her skirts. "I have the bandages ready for you – do you want them folded or rolled?"

"Folded please. Thank you Hadia."

With that covered, Desmond leads Altaïr indoors, making sure never to stand between the man and his exits. Altaïr glares around suspiciously, and Desmond is glad he managed to get a bit bigger house this time – he even has carpets and tapestries, having traded some for medicine with those who couldn't pay but who needed medicine a bit more expensive than what you could make from the usual contents of a pantry.

There's still a draft that gets in through the cracks though, so Desmond goes to light a fire in the fireplace, crouching by it and reaching for the tinder.

Altaïr's patience seems to be limited though. "Tell me what you know," he demands. "Like you offered to."

How do you explain highly advanced, futuristic technology to a man whose experience with any technology is probably limited to siege engines, or primitive clocks at most? Desmond takes out his stick of flint and strikes it on a piece of metal until he gets a spark and then spends a moment coaxing it into a flame, thinking about it, wondering how he would've liked to be told. Starting from the beginning maybe, but does Altaïr even have the base knowledge to understand that?

"How old to you think this world is?" Desmond asks finally, looking to from where he's crouching by the fire.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything," Desmond shrugs. "I need to know so that I can explain this to you in way that you will understand. How old is the world? Do you have any idea how it was formed? What about humans – have you thought about where they come from? What do you know about the Sun?"

Altaïr scoffs. "I am not here to discuss religion with you," he snaps. "Just tell me about the treasure!"

"... Alright." Desmond stands to and goes to pick to an oil lamp, carrying it to the fire to light it. "Over seventy thousand years ago there lived a race of people a lot like us, but much older. They go by a lot of names, Those That Came Before, the First Civilisation, the Precursors. They called themselves the Isu, though," he says. "And they predate all human civilisation by hundreds of thousands of years. They created the Apple of Eden, the Disc I showed you and a lot of other similar technologies, which are left lying scattered all around the globe now."

"The globe?" Altaïr asks sharply.

"Yeah – the world. It's a round, like a ball, but enormous," Desmond says and with the oil lamp's wick lit stands up, carrying the lamp to a table. "Anyway, the Isu were so advanced that their technology looks like magic to humans – it isn't, though, but that doesn't make it any less dangerous or powerful. The Apple is like that, it can do things that seem like magic but it's just a really advanced tool a person who was a lot like a human created very long time ago. And that's why people want it, you can do a lot of things with a tool like the Apple of Eden."

Altaïr narrows his eyes. "You say it's not magic and then call it Apple of Eden," he says accusingly.

"Eden was a city of the Isu," Desmond explains. "Where first free humans stole some of the Isu's tools. A lot of myths and religions have some basis in reality, in stories passed from long ago. Things happened and were named, and later on people took those events and names and built their faiths around then. That's kind of what people do – they believe in things."

Altaïr stares at him silently for a moment, suspicious and incredulous. His hand is still close to his sword. "If these Isu were powerful enough to build cities and create these wondrous tools, where are they now?"

"Dead," Desmond says and looks at him. Telling him about the Sun is a bit too soon, so… "They died tens of thousands of years ago – a natural disaster wiped out most of their population and the survivors couldn't repopulate. Humans bred ten times quicker, each generation potentially doubling its numbers – Isu just weren't capable of that. In the end, there was some cross breeding between Isu and humans which eventually diluted their bloodlines so that their surviving descendants are completely indistinguishable from humans."

He pauses there to make sure Altaïr is keeping up. It's hard to say if he is. "And that's how we get people like you," he adds anyway.

"What?" Altaïr asks sharply.

"You. With your sight. No one else you know has it, right? It's just you, maybe your father, but no one else… right?" Desmond asks. "Where do you think it comes from, how it works, what makes it possible? The Isu had it too, all of them did. Their Sixth Sense."

Altaïr narrows his eyes but doesn't argue this time. He's thinking now. Still in his arrogant asshole phase or not, he's not a stupid guy, Altaïr. And Desmond knows he's always had doubts.

Being an atheist and having what to everyone seems like a supernatural ability just makes a guy wonder.

"You said you can prove this," the Assassin says finally. "If you truly can, then do so." He's looking down at Desmond chest – where he'd hidden the Disc.

Desmond hesitates. He should explain other things to Altaïr first – the Roman Gods and the solar system at least, but… it would only confuse Altaïr more at this point and make him more frustrated. Better show him and then explain what it was he saw.

"Alright," Desmond says. "Grab a pillow and sit down."

Altaïr gives him an incredulous look at that, but Desmond ignores it in favour of getting the Disc out and activating it again. It has within it a lot more knowledge than just the initial message Minerva and Tinia had left him, but little of it would make sense to Altaïr. Better just let him see the first message and go from there

Desmond crouches down and waits until Altaïr actually takes a seat – he ignores the pillows and just sits on the carpet, legs crossed. The Assassin leans his elbows on his knees and then watches Desmond cautiously – blade hand at the ready.

The Disc begins to glow, ready to draw in a person's mind and show it what it has stored. Desmond looks at Altaïr.

"This is a Memory Disc – it's how the Isu stored knowledge, not in writing or books, but in devices like this and the Apple, storing their own thoughts in them," Desmond tells Altaïr. "What's in this are the memories of Minerva and Tinia, two members of the Isu."

He hands the Disc over, and to his credit Altaïr hesitates a moment before grabbing it. "And how exactly…" is as far as the Master Assassin gets before the memories draw him in, and he's gone, falling abruptly silent and still.

Desmond eyes the man's frozen face with interest and then reaches over to close his eyes. It took him hours to go through the message the first time – it'll probably be the same for Altaïr.

"This is such a bad idea," Desmond tells Altaïr's still form as he sits there, the Memory Disc in hand. "You'd probably agree, if you were the older version, huh?"

Well, it's all done now and there's no going back, not unless he killed Altaïr and he is not doing that. All Desmond can hope for is that the man will be reasonable and willing to listen once he's seen everything.

Desmond is making late dinner when Altaïr finally rises from the memories. The man comes to his own body without a sound or motion, but the Disc gives it away – its glow fades as it deactivates.

"You've been in the memories for about three hours," Desmond says. "It's almost night now. I'm making food, there's enough for your to if you want it, and there is clean water in the brown jar if you're thirsty."

Altaïr doesn't say anything, setting the now darkened memory Disc down slowly and then getting up. Desmond glances at him over his shoulder and then looks away as Altaïr drinks the water – the man's hands are shaking a little.

Still, he doesn't speak. Desmond decides not to press it and concentrates on the food, only leaving the pot momentarily to pick up the Memory Disc and put it away again. It's almost peaceful, the silence. It's calm and not even that tense, all things considered. Altaïr isn't on his guard as much anymore.

The Memory Disc tends to leave you feeling like the doors of your mind got blown wide open and now there's wind howling at all corners, so Desmond isn't surprised.

He finishes the food in silence and then fetches couple of bowls. It's another thin vegetable soup with only wild herbs for spices – you can't really get meat in Acre and even if you could it would be beyond expensive. Desmond has yet to find a fish seller whose merchandise is fresh enough to risk it. He's seen too many cases of diarrhea caused by cooking spoiled fish heads. So, vegetables it is.

"Here," Desmond says and offers one of the bowls to Altaïr.

Altaïr accepts the bowl without a word and then stares at it while Desmond sits down to eat himself. He's already half through his own bowl when Altaïr finally speaks

"You are one of them."

"I'm sorry?" Desmond asks, lowering his bowl.

"The Isu. You are one of them."

Desmond gapes at him. Of all the things he thought Altaïr might draw from what he saw in the Memory Disc, that definitely wasn't one.

"You've taken my likeness, somehow," Altaïr says with certainty. "With another piece of technology. To blend in, yes?"

"Altaïr, I'm…" Desmond trails of as the man looks up to him finally. "I'm not," Desmond says. "I'm as human as you."

"Then explain how you know these things," Altaïr says. "Explain why they spoke of you – to you. They talked to you as if you were there – that message, those visions were made for you. How is that possible if you were not one of them and in their presence?"

"I – is hard to explain," Desmond says wearily – and in part he's almost tempted to take Altaïr's mistake and run with it, but ultimately it would only get him in more trouble and God help him if Al Mualim and the Templars decided Altaïr was right. "The Isu had means to look forward in time. They were speaking through time."

"And still they were talking to you," Altaïr says and frowns at him. "They tasked you with saving the world."

"All without asking me, yeah," Desmond agrees and looks down at his bowl. "The disaster they predict is still eight hundred years away – it's nothing to worry about right now."

Altaïr watches his face, his eyes sharp and perceptive under the beak of his hood. "To stop it you would have to be immortal," he murmurs.

Desmond sighs. "Trust me, I'm not," he says. "I'm just a man with a very old bloodline, like you. And no, I didn't take your face – I'm happy to say I was born with mine, the same as you."

Altaïr looks a little displeased about that – about having this simple, if fantastical, explanation debunked. "Then why are you here, what are you doing here? Why did you take the Apple?"

"There is a mind of a malevolent Isu in that thing – in all of the Pieces of Eden, all their tools," Desmond says. "If it ends up in Assassin or Templar hands, she will use you to start a long, withering war which will shape history in a course she designs – one that will leave our world open for her take over. She waits imprisoned in the place where the world will be saved – once it happens and the world is saved, she will be freed and she will take over. I'm trying to prevent it, and keep humanity free from her manipulations."

Altaïr lowers his chin, casting his face in shadows as he thinks about it. "You know the future."

"Yeah," Desmond agrees. "But it's not set in stone. I already changed things when I made sure no one got the Apple. If I hadn't, Malik would have ridden back with the Apple in hand and his brother dead – and in the course of the next weeks, the Apple would've corrupted Al Mualim entirely and he would've tried to use it to enslave Masyaf. He probably wouldn't have even noticed it happening."

No one had, not before all the Templars were dead and Al Mualim started playing the part of a dark sorcerer. There are questions about All Mualim's motives and what the old man's plans were – but that part was pure Apple induced nonsense. Al Mualim was already in control of Masyaf, the people there were loyal to him – doing so just turned most of the people against him.

Which begs a question about the Hunt for the Nine. Had Al Mualim only gotten the thought to kill all his rivals from the Apple? He had acted against them before, sent his people to steal the Apple from them but the Hunt for the Nine begun only after. It could be that with the Apple in hand he could finally risk it, and maybe his original motivation was really to stop Templars from influencing Holy Land, but still…

Well, the man was a leader with his own agendas – and he leads a Brotherhood of Assassins. Even before going all corrupt he probably was never a hundred percent good guy.

Altaïr is quiet, taking the spoon Desmond had given him and then starting to eat. If the food is disappointing, he doesn't say, just eats in thoughtful silence.

Desmond finishes his own bowl and stands up to rinse it and the spoon with a jug of clean water, pouring the used water into a bucket to be thrown out. Maybe one day, if this whole merchant thing took off and he made some money, he could look into getting a bit of plumbing going on.

"The Templars," Altaïr says finally. "Your speak of them as if they are akin to the Assassins but there are only one order of knights among others, serving under Richard. Why are they special?"

"They do and they don't. There is a secret order of Templars with different goals than just the Crusades," Desmond explains. "Their members come from other knight orders and outside them – merchants and black market dealers and a so forth. They're following a sort of creed – they have a shared goal. They work in secret to end the crusades and bring peace into the Holy Land."

He glances at Altaïr as the man looks up, frowning in confusion. Desmond shrugs. "Problem is that they think the best way to do this is by controlling people," he says. "Peace and order through force, with or without the people's consent. I don't know exactly what they were going to do with the Apple but its worst power is to enslave people's minds and make them obey without question, and there was a mention of freeing people from the shackles of religion, so… I can guess."

"Then they must be stopped."

Desmond sighs and shakes his head. "Maybe. I don't know," he admits. "There are people among them who want to do genuinely good things."

Altaïr says nothing for a moment, only watching as Desmond moves to clean a his cooking pot as well.

"Should the Apple not be destroyed?"

Desmond says nothing to that at first. He was sort of expecting it – not this soon maybe, but eventually. It tended to be Altaïr's answer to things that were dangerous or threatening – just destroy them and prevent them from influencing history or culture or people in general. Desmond understands where it comes from but...

"One day human technology will begin advancing and we will start understanding what the Isu left behind at a level closer and closer to theirs," Desmond says. "When that time comes there's lot we can learn from the Pieces of Eden."

"You just explained to me that it's dangerous," Altaïr says impatiently.

"Fire is dangerous if you don't understand it or know how to control it," Desmond says and shrugs, puts the cooking pot away. "So is a sword. It all depends on whether you know what you're doing with it, really. Right now no one knows about the inherent dangers though, so they're not on their guard."

"But you do," Altaïr says, only slight derisive.

"Yes, and you might notice that I don't have the Apple exactly underfoot here," Desmond points out.

"You have the Disc."

"The Disc can only store memories, it can't do more than that," Desmond shrugs. "The Apple can bestow knowledge, create illusions, enslave people, and more. It's on its own level, compared to the Disc."

"Do you have other items, then?"

"More Isu artefacts? No," Desmond says. More items, yes, but he's not sure Altaïr is on his side yet. "There are others, though, and the Apple can reveal their locations, if one wishes to set out searching."

"Will you?" Altaïr asks and when Desmond just looks at him, he stands up, now empty soup bowl in hand. "What are you doing here, Desmond? What are you planning to do?"

"I'm waiting," Desmond admits.

"For?"

"Someone," Desmond shrugs. "Until they arrive I will do whatever I can to make things slightly better in whatever way I can for the people around me. And try and keep people from finding the Apple, obviously."

Altaïr stands in front of him and Desmond marvels at their height difference. He'd never realised Altaïr was so much shorter than him. That doesn't make the man any less dangerous of course, but still. It's a thing. Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad is on the shorter side of average.

"You will stay here," Altaïr says – it's not a question.

"I'm not going anywhere," Desmond agrees. Except maybe if Altaïr arranges an ambush of Assassins for him, then he might very well go somewhere and fast, but he doubts he will. Altaïr is thinking now, he has suspicions. They'd make him cautious.

At least so Desmond hopes.

Altaïr hands him the bowl. "I'll be back," he says and hesitates. "Kadar… wishes me to express his thanks, if I ever saw you. He's fully recovered now, thanks to your care."

Desmond arches his brows at that and then smiles. "He's welcome," he says. "I'm glad to know he's doing well."

Altaïr nods awkwardly and then turns sharply to the door. Desmond looks after him, but decides not to say anything, waiting until the door closed after the Master Assassin before turning away, still smiling.

So even this younger and angrier Altaïr can be something like nice, when he wants to be. What do you know.

Desmond chuckles, but its a short lived bit of amusement. Then he's left with an empty house and the realisation of what he'd just done. He hadn't told Altaïr everything maybe… but he's told the man a lot. Too much perhaps. Enough to be dangerous, easily.

Here's hoping he didn't just shoot himself in the foot.

Chapter Text

Altaïr has never been a man of faith. There are those among the Assassin Brotherhood who believe in God and follow the tenants – his own father had been a Muslim and his mother a Christian. Neither faith had saved his parents or given them an advantage in life – his mother had died young, his father had sacrificed himself for the Brotherhood and now out of all their accomplishments only Altaïr remains. Whether that accomplishment is worth their lives, only they and the Gods they believed in could say.

Altaïr only believes in himself, in his blade, in his abilities. These are things that do not betray him and will not change their minds – even Al Mualim can be fickle and Altaïr has never had any misconceptions about where he stands. The old man favours you as long as you perform to his satisfaction, fail and that favour would be hard, impossible even, to regain. All Mualim loved none of them so much that he would not sacrifice them if the need arose.

Umar Ibn-La'Ahad is a testament to that. To this day touted as one of their best, Al Mualim had sent him to his death without even trying to find an alternate solution. Altaïr can't remember much of his father, not enough to love him or even miss him, but the thought had lingered many nights when he'd been a boy. His father could have lived, had Al Mualim but said no, I will not sacrifice one of our own.

But they were not trained to live – they were trained to kill and die at their master's behest. Altaïr doesn't disdain the life, it's the only one he's ever known, but it leaves little room for faith, not in kinder higher powers, not in people.

Desmond had not asked him to believe – but the proof he'd given for his fantastical words makes Altaïr doubt.

"We are not Gods," said a woman whose visage Altaïr could very well imagine carved in stone and worshipped in antiquity. "We are not omniscient – our plans are not without fault. All we can do is prepare for every eventuality and believe."

A lot of what the Isu spoke of went beyond Altaïr's understanding – they spoke of the winds of the sun and its cycles and radiance beyond the Earth, and Altaïr's sparse understanding of celestial mechanics did not reach this far. But they also spoke of power and change and possibilities – and the use of a device that could change the whole of creation. Power which they had bequeathed to Desmond.

Had Altaïr not felt the Disc work, had he not seen the vision himself, he would only scoff at it and disregard it. Their supposed saviour now lives among the poor and heals the sick, how terribly quaint, how fitting. Truly, the stuff religions are made of. It's all too convenient too, isn't it? Religious artefact supposedly from Eden itself, and now all of this. What does it make Altaïr – a prophet to announce the arrival of the Lord? Ridiculous.

But he'd used the Disc, he'd felt it work and try as he might he can't deny what it was any more than he could deny what he himself is. It was as if part of him had known and recognised the Disc, and welcomed its thrumming power within him. And the vision itself – it had been clear and long, viscerally real in a way no opium or fever induced hallucination ever could be.

Altaïr needs to think. He knows he should be writing a report to Malik to be sent to Jerusalem – either that, or he should be reporting his findings to Al Mualim directly. The Apple is still lost, but Altaïr has now discovered another artefact of power with ability to bestow knowledge and a man who knows even more, certainly more than he'd revealed to Altaïr. Al Mualim would be interested in such knowledge, certainly.

But instead Altaïr stalks the darkened streets of Akka and thinks furiously. He climbs walls and runs over rooftops and climbs every tower that comes his way, seeking clarity in the clear air above, where the smell of smoke and human misery doesn't reach. Ultimately he ends up scaling the peak of Cathedral of the Holy Cross, a feat novices in Akka dare each other to attempt to prove their worth as Assassins. Altaïr had been one of the few who dared to make it all the way up on top of the cross on top of the Cathedral's peak – though he'd done it more due to curiosity than to prove anything. By that time he was already among the best – he had little to prove to novices who were all inferior to him.

Now he just likes it. There is no better viewpoint for perspective than the highest peak over the city, where people and their concerns turn into distant specks and all you can see is the greater things they're built and none of the minute flaws in the construction. It makes everything seem worthwhile, in the end.

Akka is a little more visibly flawed, though. There are whole swathes of the city in disrepair, buildings missing their roofs and some of their walls, the siege having left gaping wounds in the city's visage. There is still manmade magnificence there – Akka houses a great port and it's full of ships from near and far. The moon casts a glowing bridge leading to it, and that sight alone makes the treacherous climb up to the Cathedral's highest point worth it.

Altaïr had seen the world from afar, the viewpoint so distant that the whole of it became nothing but a marble in darkness, with the Sun looming behind it, a great burning orb, thousands times bigger. At such distances even the greatest of man's accomplishments, their larger constructions, became invisible and inconsequential. The scope of it still echoes in Altaïr's head, those terrible, vast distances, too great to even be comprehended.

Their whole world is only a lonely speck in a dark, empty, Creatorless universe.

Altaïr heads to the Assassins Bureau for the night. Jabal had turned in for the night and the Bureau is managed by one of his students – a novice who almost throws a bottle of ink at him as Altaïr drops in through the roof.

"Safety and peace," the novice squeaks, clutching his brush.

"Safety and peace to you as well," Altaïr says. "Be at ease, novice, I require no aid tonight. Only a place to sleep."

The boy relaxes visibly at that and offers him a smile. "By all means. There is bread in the pantry if you're hungry, brother," he offers. "We might even have some cheese."

"That isn't necessary – I have already eaten. Thank you," Altaïr says and then goes to the mound of pillows, to lay down for the night. The novice looks after him awkwardly and then goes back to his writing practice. The sound of rustling paper is quietly loud in the darkness, only faintly lit by the single oil lamp inside' and the stars above.

Stars are suns, Altaïr thinks. He'd seen the Sun reduced to one as the view the Isu had given of the world had drawn back farther and farther away until the Earth disappeared into darkness and the Sun shrank smaller and smaller – and still the destruction expelled from its surfaces raced ever farther. Through nothingness the Sun cast its destructive flames and Earth burned.

Altaïr cannot sleep. He turns and puts his head down, but sleep eludes him – he cannot escape from the golden visions. He turns again and again, but his mind refuses to quell.

Eventually he rises and heads inside.

"Yes?" the novice there asks nervously.

"Have you paper and quill I can use? I have a report to write." He has some of his own of course, but why waste paper and ink when he's in a scribe shop?

"Yes, of course – I'll get them for you right away," the novice says and bounces from his seat, reaching for fresh writing materials. Altaïr has never worked in a bureau, but even he knows better than this slip of a boy when it comes to running one, it seems.

Taking pity on the lad, he says, "Don't give me your merchandise, I am not a customer. There should be slips of thin paper under the counter, fit to be sent by a pigeon, and any old quill will do."

"Oh," the boy says. "Right – yes, you're right."

Altaïr waits until he's given what he requested and then sits down by the table in the corner of the room to write.

"Do you need a lamp?" the novice behind the counter asks.

"No, don't waste your oil," Altaïr answers and concentrates into his vision until the darkness peels back and he can see through the eyes of the eagle.

He isn't sure what to write. Who is he writing this report for anyway, Al Mualim or Malik? Al Mualim had left him in Malik's charge, the man is to be his master until further notice, but what he'd learned from Desmond… can he even explain it without sounding like a mad man?

Altaïr looks away, through the grated window and into the inner courtyard. Then, resolving to get it done, he begins to write.

Malik

I have found the man we have been looking for and discovered his name – Desmond. He works as a physician and medicine peddler in Akka's poor district. He openly admitted to stealing the treasure, but refused to disclose its location. I do not believe it is here – it might yet be in Jerusalem, but I have no proof of this yet

Desmond is trained in the arts of an Assassin and a formidable combatant – I can confirm Kadar's report of him possessing twin hidden blades, though as he also possesses all of his fingers it is unlikely he got them through our order. I suspect he built them himself, though how he learned the way of their construction, I do not know. He is knowledgeable about the treasure and others like it besides, possessing one made of dark metal, flat circle with a hole in the middle. He shared some of his knowledge about them with me willingly – for which I suspect there is an agenda, though I do not know what that agenda might be.

I will endeavour to learn more. Desmond did not seem against further interaction and perhaps I can earn his trust and he will reveal the location of the Apple willingly.

I will await for further instructions, as per your orders.

Altaïr Ibn-La'ahad

Altaïr considers the report. It covers all of what he learned – and also, none of what learned. He should write it also, but – to what end? It had little to do with their mission. Al Mualim had told them to find what happened to the Apple and, if possible, retrieve it – not discover who build it, why and what it can do.

And part of Altaïr doesn't want to share the knowledge he's gained, not before he understands it himself.

He considers the report – and then begins the more labour intensive task of rewriting it in code for actual delivery. Malik, the stickler of rules he is, had even insisted on them using a unique code, rather than using the general secret language of the Assassins. Rewriting the message takes nearly twice as long because of it

Once finally done, Altaïr rolls the report up small and then rises to talk to the novice behind the counter again. "Have you pigeons from Jerusalem?"

"Three of them, yes – we should get more in few days," the novice says. "Shamil is travelling for a mission and is bringing more birds."

"Don't reveal more information than you are asked for," Altaïr tells him. "And don't tell those who need not know about the movement of the members of our order – you never know when one of us might be captured and questioned under torture."

"Oh," the novice says and shrinks in his seat. "I'm sorry."

Altaïr sighs. "You're still learning," he says. "Just remember in future. Here – to be sent to the Jerusalem bureau," he says and hands over his report.

The boy nods, still looking mortified, and shaking his head Altaïr heads back to the mound of pillows to try and catch some sleep. It's late enough to be early now, and it has been a while since he slept. He needs the energy. He makes himself as comfortable as he can, even goes a far as taking his belt off, but even so…

There is that vision again, just behind his eyelids as he closes his eyes, and Desmond's voice, soft and steady, as he upturns the world around him.

Altaïr gets no sleep whatsoever that night.

The next day Altaïr goes to shadow Desmond. Early in the morning the man has yet to head into the souk and Altaïr finds him instead in the alley outside his humble house, treating someone. A woman, beaten and bruised, who has a split lip and blood gushing from a head wound.

"... was only a bit of bread," she's saying, wincing. "Hard, stale piece of it was too, what harm would have it done? No one was going to buy it anyway."

"Hmm," Desmond answers noncommittally and tilts her head back as he looks at the wound in her scalp. "I'm going to need to wash this to see how bad this is. Hadia, could you please get me a jug from inside? The red one with two handles. Tell me, Maylis, did you pass out when they roughened you up?"

"No, though I pretended I did, it's how I got to keep my hands," the wounded woman answers miserably. "How bad is it?"

"It looks superficial, but let's make sure it isn't worse than it looks. Does your head hurt?"

"Of course it hurts! Got knocked about, didn't I? It damn well feels like it too…"

As Altaïr watches, Desmond washes the woman's scalp with what looks like water but judging by the noise she makes isn't. Then, much to the woman's horror, Desmond pronounces the wound too big; it would have to be stitched. It's a very noisy affair as the man shaves a part of her scalp with a razorblade and then fetches a small wooden box with curved needles and thin catgut. Pulling his sleeves up and washing his hands with the same solution he washed the woman's head with, Desmond takes the needle and begins to sew. The woman practically howls throughout.

Altaïr in the meanwhile stares at the bracers on the man's arms. They are much heavier in design than Altaïr own and there is something strange in then – a strange bent tube that sits just beside the hidden blade, the length of the tube running alongside the blade. Strange. A container for something, way to carry important messages perhaps?

Or a container for poison. The man is skilled enough with medicine to make some, certainly.

"There," Desmond says, finishing his operation by smearing something onto the freshly stitched wound on his patient's scalp. "Now don't touch it, don't scratch it and don't get it dirty. Come here once a day and I will check and wash it for you – do not wash it yourself, Maylis."

"Why not?"

"With your luck you'll use bad water for it and just get it infected," Desmond says and looks at her seriously. "Just leave it to me, alright? Are you still hungry?"

"Of course I'm still hungry," the wounded woman answers almost mutinously.

"Hadia – can you see that Maylis gets something to eat?" Desmond asks and looks up to Altaïr. "I have another appointment, it looks like."

Altaïr doesn't get down at first, waiting until the women have headed inside into another house – one belonging to the woman Hadia, probably. Only once they are both out of side does he swing down and drop to the ground not far from Desmond, facing the man.

"You're back sooner than I thought," Desmond admits and moves to wash his hands and tools – the razor blade and the needle he used. "What can I do for you, Altaïr?"

Altaïr has questions and demands he should be making – the Apple should be a priority, it's what he is here for, after all. Instead what comes out of his mouth is, "Do you have other proof? Other than what you showed me?"

Desmond pauses, shaking his wet hands to dry them and thinks about it. "Yes, and no," he says and glances at Altaïr. He shrugs. "I've shown you and told you about as much as it takes. If you choose at this point to not believe me, then it won't matter what else I bring to the table – you'll find excuses not to believe."

"So it all relies on faith, after all," Altaïr mutters.

Desmond chuckles and then picks up his box of needles and turns to his door. "A person can deny existence of things standing right in front of him if he tries hard enough. In that sense, I guess it's a little bit about faith," he says and motions Altaïr to follow. "But if you're willing to keep an open mind then yeah, there's more."

Altaïr hesitates a moment, but there is no sense of hostility from Desmond, no hint of a trap – the man feels blue in his mind. Altaïr glances around and then stalks after the man, into his dark, windowless house where last cinders of fire and what light comes through the door are the only sources of illumination.

"Where would you like to begin?" Desmond asks, setting his tools away.

"You," Altaïr says immediately. "Who are you, where do you come from – why were you chosen by the Isu?"

"Don't start with an easy one, huh," Desmond mutters and pushes his dark hood back. Altaïr narrows his eyes a little, watching him. Somehow, they have even cut their hair in similar ways. Desmond is quiet for a moment and then he shakes his head. "I don't think I can tell you that yet," he says finally. "Sorry. I just don't trust you. Maybe one day."

Well, at least he's honest about it. Altaïr snorts and closes the door. "That doesn't inspire any trust in me either, you realise."

"Them's the breaks," Desmond shrugs.

"… what?"

"That's just how it is," Desmond clarifies. "Never mind. Try another question."

"The Isu, then. Tell me more about them," Altaïr says.

"That I can only do to certain extent – I don't know that much myself," Desmond says and then takes a pillow and goes to sit by the fire, coaxing it back into bigger flame by throwing couple bits of wood in. "I don't know how old they were exactly when they died or why they didn't, I don't know, just flat-out leave the solar system – but they were very advanced. They either never aged or they aged so slowly that they lived for so long that it was practically the same thing…"

Altaïr sits down and listens, silent, as Desmond paints the picture of ancient, superior civilisation that spanned the whole planet, from the continents he knows to ones humans haven't even discovered yet, and would not for centuries. It's a fantastic tale, made all the more unbelievable by the point Desmond explains how Minerva learned to see forward in time and how they begun the task of shaping the future.

"There are still temples left all around the world, their structures," Desmond says, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "I'm not hundred percent sure but there might be one in Damascus."

"In Damas?" Altaïr asks sharply.

"Hm. Temple of Jupiter," Desmond agrees. "It's another name for Tinia – the male Isu you saw on the Disc."

Altaïr scowls, thinking it. "So they are gods after all? Pagan gods from a dead religion."

"Well, it's how people saw them, once upon a time," Desmond explains. "The Isu of the past – Minerva, Tinia and Juno – can communicate with our time, their future, through temples. And there's a lot of them in the peninsula – Rome alone has two temples. For the people of Rome, or those early civilisations that started worshipping those particular gods, it just made… sense. Technology that produces visions and talks in voices and predicts the future was probably a bit beyond their understanding. So… gods."

"Hmm." Altaïr answers. "And you think the old Temple of Jupiter in Damas might be one of these temples? It's a ruin."

"Most of them are, yeah. Romans had the habit of building the temples of their gods on top of Isu temples," Desmond says. "The Isu temples are all more or less buried, it's been a pretty long time, after all. And there's limit to how far those places can send images, and since people back then thought they were gods, well, it would've been like god sending a message, or whatnot, when the Isu tried to talk. Build my temple here, for here I can speak to you, and all that."

Altaïr nods slowly. The Temple of Jupiter would be a place to examine, then, if he ever happened to visit Damas.  "They don't seem to be talking to people anymore," he comments wryly.

"They do, when it makes a difference – but sometime in the last millennia Juno started eating away at the temples, spreading out her influence – silencing the other Isu using them," Desmond says. "And Christianity kind of put a wrench on the gods-and-worshippers relationship, too. Things just changed. And most of their plans had already been put in motion anyway."

"Tell me about – "Altaïr stops mid question and turns his head – Desmond doing the same. There are steps outside, heavy steps, and clanking of metal, of armaments. Soldiers. Knights.

Desmond stands up quickly. "The wall in the room left to you is collapsed, you can get to the neighbouring house through there, and out that way,” he says quietly and narrows his eyes. Then, hastily, he takes something from under his robes and hands it to Altaïr. "Take these and go," he says urgently.

A heavy fist starts banging on the closed door. "In the name of the Knights Hospitalier, open this door!" a voice calls in faltering Arabic.

Altaïr looks down and shoves what he was given under his belt – he's through the room and then what looks to be Desmond's– behind him he can hear Desmond opening the door to the knights. Altaïr makes it through to the other house – which sits empty, its ceiling broken and its walls ruined – and through there he climbs to the roof, to see what the knights would do.

"Are you Desmond the healer?" a Knight in Hospitalier tabard demands as Desmond cautiously steps out of his house and into the light.

"I am Desmond the medicine peddler at most," Desmond answers carefully. "I don't claim to be a healer."

"It is said that you provide medicinal remedies and cures to people," the knight says accusingly. "Are you not the man who has treated people here, in this very house?"

"I do offer people aid – but only in very general sense. I wouldn't call myself a physician," Desmond demurs. "I only know a bit of medicine, really. What can I do for the Knights Hospitalier?"

"Your presence has been requested," the knight says and narrows his eyes. "It would be foolish to refuse."

"Then I won't," Desmond agrees and bows his head. "I'd be happy to be of service."

With that, he is marched away, leaving Altaïr watching from the roof as he is led, rather forcefully, from the alley. There are four knights there, so Altaïr isn't sure if Desmond could escape if he tried – but he isn't even trying. If anything, he actually seems content in his compliance.

Scowling after him, Altaïr takes out what the man had given him, checking it over. The Memory Disc is one of the items, sitting inert and lightless in his hands – the other is a strange item shaped like flat square with rounded edges. It's not metal, it's glass and… something else. Another Isu artefact? It doesn't feel the same. Within the Disc there is a strange hum of power – in this new device there is nothing.

No time to wonder about it now. Altaïr hides the items away again, pushing them into a more secure place in his waist pouches – then he stands and hurries to follow the Knights and Desmond. They are already down the street and making their way further still.

They are taking Desmond to a hospital.

Chapter Text

There's always been a chance that what Desmond was doing would draw Templar attention. Part of him had even expected it, really – maybe he'd even invited it. After hiding the Apple, he hadn't really gone out of his way to stay hidden himself, it was a bit of an opposite really and now, working as what amounts to mediaeval pharmacist… there was really no way he wouldn't catch the eye of someone higher up on the local food ladder. That it was Garnier de Naplouse who ultimately did notice him only makes sense.

Maybe he should be more worried about it, but… it's not as if he came back in time in order to hide and do nothing.

The hospital is even worse mess than he remembers – Animus had protected him from the worst of it, really. The place stinks of sickness and misery, of unwashed bodies and chamber pots left sitting too long, of blood and vomit. There's an oppressive atmosphere of wretchedness and it doesn't help that the place has no air circulation to speak of. The patients lingering by the entrance look sicker just being there.

"This way," the knight in the lead says and Desmond is marched past the patients and deeper into the hospital – and the further they get, the worse it smells. There are too many people here, too many sick and injured, all breathing the same foul air.

Desmond takes out a scarf and quietly tires it over his face, looking around and taking the state of the sick. Worst thing is how dirty they look. Most look like they haven't washed in weeks and a lot of them are walking around barefoot in the same floor where those with boots track dirt and worse things. Minding hygiene just isn't a thing here, but seriously… why is it so filthy in here? Even the poor keep their living places cleaner than this. Surely anyone with any sense would think to keep hospital clean… right? If not for any other reason then to make it a bit nicer in general.

Desmond thought, remembering Altaïr's reservations about Garnier, that maybe the guy was onto something and Altaïr just had the bad luck of seeing the worst of it… but no. This really isn't a place for the sick. It's barely place fit for the healthy.

"Grandmaster," the knight in lead says and then switched to French, language Desmond knows a little of thanks to Ezio. "We've brought you the medicine peddler but he says he's no doctor."

"Scared of being conscripted, no doubt," Garnier says and turns away from a man whose arm he'd been examining it. It's swollen under filthy bandages – infected. "You are Healer?" Garnier asks, switching over to faltering Arabic.

"I know some medicine but I'm not a physician," Desmond says, looking at the man the doctor had been treating. A knight, it looks like, who's taken a sword or maybe an arrow to the shoulder. The guy does not look good. "What can I do for you, mister…?"

"Grandmaster Garnier de Naplouse, of the Knights Hospitalier," Garnier says and notions around them. "This is my hospital, the only working hospital in Acre."

"Your hospital looks very busy, Grandmaster," Desmond says, noncommittal.

"Busy, yes – the sick are a flood that never ends," Garnier agrees. "And our staff has been diminished as of late. We are in need of more doctors, more physicians – more medicine. You treat the sick on the street, yes? I have heard of your work."

"I offer basic remedies, yes," Desmond agrees warily. "But like I said, I am not a physician – I just know how to mix herbs."

"It is already more than most working here do," Garnier says and steps past him. "Walk with me – you can go back to your work," he says to the guards and then leads Desmond around the hospital.

Somehow it gets worse the deeper they go.

"We haven't much here, the hospital was set up in haste," Garnier says grimly. "Few beds, few rooms, and hundreds requiring our attention. Of the ten doctors I started with, four remain and two of those are sick now."

And judging by the looks of it, Garnier had no nurses or orderlies – it's just doctors and guards doing the work of managing and keeping the sick in line. Patient care and hospice aren't really things yet, are they? Desmond adjusts his scarf and hums, saying nothing.

"You don't like the smell?" Garnier says, sympathetic. "Unfortunate fact of hospitals. One gets used to it in time – and it is not as if you can blame the sick for being sick. I understand it is distasteful to those not used to it, however."

No, I just don't want to catch anything, Desmond thinks, wondering if whatever vaccinations he has covers all the crap floating around in the air here. "Yes," he says. "I suppose."

"Have you ever considered working in a hospital, young man?"

"I… can't say it's ever come up," Desmond says, his stomach sinking a little. "I am not a doctor."

"No formal training then? Where did you learn your medicine?" Garnier asks intently.

"A friend of mine was an academic – he let me read some of his texts."

"Ah, you know your letters then? And your friend – is he in Acre?"

"No, he's not among us," Desmond says honestly and then stops.

There's a man he's treated previously, named Jacob, sitting on the floor not far from them, stripped from waist up. He's pale and obviously feverish – clutching onto his left arm with his right hand.

His left hand is gone, cut at the wrist.

"The Knights Teutonic caught him stealing at a market," Garnier says with pity on his voice as they stop before Jacob. "We cauterised the stump and he should make a recovery soon enough – but while he was being treated he told us of you, and how you'd treated a festering sore on his foot."

Desmond had – the thing had been infected and producing puss. Desmond had drained and washed it with saline and then treated it with honey poultice – the best he could do before he figured out how to make antibiotic ointments.

Desmond walks over to the man on the floor and crouches before him. "Jacob," he says. "Are you alright?"

"What?" the man asks and looks up, his eyes red-shot and bleary with pain. "Who are you?"

"It's me, Desmond – I looked over your foot a week back."

"Oh. Healer," Jacob says and shivers. "They – they took my arm. I was only hungry and they took my arm. They cut off my arm!"

Desmond reaches over to rest a hand over Jacob's good shoulder. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "Can I take a look, Jacob?"

Jacob nods and sobs as Desmond unwinds the grey bandages over the stump of his wrist. It had been a clean cut, they hadn't broken the arm bones – but the cauterisation is ugly.

"Can you, is there –" Jacob draws a shuddering breath. "The pain, I cannot take it."

Desmond hesitates and then reaches for a pouch at his belt. He's taken to carrying some things with him since the poor of Acre started coming to him for cures and through he hasn't had the time to start making proper oils and tinctures, he does carry dried willow bark with him now. It would have to do.

While Garnier watches with interest, Desmond takes a pinch of the powdered bark and adds some water from a glass bottle he carries – which is about as clean as he can make it in this time. Quick and dirty Desmond fixes a sort of paste from the willow bark and smears it carefully on Jacob's stump. With any luck it would help with the inflammation too.

"Can't do better than that with what I have, I'm sorry," Desmond says and hands the pouch with the willow bark powder to Jacob. "Use it sparingly, alright? You can also make a tea of it and drink it, but don't drink too much, it can give you an upset stomach."

"Ah," Garnier says in realisation. "Willow, yes?"

"Yeah," Desmond agrees and looks up at the doctor who is nodding approvingly. "Do you have shortage of medicine?" Desmond asks, instead of demanding what the fuck the guy is doing not giving anything to the guy. Willow isn't exactly impossible to get or expensive and Jacob's had his hand chopped off – the least Garnier could've done is whip up a cup of tea.

"There are few who are capable of making them or have the time," Garnier admits. "We are waiting for a shipment from Cyprus, it should help our work here some."

"If you require medicine I can make them, I even have some in store. Including willow," Desmond offers but he's pretty sure that's not what Garnier wants from him.

"Perhaps," Garnier says and considers Jacob. "You have a knack for dealing with patients, child. I think it would be better utilised more directly."

Desmond hesitates, looking over the hospital. The place is a bit of a death trap if one asks him. He's seen cleaner sewers.

"It not a task without its rewards," Garnier says dismissively and turns to continue on. "We aren't savages. You will be paid for your work, of course. You're young man with some skill and intelligence – I don't see why you couldn't also take this a opportunity to learn from experience of your elders. Perhaps, one day, you might yet dare to call yourself a doctor after all."

Though Desmond is free to leave and Garnier even gives him a day to think about it, Desmond gets the feeling that refusing this job opportunity isn't actually on the table. The knights had implied it just wasn't in his best interest and considering the state the hospital is in…

Desmond walks back home slowly, thoughtfully. He can feel Altaïr shadowing him and he really should get the Disc and his phone back from the man, but he's in no hurry. Altaïr can't use either of them without him. The worst thing that could happen is that Altaïr breaks his phone, at which point Desmond would be pretty pissed, but he has replacements.

Should really start writing down what Shaun got for him, huh…

Desmond chews on his lip and thinks about it, really thinks about it. He could run, he's pretty sure he could make it without the Hospitaliers finding out before he was long gone. Just get his stuff together, make beeline for the gates and out we go. But…

It's become pretty apparent that Desmond knows more about medicine than most people here, probably more than most actual doctors. They still used bloodletting in Ezio's time and this is four hundred years before that. Judging by what Desmond saw and smelled at Garnier's hospital, things are probably much worse now. Knowing as much as he does, being able to help people like he does… maybe he could make a difference there, at the hospital. Maybe even sneakily introduce the place to the idea of proper sanitation, who knows. Stranger things have happened.

Desmond runs a hand over his neck and keeps on walking until Altaïr finally drops on him. "You didn't escape – they let you go."

"Turns out it was Desmond the Healer they wanted, not Desmond the Apple stealer," Desmond says wryly. "The hospital of the Hospitaliers is short on staff, it seems."

Altaïr scowls at him suspiciously. "What do the Hospitaliers have to do with the treasure? It was Templars who sought it."

"Right," Desmond murmurs. Priorities. He hadn't told Altaïr who are members of the Templars, and since the Hunt for the Nine probably isn't happening yet or at all…

Desmond glances around to make sure there's no one near enough to hear them. There isn't. "The Grandmaster of Hospitaliers is part of the more secret Templar Order – he works with Robert De Sablé," he explains to Altaïr. "So he knows about the Apple, though I don't know if the rest of his order does."

Altaïr narrows his eyes and then, at the sight of a guard little distance away, he bows his head and clasps his hands together, taking a monk's posture. "And they want to recruit you, unknowing of your involvement," he murmurs.

"I don't think the Templars know anything about me, to be honest. Why would there suspect a random medicine seller in Acre for something that happened all the way in Jerusalem?" Desmond shrugs and looks him over. "Can I have my things back? Or is that going to cost me?"

Altaïr gives him a look from under his hood as they walk on, Desmond slightly ahead while Altaïr pretends humility to hide from the guards. "Why give them to me?" Altaïr asks. "You could have left then at your house."

"Wasn't sure if they'd ransack the place, and I couldn't risk Garnier finding them," Desmond admits. "If I'd known they weren't going to check me even for weapons, I would've kept them on me, probably. So can I have then back or not?"

Altaïr says nothing as they walk past the Hospitalier man at arms, keeping his head low. Then, safely out of earshot, he says, "You can have them back for the Apple."

Desmond sighs and looks at him, unimpressed. "Really, Altaïr?"

"You stole the Apple from us," he says. "Don't act as if I'm the one in the wrong here."

"I stole it from a tomb, not you," Desmond says flatly. "Didn't see you there when I got it, or any of the other Assassins. Even Templars hadn't reached it – I retrieved it weeks before either of you got to the Ark."

"Weeks," Altaïr repeats slowly.

"Mmhmm, weeks. Trust me, I've had enough time to hide it," Desmond says. "And I am not giving it to you, not after all the trouble I went through to keep it from you."

Altaïr tsks at that. "And if I don't give the Disc and the Slab to you, then what?"

The Slab. Hah. "Then I guess this relationship is over," Desmond says and looks him over. It's a loss but, "I can live without them. Giving you the Apple, that I can't live with. Besides… you can't even do anything with them."

Altaïr looks up to him sharply and Desmond smiles. Oh he'd tried, then. He'd tried activating them – and he got nowhere. The Disc it's keyed to Desmond's DNA – and the phone was both turned off and locked. At most Altaïr could turn it on and then be very confused about the glowing screen and the keypad. Even Eagle vision doesn't help much with touch screens.

Altaïr scowls again and stops, looking around. Desmond sees him marking buildings, spotting a near one, and when Altaïr reaches to snag at his arm, Desmond goes willingly. Together they duck into a collapsed shell of a house with just enough of its walls still standing to offer some cover from the foot traffic on the street. Desmond looks around curiously, wondering at the fate of whoever lived there, and then turns Altaïr.

Altaïr faces him, looking a little like he's about to draw a sword. "I tire of these games," the Assassin snarls at him, quiet enough not to carry, but sharp. "The secrets you keep. You have told me much, showed me visions, revealed to me ancient truths – it has to be for a reason. So tell me the rest of it. What is it you're planning?"

Desmond leans back against the crumbling wall at his back. "I plan to change the future," he says honestly. "So that two powerful groups of badly misled people won't spend most of the next millennia fighting and dragging most of history down with them. Templars and Assassins. You're about to enter into a war which will never be resolved – I am going to stop it before it can start."

Or at least prevent Juno from sticking her fingers into that pie and mangling it up even worse.

Altaïr grimaces at him. "There has to be more to it," he says. "How do you even know of it? Why and how would you do this?"

"Any way I can – right now I'm doing it by talking to you," Desmond says, watching him, wondering if he gets the significance.

Altaïr chews on that furiously for a moment, staring at him with flashing eyes – using the Eagle Vision on him, trying to discern his intentions, his thoughts. Desmond blinks slowly at him and then, curious, does the same – activating the ability and looking at Altaïr as he shows up on Eagle Vision.

Though Desmond has used the ability plenty, he's never looked at someone in Eagle Vision while they too had the sixth sense activated – there just was no one but him with the ability in the future. It looks different from how he imagined it. He doesn't know how to word it, but it just looks like… like Altaïr's vividly glowing golden aura is reaching out, somehow. It's moving, stretching. Active.

The energy people have which Eagle Vision can see, the auras which show up in different colours from blues to reds to golds… Desmond has wondered what it is all about, what it actually is. Some minor magnetic field people produce or something? In the end, it didn't matter what it was or how it worked – it did work and that was enough. But now, he's sure the Eagle Vision actually utilises it. When they use the sixth sense, it's that aura they're using. And on Altaïr, it's moving – moving, as if it is trying to do something.

Just then Desmond has a sudden, dawning realisation; they have no idea what is possible with Eagle Vision. They've barely even scratched the surface.

Altaïr blinks at him and his aura settles. Desmond lets the sixth sense wind down too, and for a moment they stare at each other in almost confused silence. Altaïr felt it too, then, huh? Altaïr glimpsed the potential too, and realised what it might mean.

What the hell.

Altaïr backs away slightly. "Give me a reason to trust you," he says, his tone slightly more subdued now.

Desmond bites his lip. He has no idea how. He's given Altaïr everything he dares to short of revealing the whole time travelling bit – and, of course, giving the actual Apple away. How can you even prove your own trustworthiness when you're keeping so many secrets? He'd saved Kadar, he'd shown Altaïr the Disc…

"I can't," Desmond admits quietly. "I've given you as much as I dare to. You're an Assassin, you work under a leader with an agenda I don't exactly agree with – how much more do you think I can actually give you?"

Altaïr frowns and bows his head a little while Desmond watches him. The man is thinking about it. "Then give me the names of the Templars – these secret Templars you fear so. That knowledge has nothing to do with you, therefore it should be safe, yes?"

"… you won't like it," Desmond says quietly.

"I already like none of this," Altaïr mutters and takes out the Disc and the phone. He looks them over, conflicted, and then hands them over. "Tell me."

Desmond does – Altaïr doesn't like it.

Desmond spends the rest of the day making medicine, and talking with Hadia – who's become something of an unofficial nurse to his unofficial doctor, maybe – about making more medicine. Hadia has been great help in finding ingredients, she's even hired some of the local girls to collect herbs for Desmond, sometimes not so legally. She's also watched him make a lot of his medicine, so, she has some experience.

"Terrible stories about that place, terrible rumours," she says at the mention of the Hospitaliers. "And the wailing and the crying, you can hear it through all the walls. Whatever they do in that place, it's not healing."

"No – but maybe it could be," Desmond says thoughtfully. "The building itself isn't bad. Dry, warm, well maintained." Just filthy and messy and probably covered in an inch thick layer of unspeakable muck. Hospital bacteria, eat your heart out.

"There are dry warm places here too," Hadia mutters. "And plenty of people in need of care."

Desmond shrugs. "Yeah. I don't think I can actually refuse, though, not unless I want the Knights Hospitalier after me," he sighs and looks at her. "So, Hadia – do you think you could take over some of the medicine production for me? At least getting more ingredients. Chances are, I am going to need a lot of them. With any hope I can pay you better for it in the future, too."

Hadia sighs and rubs at her forehead. "I suppose, but I don't like it," she admits.

He doesn't either – it's a big risk, especially if Garnier proves to be as much of a nutcase as Desmond fears he might be. Good intentions or not, he now has recalled the first glimpse Altaïr had gotten of the man – and it hadn't been particularly pretty, had it? Despite his wistfully fatherly deathbed confessions, there is really no good way to spin breaking a patient's legs to prevent them from escaping, is there?

Well. If push came to shove, Desmond could stick a hidden blade in the man's back just as well as Altaïr could.

He and Hadia work out what medicine she can make, what she would rather not attempt. Hadia can't read, sadly, so Desmond can't even write her recipes to use – everything she would do, she would have to memorise first. It doesn't leave much, really– but she knows how to sanitize the pots Desmond uses to store medicine, how to wash and boil bandages and how to mince and grind some of the ingredients. If nothing else, she can start in on collecting more willow for the hospital. It's probably going to be in high demand.

Maybe in future there'd be others too. If Desmond would get paid for his work at the hospital, and still sell medicine on the side, who knows, maybe he could hire more people to do medicine. It could be a start of a decent business, and considering all the fighting, sickness and general maladies going on… there's definitely need for more medicine. And it could be a solid way to fund… whatever might follow. Desmond is building a network of informants, he's thinking of trying to get a line of communications going on between Acre and Jerusalem. Some pigeon coops wouldn't go amiss, certainly. All enterprises need funding.

That's… almost a plan. More than he had before, certainly. As terrible as the hospital is, honestly, Desmond is almost looking forward to what he can do there, the difference he could make. Maybe he could even try and spy on the Templars, on Garnier at least. That'd be something, wouldn't it?

So, when the next day dawns, Desmond gets what medicine he has ready, refills his jar of saline and grabs whatever hard alcohol he's managed to scrounge up and then, like an actual tax paying citizen… he heads off to work.

Chapter Text

Altaïr watches for a while how Desmond integrates himself into the Hospital. Getting close enough to watch is not easy, the place is swarming with knights and men at arms, but every so often Desmond comes out, carrying with him a bucket of waste and hauling in clean water. He doesn't look particularly happy with his choices in life.

Altaïr has to admit, finally, that he doesn't understand the man at all. He thought he did, for all of his secrets Desmond hadn't seemed like a terribly complicated man. Good natured to a fault and somewhat naive in certain sense, charitable certainly… but not complicated. This determination in face of something he obviously does not particularly enjoy is interesting though. It underlines his previous words concerning the Apple, and the whole ridiculous notion of saving the world, as implausible as it is.

Something to be said of the strength of foolish idealism, perhaps.

In the end, Altaïr leaves Desmond to it – he has no interest watching the hospital all day, and Desmond had given him other things, worse things, to think about. The secret Templars, the list of names and deeds and overall plans. Garnier with his hospital and the Hospitaliers in general. Then there is the regent of the city, William of Montferrat and the Grandmaster of Knights Teutonic, Sibrand, and that was only the ones in Akka. In Jerusalem and in Damas…

And in Masyaf.

Altaïr puts that thought aside, and concentrates on what he can begin with here. So close to the hospital he is in the heart of the Hospitalier territory, so that is what he starts with – scaling his way up the fortress walls and slipping past the archers there. Getting inside the fortress isn't difficult at all – keeping out of sight while looking for whatever offices the Hospitaliers might have, slightly more difficult.

It is while hiding from guards that Altaïr learns the most about Garnier de Naplouse. Though the guards are mostly French and often speaking in such heavy accents that he can't understand more than few words of what they're saying, the servants in the fortress are mostly locals, and they speak Arabic. And outside the hearing range of the guards, they speak freely indeed.

"… It gives me the chills, to go down there," one of the mutters, a maid with dirty apron and harried expression. "All those people and the way they pack them up, in cages and crates… what are they on about, treating people like that?"

"They're slaves, Jinan," the other servant woman explains quietly. "I talked with one of them – a girl, her name was Raisa. She said that they took her from Jerusalem, where she worked at a brothel. Kind of stupid, the poor child, half wit I think."

"From Jerusalem? Why'd they bring her here?"

"Well think about," the other woman says. "The doctor, the things he does… if he did them to people from Akka, word would spread, wouldn't it? But if he gets them from far away, has them transported here like cattle, well… no one's to know what he does to them because no one knows they're here at all!"

"That man is evil," the first woman mutters and together they continue on.

It's not the only discussion about Garnier Altaïr spies on, unintentional or not. The people of the castle speak of little more than what is going on in the very hospital Desmond has now joined. Judging by the way they lean to each other and mutter under their breaths, the soldiers and guards speak of it too – Altaïr can read Garnier's name from their lips, though he can't quite get close enough to hear. It isn't until later he gets close enough to hear two soldiers talking, one of whom looks like former Muslim convert - the pair speak in Arabic too, which is an unexpected boon.

"… I know, Hamed," the French guard says in heavily accented Arabic. "I can't say I like it either – but what can we do? There is a need for a hospital and Garnier is a skilled physician."

"I don't doubt that," the other man says, awkward. "And I suppose a lot of good is being done in the hospital, of course, I couldn't belittle that, but…" he trails away, looking deeply uncomfortable.

The French guard nods in agreement and looks dark. "It wasn't like this before," he says. "It was different in Jerusalem. When we had Hospital of Saint John and Roger de Moulins was a good Grandmaster, a good man – a good doctor. Nothing like Garnier."

"I was not a member back then," the Arabic man says. "The loss of the hospital must have been a grim one."

The French knight nods. "I suppose the Saracen have burned it down now," he says, with sense of actual loss on him. He shakes his head. "Things haven't been the same since then, and Armengol, rest his soul, was barely making up his mind on which foot to step forward with and he couldn't tell a cold from a leprosy. Garnier is…" he trails off awkwardly. "Well, he can give orders, manage the men and he's set up a hospital, such as it is. We're properly Knights Hospitaliers, again."

Neither of them look exactly thrilled about it, though. Altaïr watches as they continue on and then steps out of the cover of the alcove he'd hidden with. Things are not in order in the house of the Hospitaliers, it seems like.

By the time he's finally finds the office where Garnier manages the organisation he is the unloved head of, Altaïr has overheard several conversations and gotten the general sense of unhappiness of the place. No one is thrilled about the hospital working in the heart of their keep. They all have impressions of what is going on there, though from Altaïr can tell only few have seen the poor treatment of patients first hand, it's still telling.

In Garnier's office, Altaïr looks around through the eyes of an Eagle, until he finds what he wants to see – reports, shipping manifests, letters. They are cleverly hidden under a false bottom of a drawer behind more enticing reports of funds and movement of money, but Altaïr cares not.

There – a letter with a Templar Cross on it.

Garnier

We have lost that which we sought, and are still diligently working to find it – for now, let us take comfort in the fact that it is not the Traitor who has it, for his men escaped empty handed. But our work cannot halt now – you must push forward, regardless of this loss. Much may depend on your ability to replenish our forces.

In the meanwhile, replenish your staff in the Hospital and do as you ought. Word is spreading and your work seems grim on the first glance – William can only quell rumours for so long and your men talk. Give them cause to believe in the name of the Hospitaliers once more – or else send them out and give them something else to mind. We cannot afford rumours now.

You will have a shipment soon – our man in Jerusalem has been working ceaselessly in finding us more supplies. With hope, Cyprus might offer a replacement for that which we lost, but we should not depend on it, it is still too uncertain. Work with the substitutes in meantime. Perhaps medicine can do where devices fail.

Your brother in peace.

R

Altaïr reads the letter over three times to try and memorise it, and then moves onto other missives. There are plenty in the drawer – the shipment manifest of supplies is of special note, as it includes wording such as twelve m and eight w, which can only mean so many things. The most interesting bit, however, is in the very back of the drawer, another letter.

Doctor Garnier de Naplouse

I cannot do this anymore – I cannot stand by and watch this butchery continue. You are no healer, sir, what you do is the furthest from kindness and the results you have produced do not justify the means that were demanded to gain those results. The bodies pile too high, and my soul cannot take this any longer.

This cannot continue. It cannot.

Stop these terrible projects, end your cruel experiments now, and repent for your actions – do as a healer should and perhaps god will forgive your crimes.

If you do not, I will have no choice but to report your actions to the Vatican – and I doubt Pope Celestine III will be so sanguine about what you have done here.

With hope and respect.

Mathéo, Doctor of the Hospitaliers

Altaïr spends some four hours investigating the Hospitalier's fortress before making his way out, hiding in a rooftop garden and mulling it over. He isn't sure what to think.

Desmond had opened his eyes to the conspiracy, told him of arms dealer and merchant king in Damas, and slaver and scholar in Jerusalem and the knights and lords of Akka. From Jerusalem a slaver sends his supplies to Garnier in Akka to be healed and shaped into warriors, while black market weapons dealer from Damas armed and armoured them. Such, the numbers of the Templars were bolstered by forces of the blindly loyal, their obedience captured and chained with Garnier's experiments, as they prepare to free the Holy Land. Now Altaïr has proof of it.

He also has proof of what a hateful man Garnier is. There have been several complaints of other physicians working under the man – complaints which Altaïr suspects have been silenced, either by money or blood. Blood seems more likely, considering the severity and desperation of the complaints. Now the hospital is understaffed and ugly, manned by the very men Garnier had healed rather than by knights – and the Knights Hospitalier squirm in awkward horror over their Grandmaster's actions. Grandmaster, who, Altaïr now suspects, was put in place by Robert De Sablé and might not even be a knight himself.

What an establishment Desmond had joined. Does the man even know what he's taking part of?

Altaïr leans back against the wall of the roof garden, flicking his hidden blade out of it's sheath and back in again. Garnier is just the sort of man he'd take pleasure in killing, but it is not his mission – indeed, this has nothing to do with his mission. He's still waiting on Malik's orders, and it grates to know this and to be able to do nothing. And worse yet, in Masyaf…

No, he needs more proof. Garnier's office offered him none; the only other supposed Templars Garnier interacted with were Robert de Sablé himself and the slaver Talal in Jerusalem. None of it is definite. He needs to know more.

With that thought, Altaïr rises. There are two other Templars in Akka. William of Montferrat would be cloistered in the city's citadel, which would likely be difficult to get to – the Knights Teutonic, however, man the harbour area of Akka, which is where he would likely find Sibrand, their Grandmaster.

So, it is the harbour Altaïr sets his sights  on next.

The port of Akka is definitely more pleasing when viewed at a great distance away – close up, the smell is overpowering. People deposit their filth into the waves, and there is a stench of rotting fish everywhere. It's easier the closer to the waves one gets, but Altaïr isn't so fond of the smell of the ocean either – or the ocean itself, for that matter.

The place is full of ships – full of drunken sailors too. Their rowdy complaining and halfhearted celebrating makes it easy to get around unnoticed, if nothing else – the knights in the area are so busy minding the sailors to care about one hooded man, listening in on their conversation.

The Knights Teutonic, it seems, are claiming ships from the local sailors.

"… for the military efforts in the name of the king," they say. "You will be compensated for the loss of revenue in the meantime, but – "

"Just hang on a minute – it's not just about revenue, I need my ship to actually eat," one of the sailors snap. "Where am I supposed to get food without my ship? The city is already starving and now I can't even fish?"

"You can fish at the piers the same as the rest – now sign this paper!"

Altaïr listens in on few more conversations of the nature – the Knights Teutonic are being practically brutish, aren't they – until he finally locates Sibrand himself. The man is considering the ships – marking them down on a long list and nodding to himself as another name of another ship is added in.

"It's a Venetian ship, my lord," a knight says warningly. "This won't make them happy."

"When are Venetians ever happy," Sibrand mutters. He's a surprisingly young man, for a Grandmaster of a knights order, perhaps only thirty or so – but then, so are the Knights Teutonic themselves, having only recently become a military order at all. "It must be done," the Grandmaster says, "And the merchants will be paid for their troubles. See to that the men check the ship over thoroughly – chances are, there will be some contraband hidden in it's hold, there usually is."

"Yes, sir," the knight says and then heads off, leaving the Grandmaster considering the list. Then Sibrand turns away, walking down the pier and then to the stone of the docks itself – Altaïr following at a distance, silent as a ghost. Like so Sibrand leads him to where the Knights Teutonic have made their fort – a watchtower overlooking the harbour.

It's a long wait until he gets an opportunity for infiltration. He could kill his way in, certainly, there aren't so many knights he couldn't manage it, but… this work is more secretive than most. Altaïr is increasingly aware that he is acting perhaps against Al Mualim's wishes here, certainly Malik has ordered none of this – he isn't sure he can afford this being known. So he waits, waits and waits some more, until sun begins its descent past the horizon and the Knights Teutonic begin lighting torches. Still, they do not leave their tower.

He needs the knights out of their keep, or at least to thin their ranks within… what he needs is a diversion.

Considering his options, Altaïr slips into the nearest tavern and finds the most discontented group of sailors within – a group of Venetians who are fuming over their pints of watered beer. They glare up at him as he approaches him – so he opens with a handful of coin.

"The Knights Teutonic seem to be causing some trouble hereabouts," he says. "How would you gentlemen like to cause some trouble for them for a change?"

It's not a difficult thing to sell to the drunken men, angry as they are. The men take his coin and while Altaïr slips out, he can hear them start something with nearby group of men at arms bearing the Teutonic cross – no doubt it would soon catch on and spread. Still, he takes time to visit couple other taverns, with the same proposal.

With the night comes revelry and the various dissatisfied sailors are easy to turn completely uncontrollable. The many taverns, brothels and inns of the harbour feed the flames of revelry with glee and as they fill their pockets with the coin of the forcibly grounded ocean farers, the sailors themselves begin causing trouble. And the source of their discontent, the the Knights Teutonic, get to be the target.

As Altaïr waits and watches, trouble eventually begins to brew. It starts with a fist fight, then with men being thrown out of a tavern, with men at arms stepping in to calm the people down – soon the harbour is echoing with shouting and accusations and rather inefficient orders to calm down.

"You take my ship, you take my men –"

" – cargo and money and freedom of the sea too while at it – how are we supposed to make a living here, huh?!"

"– this at once! In the name of the King, I order you to cease –!"

" – fucking landlubbers on my ship, who the hell do you think you are?!"

Soon, the Knights Teutonic have a riot on their hands – and of course, the knights must set out in force, to put a stop to it. They stream out of their tower in organized show of force, clanking in their armour most noticeably and shouting orders – and in so doing, they leave their tower rather thinly covered.

While the fighting takes over the streets of Akka's harbour, Altaïr slips in to the Teutonics' tower – climbing all the way to the top of it first, and then climbing all the way down again, though this time using a ladder. The tower is well lit, but that is easy enough to handle, as Altaïr creates himself dark hiding spots and searches through the rooms and halls, and finally, Sibrand's office. He can't get to it through the corridors – but he does get into the room beside it, and from there he can slip out of the window and onto the wall, and from there to the window to Sibrand's office.

There he finds the man himself, sitting at his desk, going through maps.

"… need still more ships for a full blockade," Sibrand is saying to another knight. "We can close the harbour, but it's not enough – and the reinforcements won't come in damn fishing ships. They'll come armed and ready for a fight, and what we have so far isn't enough to stall them for long. We need more war ships, something we can actually use."

"We should concentrate our efforts on the northern part of the harbour," the other knight says. "It's where most of them make landfall."

"It's also where the sailors are the rowdiest," Sibrand mutters and then looks up as another knight enters the office. "Yes, what is it?"

"Bit of trouble in the port, sir," the knight says. "The sailors, they're rioting."

"Well, deal with them, then," Sibrand snaps. "It's nothing we haven't dealt with before – every night they get drunk and cause trouble."

"They're a bit more rowdy than usual, sir."

Sibrand sighs and sets down his maps, rising from his desk. He puts out the oil lamp on his desk. "Very well, let's go have a look."

Altaïr waits until the office empties and then slips in through the window, barely fitting through the narrow window slit. The office is dark now without the lamp – there isn't even a fireplace there – but the darkness is nothing to the eyes of the Eagle. Using their sight, he finds what he is after, just as he had in Garnier's office.

Sibrand hides his secret communications under a loose floorboard, in a small locked chest that takes Altaïr a moment to pick open. There are some maps and plans there – including an explanation to the blockade Sibrand seems to be arranging. They are trying to block King Richard from being reinforced with new troops. If Altaïr had any doubt about the Templars being against the Crusades, that proves it – but it's not what he wants.

He gets what he wants in form of a letter very similar to the one he found in Garnier's things – again bearing the Templar cross.

Sibrand

We have been betrayed – the Old Man of the Mountain moves against us. We can no longer count on the use of his men, as we were hoping for – there will be no aid coming from that quarter. This makes the blockade twice as important before – we cannot give Richard any more men. With the loss of Masyaf, we are already outnumbered. It is vital that further landings are prevented.

We must hope now that Saladin may weaken Richard's army. To this end, I am urging the Lionheart on in his conquest of Jaffa – with any luck, he will throw many men to the attempt, and lose them too. Right now, his sights rest on Arsuf – that too should work to our advantage. I must go with him, for I am his Lieutenant, but I entrust this work to you.

Send your men to Cyprus to retrieve the other one. There might yet be hope, we might find the treasure here, but if we cannot, the one on Cyprus might yet prove useful – in revealing the location of the one we lost, if nothing else.

In the meanwhile bolster your forces in Acre with Garnier and William, and make ready. We know not what the jackals of Masyaf might do next, but it is unlikely they will sit idle. Like us, they seek the treasure – like us, the traitor must have set men searching. Thankfully, the Old Man knows not of Cyprus , and we must keep it that way.

So prepare, Sibrand, and be vigilant.

R

Altaïr goes to the Bureau, but there is no word from Jerusalem yet – chances are, they only sent his message the morning of the previous day and it would take some time for the reply to return. Jabal isn't too happy to see him, giving him a snide look as he fetches something to eat from the man's pantry, so Altaïr doesn't stay for long – long enough to eat, and then set out again.

Desmond, when he reaches the man's house, is washing himself out in the alleyway in the front of it, stripped down to his waist and scrubbing his arms vigorously with actual soap. It's… surprising, somehow. Certainly, Altaïr has in his time washed out in the open too, getting rid of blood in brooks and rivers uncaring of decency – and in Masyaf all wash in the same bathing rooms, so it is hardly unusual. But somehow, he expected Desmond to be more prudish than this.

There's even women present – watching without shame and laughing as they talk about something.

"… I think you're going to have to wash all of yourself to get rid of the stench," the woman Hadia says, laughing. "I can still smell it. It must have gotten into your small clothes too."

"Oh, yes," another woman pipes up, laughing. "All up your – "

"Don't say it," Desmond says, plaintive. "I can still feel it all over, and just, ugh –"

Altaïr crouches by the rooftop, tilting his head slightly. Desmond's body is remarkably untouched – except for one thing. He has an elaborate mark on his left arm, which wraps around it in thick black curls and points – a tattoo. For a moment Altaïr thinks it's what Desmond is washing – that maybe it is a brand of the Crusaders forced on him by Garnier or some of his men. The knights are known to sometimes tattoo or brand crosses onto themselves when they finish their pilgrimages – but this tattoo has no crosses, it doesn't even have straight lines. And the skin around the tattoo isn't swollen, or red – it's not new.

"Was it really that bad?" Hadia asks.

"Worse," Desmond says and scrubs over his other arm – he's using a brush which leaves his skin red as he scrubs with it. "The place is so damn dirty. I tried to clean up a bit, make it little more liveable, but –" he shakes his head. "The place needs a dedicated cleaning staff, working at it every day. I'm going to have to see if I can hire some, if the good doctor allows it."

"So you're going back there?"

Desmond says nothing for a moment, scrubbing over his shoulders and then dipping the brush in a vat of steaming water – he'd actually boiled his own bathing water, it looks like. "Yeah," he says then, with a frown. "Yeah, I am going back."

He glances up at Altaïr and then goes back to washing, scrubbing his arms thoroughly before starting to wash his face and head. The care he takes with it borders on oppressive, really – and it's definitely not that he's luxuriating in it, like man might luxuriate in the pleasure of a hot bath after hard journey. Judging by the way Desmond winces at the heat of the water, it's far from pleasant.

Eventually Altaïr gets tired of waiting for him to finish – as Desmond sits down to wash his feet as well, Altaïr drops down to the alley with him.

"I see you have no shame," Altaïr comments, casting a glance at the women.

"I have spent the whole day in a disease infested pit of filth," Desmond says almost pleasantly, while scrubbing the bottom of his feet, hard. "My sense of shame died a sad death the first time a patient vomited on me. What can I do for you on this lovely night, Altaïr?"

Altaïr looks at him and then at the women, who are showing no signs of leaving. Desmond arches his brows and then gives them a look. "I don't suppose you'd like to find entertainment somewhere else?"

"One rivalling you?" Hadia asks. "Unlikely."

"Behave," Desmond says, amused, and takes some of the water and rinses his feet. Then he stands up, "Come on then," he says and turns to his house. "Let's get in before I freeze."

Altaïr watches his back as he goes – no scars there, no bruises, not even the slightest scrape. Desmond must've lived a prodigiously peaceful life, until now. Then he follows, slinking into Desmond's house and firmly closing the door behind him.

"I've investigated what you told me," he says. "I spied on Garnier's men and infiltrated his office before doing the same to the Grandmaster of Knights Teutonic."

"Figured you'd do something like that, yeah," Desmond says, wiping his arms clean with his hands and sprinkling water everywhere. There is already a fire going on in his fireplace – as Altaïr watches, he goes to it to dry himself. "Do you believe me now?"

Altaïr bows his head a little, watching him from under the beak of his hood. Desmond has his bare back to him, his skin slightly paler than Altaïr's own – and he has no weapons, only his underrobe, tied at his waist and hanging around his hips. Altaïr could walk up to him now and sink his knife in, and Desmond would have nothing to protect him but his raw skill alone.

"In a letter to Sibrand, someone I suspect to be Robert de Sablé called Al Mualim a traitor," Altaïr says quietly. "And expressed that they can no longer count on the use of his men."

"Oh, that explains it," Desmond murmurs.

"What does?"

"I always wondered why they recruited him at all," he says and shrugs his bare shoulders, rivulets of water running down his spine. "Al Mualim isn't involved in politics or in economy, Masyaf is a bit out of the way from everything, so I was never sure why he was part of Templars. But it makes sense now – they wanted to use Assassins."

Altaïr scowls at him, flexing his hands, feeling the beginnings of helpless fury bubbling at the pit of his stomach. Everything he'd believed in, everything he'd trusted in is collapsing – and Desmond sounds just vaguely interested, and not at all surprised or bothered.

"I also discovered a lot about Garnier," Altaïr says, almost angry. "The Knights Hospitalier are ashamed of their own Grandmaster, for the things he does. He brings in slaves from Jerusalem and experiments on them – trying to build an army from them with indoctrination and poison. He's had his own doctors killed when they expressed grievances about his methods."

Desmond looks at him over his shoulder, his expression calm. "I figured, yeah," he says.

"Don't you care?"

The half naked man sighs and stands up. "I care," he says. "But I want to help the people in that place and make it better, and I can't do that unless I'm there."

Altaïr narrows his eyes. "Why not just kill him?"

Desmond rubs his hands together and says nothing for a moment, staring at the fire. "Will the hospital be there without him?" he asks then, looking at Altair. "It runs on the funding from the Knights Hospitalier – what will happen if their Grandmaster dies?"

The order will be left without a Grandmaster – and judging by what Altaïr had heard, there was no suitable replacement. The Knight order might very well fall apart.

Altaïr looks away, grimacing. Desmond looks at him silently for a moment and then turns back to the fire. "So," Desmond says after a while. "Does that mean you believe me, then?"

"… I'm not sure I have much choice, at this point," Altaïr mutters. "But I still do not understand what you mean to do about this, if anything. The Templars are planning a conquest of the Holy Land, the betrayal of their king even. They employ slavery and cruelty and abuse people without restraint – do you plan to do anything about it?"

Desmond bows his head at that. "Do you?" he asks. "You know as much as I do now, or nearly. What do you plan to do?"

Altaïr bares his teeth at him and then paces the length of the room towards him, to stand in front of him. Desmond's skin gleams, clean and tempting, but Altaïr keeps his hands to himself. "Don't try to manipulate me now," he says, his voice low. "My patience is worn thin enough."

Desmond smiles at that. "You have patience now," he says. "That's new."

"Desmond," Altaïr snarls, impatient.

The other man chuckles and shakes his head. "In one future, you were set out on a quest to kill the Templars," he says. "The names I gave you – you killed them all on Al Mualim's orders, until he betrayed you and you killed him too. That was the opening move that begun the war. We kill them now, and it will be the same thing, all over again."

"We can't let them continue this, surely," Altaïr snaps.

Desmond says nothing for a moment, looking at him. "Assassination isn't the right answer," he says then. "It gives them a common enemy, and that just makes them stronger. They're believers and the harder you work at trying to stamp out their belief, the more zealous it turns."

"Then what?" Altaïr demands. "What will stop this and change the future?"

Desmond shrugs. "I don't know, Altaïr," he admits.

"What?"

"I don't know the answer," Desmond says and shakes his head. "I'm just doing what I think might work. I removed the Apple from the picture, hopefully that will already do a lot to stop it. Joining the hospital, changing it from the inside – it's the best I can do, without resorting to their methods… or yours, for that matter. Maybe that's the answer – changing the Templar ideology from the inside – maybe it isn't. I don't know."

Altaïr stares at him, surprised. "You don't know," he repeats.

"I'm just a human, I don't have all of the information," Desmond says quietly. "I don't know."

"But – you know the future."

"I know one future," Desmond clarifies. "And I already changed it. I don't know what's going to happen next."

Altaïr backs away a step, feeling as he'd taken a blow to the stomach. He hadn't ever exactly believed that Desmond was omniscient, but… he seemed to know so much. He seemed to be holding all the threads, safeguarding all the knowledge, keeping it all to himself. Now he's saying he doesn't? "Then," Altaïr says. "You don't know about Cyprus?"

"Cyprus?" Desmond asks sharply.

"They have something in Cyprus, another treasure – Sibrand has already sent men to retrieve. I suspect it's how they found the Apple in the first place," Altaïr says, watching him, taking in the change in his expression. "They might use it to find it again."

Desmond's eyes widen at that – and Altaïr knows, then, that Desmond really does not know everything after all.

Chapter Text

Cyprus. What's in Cyprus?

Desmond thinks hard, recalling all the things he'd read in Shaun's notes. Some of those notes came from Lucy and there was a lot of both Assassin and Templar history there, and Cyprus reminds him of something – but he'd been so concentrated onto the Levantine and to the Holy Land that he hadn't done more than glance at the notes concerning the surrounding areas. Cyprus is in Crusader control, he knows that much – Richard the I conquered it before they started on the rest of the Holy Land, right? It's how they keep their whole thing going, using Cyprus as a way and place to store and distribute resources.

It makes sense that Templars would have something there, since they're all over the whole Third Crusade – but Desmond hadn't realised it might be important.

Altaïr is staring at him, expressionless – disappointed, maybe. Ignoring that, Desmond heads over to his work table, where he deposited his satchels, his hidden blades – his phone. While Altaïr watches Desmond takes it out and turns it on – 46% power, good, it's not like he can charge it with the sun out.

"What is that?" Altaïr demands.

"Information," Desmond answers sits down, shivering, waiting as the screen turns on. Should put on clothes, but he's still wet and doesn't have any towels, and sitting around in wet clothes does not sound like fun. "Could you throw couple of logs into the fire, please?"

Altaïr narrows his eyes but does as asked, getting the firewood by the door and throwing some into the fireplace, adjusting it so that they will catch light better. Then he comes over to Desmond, who is still waiting for the phone to start up. "What sort of Isu technology that is?"

"Call it a library," Desmond answers, and tilts the phone away from Altaïr to key in his pass code. Turning the phone forward again, it shows a screen full of apps to him and to curious, squinting Altaïr.

Desmond opens the file browser and flicks through the folders until he finds the right century, and opens that. Shaun had a lot of files on the 12th century – most of them about the Levantine Brotherhood, it being the place of the Brotherhood's rebirth it was a bit of a big deal for the Assassins of the future. And there was Ezio's very Renaissance urge to restore the classics and his pilgrimage to find out about the secrets of his predecessors and –

Oh. Ezio's Apple came from Cyprus, didn't it?

The Apple has its own folder, of course, the thing has long and important history – as much of it as they know, Shaun had written down. Rodrigo Borgia had retrieved the thing from Cyprus which was when Ezio had gotten it for the first time – except… no, The Apple on Cyprus had been brought there only in 1482 by an Ottoman prince and a Templar, Cem… just before being arrested by the Knights Hospitalier. Huh. So the Apple isn't there but…

There is a Templar Archive in the island – or there would be one in ruins there in 1482. Which means it might be there, now, recently built by the Templars.

"What was it exactly you found about… whatever is on Cyprus?" Desmond asks, looking up.

Altaïr shakes his head. "Tell me what that is, first."

Desmond sighs. Not really the time, Altaïr, he thinks and hands the phone over. "It's an information device, a technological library. I store my knowledge in the thing. Don't touch the screen, it manipulates what's on the thing."

Altaïr scowls and takes the phone in hand, staring at it with intense concentration. "I thought using the Isu technology was dangerous," he says wryly and narrows his eyes at the writing on the screen. The phone lights up his face strangely. "What language is this?"

"Type of English," Desmond says. "It's notes on a future year in the 15th century – Cyprus saw some Templar action then. Can you now tell me what you found out, please?"

Altaïr glances at him and scowls, handing the phone back. "Robert de Sablé bid Sibrand to sent his men to Cyprus to retrieve what he called in his letter the other one. That it might prove useful or if not, they could use it to find the treasure here. He also wrote about it to Garnier – that Cyprus might offer a replacement for what they lost, but they shouldn't rely on it, it is uncertain."

"Hmm," Desmond hums. "Now why would they want the Apple from Solomon's Temple if they already had one…?"

"It sounded rather like they were resorting to it out of necessity only," Altaïr comments. "Perhaps it isn't as good as the Apple."

"Hm. Might be another piece. Or else, broken," Desmond says and considers the phone. "There might be a Templar archive in Cyprus, in Limassol. They built one sometime, and it was eventually deserted. Might be where they store the thing."

"It seemed as if they intended to bring whatever they have here," Altaïr comments and folds his arms. "Can they use it to unearth the Apple you hid?"

Desmond presses his lips together. "If that's how they found it in the first place… maybe," he admits. Then he looks up at Altaïr, considering him.

The man is still there. Displeased with him, but still listening, still sharing information. And he'd come to Desmond with what he'd found out, which is… kind of flattering, really – though what else could the man do, really? Who else could he talk about the fact that the Mentor of his Order is possibly a traitor? Judging by how tightly wound Altaïr is and how he's looking at Desmond, he hasn't.

Desmond had put him in a pretty bad place, all in all.

Leaning back, Desmond turns the phone off and sets it on the table – charging the thing is such a hassle and takes such a long time that he really doesn't want to waste the battery. Then he looks at Altaïr again. "What are you going to do now, Altaïr? Knowing all this."

Altaïr narrows his eyes. "How do you mean?"

Desmond shrugs and runs hands over his hair, pushing it back. It's still damp, but the house is getting warmer now and he isn't shivering quite as much. "You could report to Al Mualim," he comments. "Tell him everything."

Altaïr snorts at that, derisive, and looks away. The unease settles on him almost with visible weight and he bows his head, his lips pressing tightly together. "What are you going to do?" he then asks.

"Obviously I need to secure the Apple, again," Desmond says. "Or steal whatever the Templars have, so that they can't use it to find it again. If they get their hands on the Apple, they won't need Garnier or Talal's slaves – they can just use the Apple to enslave all of Richard's forces and do whatever the hell they plan to do." He shakes his head and looks down on his hands. "I could use help."

"You're asking me to betray my brotherhood," Altaïr says quietly.

Desmond bows his head. Then he stands up. He's dry enough and this is an awkward conversation to have, half naked. "Well, it's not a decision I can make for you," he says. "But it's not Al Mualim that makes the Brotherhood, is it – it's the Creed."

"What do you know of the Creed?" Altaïr snaps at him, sending him a glare.

Desmond glances at him. Altaïr is daring him, seeking for something to argue against. "Nothing, I'm sure," he says easily and heads to his bedroom to find some dry – and most of all, clean clothes. "It's not my Creed anymore, anyway," he mutters and gets a new clean robe. Shaking his head, he drops the robe he has on and straightens out the new one.

"What is your Creed, then?" Altaïr asks, and Desmond almost jumps. The man is standing by the doorway, watching him – and now Desmond is completely naked. Great.

"What was that about shame?" Desmond asks, wincing and quickly pulls the white under robe on. "You have no sense of privacy, do you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry – considering the show you put on for the women, I assumed you didn't care," Altaïr says wryly and leans to the door frame. "Have you a Creed, Desmond? What is it that you believe in?"

Desmond casts him an annoyed look, tugging at the fabric to get it to settle. "Not in yours, trust me," he says. "I've seen the Assassin's Creed interpreted in so many ways that it's pretty much become meaningless to me. The tenets do better, but…"

He'd never been an initiated Assassin, not really – there'd never been a ceremony for him. He knows the ways and if it was Ezio in Al Mualim's place then yeah, Desmond would be first in line to swear those Oaths, sure, but it wasn't and never would be. He can respect the history – but how much of that was corrupted by Juno…

Altaïr narrows his eyes. "Then what? What is your Creed, Desmond?"

Desmond huffs out a breath. "Guess it starts with, First, Do No Harm," he says wryly and shakes his head. Altaïr scowls at him. "Never mind that. I believe in human equality, in civilisation and society and that peace is a possibility – but it takes work, not blood. Free will of mankind. That sort of thing. What the Templars are doing, I believe that's wrong. I don't know how to better put it."

Altaïr hums, staring at him. Desmond tilts his head. "What do you believe in, Altaïr? In the Creed?"

Altaïr harrumphs. "I thought I did," he agrees. "But Al Mualim demoted me for that thinking and set me searching for you." He looks away. "Now that I know the true cause of his disappointment and anger, I like it even less. I believe in the Brotherhood – but I know it is not perfect."

Desmond says nothing to that, waiting for him to continue. It takes a while, as Altaïr chews on his thoughts, almost literally. Like Desmond, the man has a habit of biting his lip where the scar cuts through it – Desmond wonders if it feels hard under his teeth the way it does under Desmond's.

Altaïr shakes his head and looks at him. "Are there Assassins in the order that I can trust?" he asks.

"Malik," Desmond says immediately.

"…Malik," Altaïr repeats, sounding incredulous. "Malik Al-Sayf?"

"That's the one," Desmond agrees and pulls on a clean kaftan before moving towards Altaïr, to walk past him into the main room – which alone has heating. "The man is smart, Altaïr – wise, even. Present the evidence to him properly and he will believe you, even trust you."

Altaïr scowls at that, shifting a little to let Desmond get past him. "He hates me," he comments.

Desmond shrugs. "I doubt it," he says. "But if you have to trust in any Assassin, start with him."

"And Kadar?" Altaïr asks.

"I don't know about him – Kadar died in the future I know, remember?" Desmond says and moves to sit by the fire, grabbing a pillow on the way. He's still a bit chilly and his hair is still wet. "If he was taught by Malik, though, he can't be too bad."

Altaïr gives him a look and frowns. He's silent for a while, still standing by the bedroom door. Desmond leaves him to it and warms up. After a moment, while Altaïr thinks, Desmond gets up again and fetches a kettle. He could use a cup of tea, right about now. Cup of coffee would be even better, but unfortunately… not really a thing yet. Well, he needs to get sleep eventually anyway.

It's quiet for a while, as Altaïr stays silent and Desmond fixes the tea. While waiting it to boil he checks his food stores – he really doesn't feel like cooking, but there are some markook bread, dry to the point that it's almost a cracker, and some dry fruits which are better than nothing. Without a proper cold storage, Desmond can't really store that much food.

Would have to buy something tomorrow.

"Do you want some?" he offers to Altaïr, as the water begins to boil.

Altaïr looks up finally and then nods, coming to join him by the fire – he even gets a pillow too. That's progress, Desmond thinks, and then gets two cups, adding some crushed tea leaves into both – or what was sold to him as tea leaves anyway. The taste isn't right, but it's better than just drinking hot water, anyway.

"Will you still be leaving to secure the Apple?" Altaïr asks. "It is not here, is it?"

"It isn't," Desmond agrees and looks back to him. "I don't want to go, I want to establish my standing at the hospital," he admits. "But I guess I would have to, unless…"

"Unless?"

Desmond looks at him and hands him the tea cup. "Unless I can trust you to get it for me – and not then turn it over to Al Mualim."

Altaïr blinks and lifts his chin slightly. He accepts the tea cup in both hands, but makes no move to drink it. Desmond shrugs at the questioning look. "Like I said," he says and dips the hard markook in his tea to soften it a little. "I could use help."

"And you'd trust me? After all you said."

"You're here," Desmond says and bites into the bread. "You're here and you haven't given me away. That means a lot, you know."

Altaïr scowls and looks down to his tea cup. "I did tell Malik about you," he admits then. "I report to him now, and I told him about you in a letter. Not… not about the Apple, though, not about what you showed me. But your name, your whereabouts – the fact that you stole the Apple. He might have reported it to Al Mualim"

Desmond looks at him searchingly and looks to the fire. Well, shit. "Here's hoping the First Tenet holds," he mutters and takes a drink of his tea. It tastes like hot leaf water. "Is Malik here?"

"In Jerusalem," Altaïr admits, watching him side eyed. "He has been given the management of the Jerusalem Bureau – Al Mualim promoted him to Dai."

"Hmm," Desmond answers. Sounds about right. "Well, that's convenient," he says. "The Apple is in Jerusalem too."

Altaïr's eyes flash and he looks, for a moment, almost smug. "I see," he says. "Where?"

Desmond smiles a little. "In the last place anyone will look for it, now," he says. "It's in the Temple of Solomon."

The next morning, Desmond heads back to the hospital, while Altaïr heads to the Bureau to check up on the messages – the man is waiting on Malik's orders and depending on what would be in the awaited missive, he would choose how to act. With any hope, they'd have some time to figure this out – though who knows when Sibrand had send his men to Limassol. The trip is only two, three days by ship one way, and it's been weeks since the Templars found out about losing the Apple, so… things might come to head very soon indeed.

Desmond had set his information network to keep an eye on the harbour and make note of every incoming vessel – but they were already doing that. He's still waiting, after all, and what he's waiting for is bound to come by sea, since she's not here yet. But now there's doubly the reasons to keep watch.

In the meantime, though, Desmond has a mission of his own. And it's a mission mostly consisting of buckets of water and a lot of soap. Hopefully today he could even rope some of the guards in the hospital into doing a bit of clean up.

"You – you are the new one?" a voice greets him in very awkward Arabic and Desmond looks up to see a French man in a cassock similar to Garnier's. "Doctor Garnier said he hired you?"

"Yes – I am Desmond," Desmond introduces himself. "I make medicine and I can do general first aid – I am not a doctor, though."

"Ah, yes, good," the French doctor says with a nod. "I am Jacques – I work here also. It is good to see more here. Not enough, not enough physicians here."

"No, there really aren't," Desmond agrees, thinking back to what Altaïr said. "It's a busy place."

"Yes, busy – what is the water for?" Jacques asks in interest.

Desmond looks around. Everything is still so damn filthy here. "Washing?" he offers rather helplessly.

Jacques looks where he is looking and then frowns. "I see," he says. "There are many sick here, many injured. We need everyone to work at healing, not cleaning."

Desmond looks at him. "People heal better when they're clean – when the places they're recovering in are clean," he says slowly, not sure if this guy follows Garnier's way of thinking about cleanliness – that as a Doctor and learned man and whatever else they are, they are above dirt, somehow, like their nobility should somehow make them impervious to it.

"Hmm," Jacques says, stroking at his beard. "There are many infections," he admits quietly, looking a little troubled and then glancing around as if to see if anyone was listening in. Then he shakes his head. "This is not why I talk to you. Yesterday you treated man, leg wound – you sewed the wound, yes?"

Desmond arches his brows at that. "Is it showing signs of infection?" he asks worriedly

"No, not at all," Jacques says and squints at him. "Why not?"

"I, uh… I'm not sure I follow?" Desmond admits uneasily.

"You sew a wound, bad wound – it should be swelling now, but it isn't," Jacques said. "And there was another man, Roul – with yellow skin, yes, and red spots? You treat him with lime?"

"Er – is he worse now?" Desmond asks. "Or the same?"

"No, he is better," Jacques says and gives him a suspicious look. "How is he better? The man had disease, we feared plague – but he is better now?"

Desmond shakes his head helplessly. "I don't understand. If they're both better, what is the problem?"

"No, no problem – I just wonder," Jacques leans in and whispers, very secretive. "You study Saracen methods – is this Saracen medicine? Arabic medicine, yes?"

"… right. No, I don't know. Maybe," Desmond says awkward and clears his throat. "Well. How about we go have look at the patients and I'll explain what I did?"

Jacques nods eagerly and together they head deeper into the hospital, and to look at the patients Desmond has teaches – first, the guy he treated with lime. The guy looks a lot better now – he's fiddling with a piece of lemon and grimacing – no doubt the juice has agitated the guy's gums.

"Hello, Roul – how are you feeling now?" Desmond asks in French, setting his buckets down. "Your skin looks better."

"Yes – the spots are leaving," Roul says and lifts his arm – which still has some red spots around the inner elbow where the skin is softest, but otherwise the spots are fading. "And I feel better now – I didn't wake up with that awful headache."

"That's good, very good," Desmond says. "Can I take a look at your mouth, please?"

Roul opens his mouth willingly, and Desmond motions Jacques to come forward. "See, the gums of his back teeth?" he motions. "Scurvy."

"But – scurvy?" Jacques asks with disbelief. "His front teeth are fine – and the spots, the jaundice –"

"Advanced symptoms of scurvy," Desmond says and nods to Roul to close his mouth. "I've seen it a lot among the poor of Acre – Roul here has been in good health before this, right?" he asks to the young man. "You come from good family and you spent your youth eating well." The guy is still on the heavier side of very healthy, scurvy or no scurvy.

"Well," Roul says, awkward. "I did not see hunger, no."

"Which is probably why the usual symptoms weren't so noticeable – Roul has better reserves and managed the initial stages without notice, and skipped right ahead to more advanced symptoms," Desmond says.

"I see, I see," Jacques says and then squints at him. "But lime?" he asks, at a loss.

"Citrus fruits are a good cure for scurvy," Desmond says. "Lemon is excellent for it, oranges and such too. Or fresh leafy vegetables. Broccoli, spinach, and so on. Roul here, though, only eats meat and fish."

The man at arms shrinks in his seat.

"Balanced died from here on out, Roul," Desmond says, pointing at him. "More greens and vegetables and fruit. More of them than meat, if you can manage it."

"Fascinating," Jacques murmurs. "Citrus fruits. Does it work always?"

"With scurvy, more often than it doesn't," Desmond agrees.

"I wonder…" Jacques nods to himself and then looks at Desmond. "And the wound, how well it heals?"

"That's probably mostly luck, but come on, let's go have a look and I'll talk you through it too," Desmond says and nods to Roul. "If you're feeling better you can go – just keep eating lemons. You can squeeze the juice and dilute it in water if it makes it more palatable, but keep eating it, at least couple lemons a day."

"For how long?" Roul asks plaintively.

"Unless you start eating your greens – for forever," Desmond says. "Shoo, off you go."

That whole day turns into something of an impromptu  teaching session. Jacques actually goes to fetch a notebook and starts writing down Desmond's methods, marvelling over his saline solution washes and the use of alcohol to clean wounds – both of which make his eyes widen and make the man shake his head, but Desmond has already proven how useful they are.

It's interesting, though – Jacques doesn't subscribe to the healing methods of another of Garnier's doctors, Edgard – the man insisted on prayer and management of the humours to cure all illnesses that weren't caused by being wounded. Desmond had helplessly watched from the side while the man had induced vomiting on a patient with what looked like food poisoning or worse yet, cholera – like losing more fluids would help the guy.

If he sees Doctor Edgard doing something of that nature again, Desmond thinks there might very well be an accident in the man's future. Jacques listens intently, though, writes things down and nods along the way – and he doesn't mention a word of prayer or God.

The guy's a Templar, then, cassock and cross around his neck or not – or atheist and keen on doing his actual job.

"And you think that cleaner hospital will help patients?" Jacques asks, looking down at the floor – there is a puddle of… something not far from them. "Hmm."

"It's hard to keep wounds clean here, and it's when they get dirty that infection occurs," Desmond says. "And with the air so bad here, illnesses linger and spread. We should all be wearing masks here, cover our noses and mouths."

"The Saracen methods are strange," Jacques muses. "But this is interesting. I will need to think on this, talk it with my colleagues… those few that remain."

"There were more doctors here, weren't there?" Desmond asks.

"Yes," Jacques says darkly. "They grew poorly or… disappeared." He considers Desmond side eyed and then gives him a wry, mirthless smile. "Perhaps you are right about cleanliness. We should take more care with it. Thank you for your time, Desmond. It has been… interesting."

"It was my pleasure. If you want to know more, just ask me," Desmond says with a nod and then watches the doctor wander off, looking thoughtful. Potentially a Templar – and not hundred percent happy with how Garnier is running things. How interesting.

Altaïr is waiting for him when he leaves the hospital that night, grimy all over again and eagerly looking forward to smothering himself in soap. He would probably have to get some more if he could, soon. At the rate he's going through the stuff…

What Desmond wouldn't give for a proper sewer system. Running water would be amazing, right now.

"Desmond," Altaïr says, stepping out of the crowd and to follow him. "You stink."

"Lovely to see you too," Desmond says and tugs at the front of his robes. Hopefully Hadia wouldn't mind boiling and washing his clothes, again. "I had a great day, thanks for asking. How was your day?"

Altaïr huffs out a mildly amused breath at that. "I got a missive from Malik," he says.

"Ominous," Desmond hums and looks around. "Anything I should know?"

"He wants me to capture you and question you for the location for the apple. Torture you if I must," Altaïr harrumphs. "I think Al Mualim is pressuring him for results."

Desmond casts him a glance, arching his brow. Altaïr gives him a pointed look and then looks away, bowing his head and hiding his eyes. "So how are you going to play it?" Desmond asks, amused.

"I think I will beat you until you give me what I want to know and then I will go and recover the Apple post haste," Altaïr says almost conversationally.

"Sounds like an unpleasant day for me," Desmond muses and leans his head back, scratching at the under of his chin. He needs a shave. "What else?"

"The messages sent to Garnier and Sibrand by Robert de Sablé – I have recovered them," Altaïr says. "I am going to take them to Malik and see what he thinks. Depending on his reaction, I will deal with the recovery of the Apple accordingly. Either way – I will find it and bring it to you."

Desmond stops and Altaïr does the same, facing him almost awkwardly. "Thank you, Altaïr," Desmond says quietly. "This means more to me than you know."

Altaïr looks at him, only one eye visible under the beak of his hood. "I have some idea," he says and blinks. "Where can I find the Apple?"

Chapter Text

It's late in the night when Altaïr arrives in Jerusalem. The ride from Akka to the contested Holy City isn't as long as ride from Masyaf, only three days when riding hard, but it's enough to let him think. At campfires, on the ride, when watering his stolen horse and letting it rest, he thinks and thinks.

He had not been in Akka for long, but it had changed everything. It had changed things too fast, perhaps. The golden visions still haunt him when he closes his eyes and he wonders, over and over… how much of this change comes from within and how much of it comes from outside. The Pieces of Eden have the power to corrupt, to manipulate – Desmond said so himself. How much had viewing the Disc changed him?

Had Desmond changed him?

It is an uneasy thought that keeps haunting him. The letters he retrieved from Garnier's and Sibrand's offices are concrete proof of Al Mualim's betrayal – but then, why is it a betrayal? Templars are not on particularly good terms with Masyaf, no, but there is no sworn enmity between them. They are just another group of Crusaders, waging war in the Holy Land – and Masyaf has no special allegiances to their enemies. Salah Ad-Din is as much a cause for concern as are the Templars. Both the Saracens and the Crusaders have killed Assassins and died by Assassin hands. And the war still rages on.

Making an alliance with someone in the Crusaders’ campaign makes sense. Masyaf might be mighty, but Masyaf is also standing alone, a neutral city state in troubled time. Why not make an alliance with one side against the others? As a leader, Al Mualim certainly has the right to make such alliances, and if he chooses Templars, then there must be cause for it, right?

Except Al Mualim had done it in secret, and then poised his Assassins against his supposed allies, not telling them anything of the betrayal they were in likelihood committing. And Desmond has been truthful about the secrecy of the Templar Conspiracy, how the spider web of manipulations and deceit runs through both the Crusaders and the Saracens, spread across the Holy Land. Secrecy is nothing new to an Assassin, but this has a particularly foul taste to it.

Altaïr is still pondering on the truth and the lies and the manipulations, when he arrives at Jerusalem's gates. Third time he's here in course of searching the Treasure of Solomon's temple. This time it is night, and the surrounding area is pitch black, with only some torches lighting the main gates. Altaïr considers the closed gates, the guards on patrol and decides – he will scale the wall this time.

Malik is not at the Bureau, no doubt having retired for the night – it is Kadar behind the desk, surprisingly enough.

"Safety and peace, Kadar," Altaïr greets the young man.

"Altaïr!" the novice says at the sight of him. "Safety and peace to you as well. We were not expecting you. Have you new information?"

"Yes – to be given to Malik only," Altaïr says and does not hand the letters over. "When does your brother rise?"

"With the sun, and I'm afraid I will not be waking him any sooner," Kadar says and leans his elbows on the counter. "His wound has festered – it's not bad, but he's battling a fever and needs all the rest he can get."

Altaïr shifts a little at that reminder. Malik had lost his arm – the last he had seen the man, he'd been still recovering from the travel which had done favours to his recovery. It's been over a week since, and still Malik is poorly. It's – odd, somehow, unexpected.

Possibly because he's gotten used to watching Desmond apply his cures and seeing them work so fast. Malik does not have Desmond's medicine or his brusque, competent care. In all likelihood, he has no physician to turn to at all – their standing in Jerusalem is still under work, after all.

"Then it is better to let him rest," Altaïr says. It is not as if he feels like arguing with Malik first thing after arriving. "What news have you of the city?"

"Anything in particular you're interested in?" Kadar asks, curious but noncommittal.

Malik is already teaching his brother the management of the office, then. Seems like Kadar would be destined to become a Rafiq instead of a working Assassin. Might work better for the young man, in the end.

"A slave trader named Talal," Altaïr says, walking closer to the counter. "He plies his craft in Jerusalem – do you have any information on him?"

"Hmm," Kadar answers and takes out a book, keeping it carefully tilted so that Altaïr can't see its pages as he leafs through them. "We have been keeping an eye on him, some of our informants work in that district – but Talal only targets the poor and the poorly, which has made him a lesser threat."

Altaïr frowns at that a little. "Lesser threat," he repeats.

"The man seems to be a coward – the people he targets aren't of note," Kadar answers and closes the book. "Beggars, thieves, whores. Talal doesn't dare to go after anyone important or that would be missed and preys only on the dregs of society – as far as threats in Jerusalem go, there are bigger ones."

Altaïr stares at him for a long moment, searching his expression. Kadar seems so calm when he says it. "Is this what your brother thinks?" he asks slowly.

"It's his writing," Kadar says and puts the book away. "But he also has informants still keeping an eye on Talal, so who knows. What Malik writes and what he does do not always line up. What is your interest in Talal?"

"Hmm," Altaïr answers. "Something I need to talk with your brother about," he says and shakes his head. "Has there been any templar movement in the city?"

Kadar hums and folds his hands. "Not of late," he says. "I suppose they lost interest when they lost the treasure. There are the usual ones, captives of the Saracen army to be bartered with the Crusaders, but aside from that… it is not as if knights can traverse freely on Jerusalem's streets. Why – have you found out something?"

Altaïr gives him a look at his pushiness and Kadar hesitates for a moment before leaning in. "You wrote my brother you met him," he says. "You met the man who saved me, didn't you? You talked to him?"

He'd also slept in the man's house and ate his food, Altaïr muses, but doesn't say. "I did," he says. "Don't get your hopes up. Your brother ordered me to extract information from him by any means necessary, and I did," he says. "How happy do you imagine he is with us now?"

Kadar jerks back at that, hurt. "Malik ordered you to torture him?" he asks quietly.

"The man was withholding information," Altaïr says and leans his hands on the counter. "He stole and hid the treasure Al Mualim wants. What did you think would happen?"

Kadar looks away, grimacing. He says nothing, and Altaïr watches him with interest. "He was working as medicine seller and healer among the poor of Akka, for a time," Altaïr says. "His position now is far more unpleasant, I'm afraid."

Kadar bows his head. "I see," he says. "I – don't suppose you delivered my message to him?"

"I did," Altaïr says and pushes away from the counter. "It made him smile. Do you mind if I raid your pantry? I have had a long ride and my belly is empty – I'd rather not lay down to rest while it aches."

"Go ahead, Altaïr," Kadar says and turns away completely, to face the scrolls and books on the shelves behind the counter. "I suppose you have earned it, for work well one."

Altaïr glances after him and then heads to the pantry, smiling faintly. What a kind and soft-hearted brother Malik has, he muses, and retrieves enough to sate his hunger from the shelves in the cooler pantry, before heading out into the shadows of the inner courtyard, sitting down on the pillows there to eat.

Malik, Altaïr knows, all but raised Kadar. Like Altaïr, they had lost their father early on, Kadar had been barely walking then – Malik had become the head of that family around the same time his voice broke. What does it say about Malik, that he raised his brother to be so sensitive and soft?

Altaïr eats his food, the thin bread with a bit of cheese and the fruit he'd not checked before grabbing – turned out to be a lemon. How ironic, he muses, but peels and eats the bitter fruit anyway. In the morning, he would have to make a decision. In the morning, he would present Malik with the letters and see.

For now, he finishes eating and lies back against the pillows, to watch the stars through the grating above. In Jerusalem, where the air is warmer, they have plants growing all over the grate to offer more shade. It is almost as if sleeping under canopy of trees.

Desmond's house had no windows, no way for light to get in. It was always dark, with firelight battling the shadows and making them flicker and sway. A secret place, out of sight. Is it because Desmond too knows of the size of the universe – and hides away from it, terrified of how big it is? Does he fear the stars?

Altaïr shifts to more comfortable position, and closes his eyes – and stars give away to the golden vision, once more. Minerva, standing over a table glowing gold, her hands resting open it's lines as she looked up to the visage of doom.

"We do not know what might follow," she says and looks back at Altaïr – at Desmond. "Nor can we make that decision for you, not anymore. You must choose now for yourself."

"Altaïr."

Altaïr rouses with a blink and finds a blade in his hand before he is fully aware. He is lying in shadow, cast upon him by a man standing over him. Malik, who is staring down at him with frustration.

"Safety and peace, Malik," Altaïr offers, looking around. Kadar isn't there – Malik must have sent him away.

"Your presence here deprives me of both. Get up and report, Novice. What precisely are you doing here?" Malik demands.

Altaïr hesitates and puts the blade away, shifting to lean his weight on his hands. Ah, he'd forgotten this, and gladly too. The eager reminders from Malik, the cutting remarks. In Akka, he'd not bothered spending time at the Bureau at all; Jabal had little to offer to his mission or to his… other interests. So he had not interacted with other Assassins much at all – only Desmond, and Desmond did not belittle him.

It had been easy to forget how hateful this feels.

Altaïr gets up. "I did as you ordered in Akka – I discovered the location of the treasure," he says. "And I came to reclaim it."

"Did you, indeed?" Malik harrumphs and walks into the shadows of the bureau office. Altaïr shifts his belt and tugs at his robes before following – everything is wrinkled in sleep, but thankfully he did not take off any of it. That would be the last thing he needs, facing Malik's ridicule and ire underdressed.

"And what is it precisely you discovered?" Malik asks, snide, as he goes around the desk and gets out his notebook.

Altaïr considers him. "Is hidden here, in Jerusalem, like I first suspected. I have its location," he says.

"Knowledge which you could have sent by a bird, and have our men here recover the treasure without needing to waste the days spent on travel," Malik says and glares at him. "Acting without and even against orders again, Novice."

Altaïr doesn't answer, taking out the letters from his pouch. "I couldn't have sent these by a bird," he says and hands them over. "Hopefully your French is as good as your mockery, brother."

Malik narrows his eyes and snatches the letters from Altaïr's hands. Altaïr waits, silent, watching Malik's expression closely as he begins to read. Malik's eyes narrow and for a moment he looks like he is about to object – the letters do not have outwardly much to do with the treasure, after all – but then he keeps reading. First he reads the letter Altaïr recovered from Garnier's office – then the one from Sibrand's.

It is almost fascinating, watching Malik's expression tighten with each word.

"Where did you get these?" Malik asks.

"From the offices of the Grandmasters of Knights Hospitalier and Knights Teutonic, respectively," Altaïr answers and folds his arms. Malik looks up sharply. "Do not concern yourself, brother – I used discretion and no one saw me. They might notice the letters missing, eventually, but by that point I had already left the city."

Malik scowls at him and spreads out the letters on the table, one handed. Then he pulls up a stool with his foot and sits down. "And why precisely did you go after the two Grandmasters' correspondence?" Malik asks tightly.

"Call it boredom," Altaïr says wryly, and Malik glares up at him. Harrumphing at him, Altaïr too pulls up a stool and sits down by the counter. "I did it in search of more information. My quarry revealed to me some truths that made it seem vital to find proof – and find it I did."

Malik eyes him suspiciously and then looks at the letters. Then, shaking his head, he reaches to take out something from under the desk – a rather similar letter. "This was taken from a courier the other day," he says and spreads it out beside the letters Altaïr had brought. It bears a similar seal – and is written in similar hand. "We have it on good authority it was written by Robert de Sablé himself. And this writing… is identical."

Altaïr cranes his head a little to get a sense of the letter. It is a short one, send to Majd Addin, the would-be-leader of Jerusalem. "Strange thing, for a Templar to be sending letters to a Saracen lord," Altaïr muses. It has nothing important in it, lamentations of the weather and expression of missing the city – hope that Majd Addin is taking good care of it. Trivial nonsense.

"They are known to be friends," Malik says, "Majd Addin worked as a scribe and teacher for several Crusaders in the city before Salah Ad-Din conquered Jerusalem – Templars in particular, and it's not a relationship that has much faded. That they still hold some correspondence isn't surprising."

Majd Addin was one of the names on Desmond's list. A Templar whom Altaïr would have assassinated, in one life. "So you know these letters aren't forgeries," Altaïr says and leans his elbows on the counter, watching Malik.

Malik looks back, frowning. "What is it that you think you have brought me, Altaïr?"

"You tell me," Altaïr says and offers nothing more as Malik eyes him and then leans back, looking disgusted.

"What else have you found, considering… this," Malik asks, motioning to the letter.

Altaïr tilts his head. "I found that Garnier de Naplouse was likely put in his place at the head of Knights Hospitalier by Robert de Sablé. Garnier is a butcher of a doctor who experiments with his patients, often to their unfortunate end – he gets his experimental subjects from here. A slaver here sends him the poor and the poorly of Jerusalem, to be either transformed into loyal soldiers for the Templars… or to be killed in Akka, without anyone noticing. Most often than not, it's the latter."

Malik stands up and begins to slowly pace, his face set and hard.

Altaïr continues, "Sibrand in meanwhile is closing up Akka's sea routes by a blockade on Robert de Sablé's orders – closing it to allies, as well as enemies. They seek to cut Richard the I off from reinforcements. And obviously, they have another treasure in Cyprus and are seeking to bring it in," he motions to the letter. "Somehow the two seem linked."

He falls silent there until Malik grows impatient and looks at him. "And?" he demands.

"You read the letter too," Altaïr comments. "You tell me, Malik."

Malik doesn't, turning his eyes away and pacing few steps back and then forth again. "You know more," he says then accusingly.

Altaïr says nothing to that, shaking his head. Yes, he knows more – and no, he will not share it, not before he knows what Malik truly thinks of what he's brought. He isn't sure he can risk mistakes, here.

"I was assigned as your mentor, Altaïr – you answer to me or you –" Malik stops and frowns, glancing at the letters. Then he paces forward few steps more, looking tightly wound and troubled.

They are at an impasse, it seems, too doubtful of each other to go forward. Altaïr leans back a little. To trust or not to trust? Desmond had expressed that Malik was trustworthy, even wise – but it is Desmond Altaïr doubts now, so he should doubt those he trusts in too, shouldn't he? Only Malik has never met Desmond, if there has been manipulation it has never touched Malik. And he is as suspicious and as paranoid as Assassins come – he doubts everything, questions everything.

Altaïr hesitates. "Tell me what you think, Malik," he says. "Trust me – it cannot be worse than what is in my mind."

Malik scoffs at that and leans his head back. "Hmph. We risked our lives for a treasure," he says. "A religious relic. I lost my arm for it, will never work as an assassin because of it," he says. "My thoughts on the matter are dark indeed, Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad."

Altaïr bows his head at that. "You question Al Mualim's wisdom in this?"

Malik scoffs again and looks away. "Not all of us enjoyed his favouritism over the years," he says. "Not all of us licked his boots quite as eagerly as you did, Altaïr. The rest of us saw and felt his duplicitous care and ire, how quick they are to switch when you please or displease him."

Altaïr frowns at that. "I only did what I was told," he mutters.

"And did not think," Malik says and casts him a derisive glance. "So eager for his praise, which he was easy to lay on you, you never thought the consequences of his actions – or the cause behind your missions. Each death, each assassination, each sabotage – they all have reasons, they all have a gain that is measurable and concrete. And for years while the rest of us questioned the reason behind this move or that, you did not. Blindly, you followed his every order, reaped the reward in his lavish gratitude, and were obliviously satisfied with it. As if any of it matters."

Altaïr leans back a little. He had not expected that from Malik. Unpleasantness, yes, but this…

Malik harrumphs again. "What has changed, Altaïr?" he asks, darkly amused. "The touch of his anger finally opened your eyes, is that it?"

"And what was so wrong about the gains he earned from our actions?" Altaïr asks. "He is our leader, we his men. All leaders benefit from the actions of their soldiers, no?"

Malik stops and looks at him. "It is wrong because Masyaf does not benefit. We do not benefit," he says then. "Only Al Mualim does. And we have a Creed, Altaïr, that goes beyond Masyaf and beyond us. Do you still not understand it?"

Altaïr frowns, uncertain.

"You have never been much for reading the old texts, have you? Our order is thousands of years old, built upon the wisdom of generations, of the ancients," Malik says with disgust. "And Al Mualim has turned us into mercenaries, tasking us with bringing him treasures."

Malik turns away again, looking angry and frustrated. Then he shakes his head and takes one of the letters, the one Robert de Sablé wrote to Sibrand. "You wrote in your report that the man, Desmond, was in possession of a treasure like the one we sought in Solomon's temple," he says. "Did you retrieve it?"

"No," Altaïr answers honestly.

"Why not?" Malik demands.

"Because I did not wish to," Altaïr answers honestly, still watching him carefully. The bitterness Malik shows is real, the frustration is real. The hatred he barely hides for Al Mualim is real also. It is surprising – but it also isn't. Perhaps Altaïr has been blind, after all. "I used the treasure, I saw within it – and I do not wish to see it in Al Mualim's hands."

Malik narrows his eyes and turns to face him fully. "What a treasonous thing to say," he mutters. "What have you learned?"

Altaïr considers him for a moment and then shakes his head. Malik's expression hardens but Altaïr speaks before he can bark at him. "What I've learned I do not know how to put in words that will not make me sound like a madman," Altaïr admits. "Instead, perhaps, I should show you. I know where the Apple is, Malik – the treasure we sought. Would you like to come with me to retrieve it?"

"Naturally," Malik snaps, watching him warily. "But this secrecy is doing little to increase my opinion of you, Altaïr."

"Nor my own," Altaïr says and looks at the letters. "But you see it too, don't you?" he asks quietly. "Al Mualim's betrayal. You see it, you feel it too."

Malik lowers his chin slightly and the agreement is there, though he does not see it. Altaïr nods. "If you believe it too, then it must be real and I have not been fooled or manipulated."

"That is a possibility?" Malik demands. "Were the letters planted for you to find?"

"I don't think so – but the treasures," Altaïr says. "They have… powers."

"What nonsense is this?"

"And one of the powers they have is to manipulate the minds of men," Altaïr continues, ignoring him. "It is why so many seek them. When we do retrieve it, you must be on your guard – there is a malicious intent in the treasures that will seek to turn your thinking their way."

Malik stares at him as if he's lost his mind – a very real possibility, Altaïr muses wryly. Whatever Malik sees on his face makes him turn serious and in the end Malik only nods. "Very well," he says and puts the letters away. "Let us go retrieve the treasure and then, Altaïr – then you will tell me everything."

No, Altaïr thinks. He would not.

The Apple is exactly where Desmond said it would be – hidden in a pit on the way to the chamber in Solomon's temple where it had originally laid. Desmond had dug a hole there and buried the Apple in sand and gravel, marking the place with a flat rock – leaving the grounds looking perfectly untouched. Altaïr retrieves it alone, while Malik waits above – the man can no longer climb with ease, so he had not dropped down into the pit.

The Apple is a ball of oddly warm shaded silver, intersected with lines and figures reminiscent to the design of the Disc. Altaïr does not touch his skin to it – Desmond had told him to be wary of it – and instead throws a cloth on it and retrieves it that way, never touching it directly. Even so… he feels the hum of power, reacting to him.

"Show me," Malik says the moment Altaïr has climbed up with the treasure. Altair nods and reveals the Apple of Eden to him and together they stare at it. "It is silver," Malik says. "It is just silver."

"Here," Altaïr says, bundling the cloth as if it is a sack and holds the Apple out to Malik. "Feel it."

Looking dubious, Malik cups his hand under the Apple and Altaïr lowers the thing into his palm, the cloth still safely in between. He sees the moment Malik feels the thrum of power inside the Apple.

"According to Desmond, it has many powers," Altaïr says. "It can create illusions and grant knowledge from the past and the future – it can also enslave people. That was its original purpose – to enslave humans under those who build these Pieces of Eden. If your skin touches it, the will controlling it may possess you, so be careful."

Malik shakes his head, confused and suspicious. "What is it then, evil magic?" he demands dubiously.

"It's a machine, a device, so advanced that we cannot understand it," Altaïr explains. "Desmond could, though – he knows many things about them. That's why he hid it – he knew it would corrupt those who used it."

Malik harrumphs, tilting the silver ball in his hands. "You got quite close to this Desmond, didn't you?"

Altaïr says nothing, folding his arms and waiting for Malik's verdict. The Dai scoffs at him and then turns the ball in his hand so that the cloth falls over it completely. "I believe you in that this is more than it seems, and considering the fervour people seek it with, it is likely dangerous," he says. "I do not know if I believe you on the rest, but I believe you this far. It is time to tell the rest, Altaïr. What have you learned?"

Altaïr takes the Apple from him and ties the cloth over it tightly before pushing the Apple into his satchel. "Tell me, Malik," he says. "How old do you think the world is?"

Chapter Text

Altaïr is different now. It is subtle but noticeable – a new tendency for wary thoughtfulness that wasn't there. He watches and waits more than he did before, waiting for a reaction before speaking, watching for emotion on the listeners faces. He's thinking more now.

It's too little too late, in Malik's opinion – the damage to the man's reputation is long since been done and he will not be climbing out the pit he dug for himself any time soon. But it is something – whether good or bad, time would tell.

But Altaïr – or rather Desmond – was truthful concerning the Apple, at least. The treasure they sought is something more than Al Mualim told them, certainly more than a mere religious relic..

"Illusions and trickery and seduction," Malik mutters while starting at the cloth covered orb sitting on the counter between him and the one who retrieved it. "Sounds like stories of Djinns. Does it grant wishes too?"

"Those who seek to use it might think it does," Altaïr answers.

Powerful tool for any a shrewd leader not too shy about using the underhanded methods – and as the leader of the Assassin Brotherhood, Al Mualim is well capable of such means. Malik can even imagine such a thing used on his brothers – blind loyalty is just the sort of thing Al Mualim looks for in his men, and now he has lost it even in his best. Their best and brightest, the Eagle of Masyaf, no longer thinks the sun rises and descends on Al Mualim's command. What a day is this.

Malik needs a drink.

Altaïr is still watching him like he's waiting. It's starting to get in his nerves. "What now, Novice?" Malik asks. "We have completed our mission and the treasure is in our possession. Shall you take it to the old man, reclaim your title and place at his feet once more?"

The look Altaïr gives him. Haughty still, arrogant even, but there is a hint of something Malik had never seen before, a wryness that borders on a sense of humour. "Would you, knowing what you do?" Altaïr asks.

Malik harrumphs and looks away. Were it the Altaïr who had ridden from Masyaf, high on his personal hurt and stewing in his own bitterness, Malik would snap at him, tell him to mind what he says and not assume what he knows. But this new Altaïr is a wary animal, still wound up tight, but suspicious in a new way. Defensive even, which might be worse. The man seems almost cornered in his new way of thinking. Should Altaïr now decide there is no man within the Brotherhood he can trust and rely on…

Malik paces back and forth. As much as it grates, loss of Altaïr would be one he isn't sure the Brotherhood could recover from. The man is a prodigy. That's what makes his arrogance that much more hateful, how truly gifted he is and how he squanders in by doing stupid mistakes out of thinking himself superior and beyond faults. If this new, more thoughtful Altaïr could finally be the Assassin they all secretly wished he would be – and then they lost him…

Who else would there be, who else could rival Altaïr's abilities? Rauf, Farim – Abbas? Hah. The man was nowhere near Altaïr's level, and even if he was, his abilities are made worse by his own jealousy and hatred. Within their order, Altaïr is without peer. Lose him, and they'd lose a level of capability they might never regain, certainly not within the current ranks, and it's doubtful that any of the current novices would be able to reach such height of skill, either.

Malik bows his head and looks at the former Master Assassin, the youngest perhaps ever to reach the rank – still the youngest to possess it. Is it too young for the responsibilities Al Mualim had given Altaïr? Yes, Malik thinks so. It had gone to Altaïr's head like smoke up the chimney, inevitable and entirely predictable – but at last, it seems Altaïr might be maturing.

What kind of mentor would Malik be if he berated him for that? So what would he do with the Apple, knowing what he does?

"I would destroy it, lose it, throw the Apple into the sea. But if what you say is true perhaps even then that would not be enough," Malik says and looks away. "Tell me of Desmond."

"I have told you all," Altaïr says.

"I doubt that," Malik scoffs. The man had made Altaïr think – there must be more. "Rest assured, what I learn I will keep to myself. I know you did not pressure him for knowledge – you earned his trust and he yours and he gave the location of the Apple to you willingly, didn't he?"

Altaïr says nothing – which is as good an admission of guilt. Malik harrumphs and turns to face him. The fact that Altaïr had sought to earn somebody's trust – as he'd said in his first report – had seemed insultingly glib at the time. Altaïr pretending to obey Malik's orders of discretion and do as he thought Malik would like, it had seemed utterly ridiculous. Malik had disregarded the very notion that Altaïr might be capable of such an act, and yet here they are.

Malik rests his single hand at his hip. "Tell me about him," he says again. "He earned your respect. How?"

Now Altaïr looks away and he looks almost uncomfortable. Malik says nothing to his awkward silence and waits until the man himself deigns to open his mouth. "It wasn't one thing," Altaïr finally admits. "Rather it was a culmination of several. The things he told me and how he did it, and the things he did. He is a sincerely a good man in a way I have never seen anyone be."

Malik's eyebrows arch but he says nothing in hopes that Altaïr might continue – and he does. "Like here, in Akka he treats the poor with medicine and cures, often free of charge. He also took a deeply uncomfortable and dangerous position in the hospital managed by the Hospitaliers because he honestly believes he can make a difference there, help people. He's possesses Assassin's skills and yet he chooses to heal."

Good grief. "You admire him," Malik says flatly.

The man casts an uncomfortable look at him. "Desmond is honest and never overestimates his own abilities," he says. "And he knows more about these Pieces of Eden than do we. Probably more than Al Mualim and the Templars do. I respect that."

"Right," Malik says and looks the man over. Altaïr looks away, as close to embarrassed as he's ever seen the man. Like admiring someone he considers a good man is something to be ashamed about.

They both look up as Kadar enters through the shop front, carrying with him a box of papers and scrolls. Trader with the right goods must've finally made it through the city's gates, and it seems like Kadar managed to purchase what they need.

"Brother – Altaïr," Kadar greets them and looks at Malik, lifting the box. "Where do you want these?"

"Just put them on the counter, we can sort them later," Malik says and turns back to Altaïr who bows his head so that his expression is hidden. "Position with the Hospitallers, you said," he says. "That can't be an easy position to acquire."

"Garnier isn't very popular among his own doctors and has a particular way of dealing with their complaints – it had left his hospital understaffed," Altaïr says wryly and grabs the Apple from the table, pushing it into his satchels once more. Malik allows it by looking away.

This, he supposes would not be written in a report to Al Mualim. Still, if the man Desmond is sympathetic to Altaïr at least, this might mean an informant within the ranks of the Hospitaliers – something they have lacked of late...

Kadar looks between them curiously and Altaïr asks, a tad inpatient now, "Do you give me leave to go, Dai?"

"I do not," Malik says and looks at him. "Your report is far from complete, Altaïr. You will stay until I know everything – else I will go back with you and see it done for myself."

Altaïr hesitates, resting a hand on the satchel. "Might be best you do," he then says. "Kadar told me your wound festers. Obviously it needs to be looked at by someone more capable than Jerusalem has to offer."

"Is that guilt I hear?" Malik snarls to cover his shock and casts a glare at his brother.

"I only said it so that he would not wake you in the middle of the night!" Kadar protests even as he eyes Altaïr with confused surprise.

Malik harrumphs to that and Altaïr turns away, hiding his expression. Is it arrogance, his unwillingness to meet eyes – or had it always been awkwardness? "Come or don't," he says. "I care not, but I am riding out tonight."

"Still insolent, then," Malik mutters. "Kadar, find Naveed and tell him he can have his Bureau back for a while longer – and then prepare for travel. We are going to Akka."

If nothing else, Altaïr is still a perfect travel companion. The man is almost infuriatingly competent, both with riding and scouting ahead and setting up a small hidden camps for the night – as well as causing all sorts of ruckus up ahead to distract a patrol of a soldiers so that Kadar and Malik can slip by unnoticed. This time Altaïr doesn't even complain about it – something he never failed to do in the past whenever someone was holding him back, because heaven help if Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad had to wait on anyone.

It's bit of a boon because Malik does not have the energy to contribute. Travel is not agreeing with him. Though he can now do it horseback rather than being forced to ride a cart, he still keeps relying on a hand that is no longer there, for steering and balance and counterweight. How many times he'd almost fallen off the saddle the first day alone would make him embarrassed if he wasn't already so far beyond humiliation. The stump hurts too much, pulsing with never-ending ache with each drumming beat of the horse's hoofs. He can't think of much else, never mind managing to set up a proper, hidden camp.

The wound grows worse. It refuses to heal, growing hot and swollen as they travel and then soaking the bandage with clear excretion which Malik fears will soon turn to puss. The thing is infected – for the third time. It seems as though the moment he finishes battling one bit of infection, another rises in its place, damn it all.

So, Altaïr's willingness to go ahead, find them a spot for the night, even dig them a smokeless fire pit… it's all begrudgingly appreciated. Altaïr's lack of complaining or annoyance, that he doesn't even order Kadar to mind the work for him...

More changes, more differences. At night Altaïr stares up at the night sky with an expression of confusion and awe like seeing something up there other than the sprinkling of light in the heaven's dome. He had told Malik that stars are Suns, which among the many other things Malik hadn't even paid that much attention to, it all sounded like nonsense in the end, but now…

Altaïr looks at heavens like they stretch of forever and he's trying to calculate the distance. He'd had feared that he might have fallen under some ethereal manipulation that had altered his thinking, and now Malik sees why. The man is actually spellbound.

"He seems different," Kadar comments, sitting beside Malik by the small, covered fire Altaïr had set up before going a little to the side to watch the starts outside its glare. "Did something happen in Akka? Is that why we are going?"

"Yes," Malik agrees and rubs at his shoulder. It aches and his fever is rising again, he can feel it in the sweat that clings to his brow and the cold shivers that race down his back. "You could say that."

He had told his younger brother nextto nothing about the journey. It's still left to be seen if this Desmond proved out to be what Altaïr thinks he is and in the likely case the man fails to live up to Malik's expectations… he wants Kadar to have as little knowledge and part in his lapse of treachery as possible. And yet, if the man is…

"There is a pot in my bags, could you fill it with water and set it to boil, Kadar?" Malik asks and tilts his head to the side to stretch aching neck muscles. "I would dearly like a cup of hot tea." Maybe it would stanch the shivering.

"I'll see to it," Kadar says and rises, going to the horses where they are grazing and getting the brass kettle, along with the pouch of tea, from Malik's saddle bags. Altaïr looks up at the faint clinck of the kettle's lid and then rises.

"We're far enough, no one will hear," Malik says, already irritable.

"You're getting worse," Altaïr comments, ignoring his words.

Malik just glares at him, watching as the former Master Assassin crouches down by the carefully covered fire. Altaïr looks at him consideringly and then takes something from his belt. "Mix this in with your tea," he says and holds it out – a small cloth pouch, tied with yarn

"What is it?" Malik demands suspiciously.

"Willow bark. Desmond gives it for pain and fever, and I have seen it work," Altaïr says, opening the pouch and showing shredded bits of bark. At Malik's narrowed look he shrugs. "Try it or don't," he says. "I care not."

He cares not – and still offers it. Malik scoffs and then accepts the pouch, at least to examine it. He's been given medicine for pain that had not worked except to make him feel sick to his stomach – and some tincture of poppy, which made him feel better and worse at the same time. If some tree bark might do better than the herbs the Masyaf physicians had ordered…

Well, at this point he's not sure he can feel any worse.

Kadar sets the kettle on the fire, adding water from his own skin into it, and Malik takes out a cup, mixing his tea and the willow bark in it. Altaïr watches without helping and then sits down, his face inscrutable in shadows.

"If this makes me feel sick to my stomach or lose my head, I will make you pay for every moment of it," Malik threatens. Altaïr just harrumphs at that and looks away. "I didn't take you for a medicine man, Altaïr," Malik mutters, casting him a glance as Kadar sits beside him.

"I use what works," Altaïr says and looks up to the stars again.

The drink ends up tasting horrible – the willow bark is overpowering and bitter, and completely overwhelms the more pleasant aroma of the actual tea. What a waste of good tea leaves, Malik thinks with a grimace, even as he drinks it all in slow, long sips. It definitely doesn't feel particularly pleasant or helpful, going down – but at least it's warm.

Still, if it didn't work so well and eased the throbbing of his arm only to a dull ache in the course of the following half an hour, Malik would've demanded Altaïr reimburse his tea. But it does work. Of course it works.

Even at medicine Altaïr just has to be the best, doesn't he?

Even willow doesn't protect them from rain. In a rate turn for August, it rains almost all throughout their third day of travel, and by the time they finally reach Akka, Malik has a fever and very little patience left. Even Altaïr's continued reticence and his lack of outward bursts of arrogance does not do much to quell the irritation his own infirmity brings.

He too had been a Master Assassin. To be laid so low for so long… and now this too.

"I will ride ahead and inform the Rafiq – and draw a hot bath for you, brother," Kadar says, his face drawn right with worry. "So you may warm up quicker."

"No," Altaïr says. "I will go and prepare for you," by which he means he will find Desmond and prepare him for the oncoming patient. Malik would snap at him for the assumption if the man wasn't right and if Malik didn't feel so damn weak. As it is, visiting the bureau would demand an explanation for their presence in Akka, and as the Dai of Jerusalem… Malik's explanation would have to be a good one.

"Go then," Malik says to Altair, sharp and irritated even to his own ears. "Go warn your friend."

Altaïr says nothing to that, doesn't even look at him – only urges his horse on and takes the last leg of the journey at a gallop. Kadar looks after him and then turns to Malik, frowning. "Brother, are you –?"

"I'm fine," Malik snaps and then sighs at the look Kadar gives him. "I'm sorry – I ache and I'm tired. Let us make through the gates and then concern ourselves in my health, shall we?"

Just business of queuing up to the gates behind all the merchants and travellers being checked and searched for contraband proves to take longer than Malik would like. The soldiers of Akka are a suspicious lot, it seems – but it only makes sense. Akka is the only proper stronghold the Crusaders have in the Holy Land now and it is contested land still. Their last claim to the Crusader Kingdom Of Jerusalem. Of course they would be more than diligent.

It is no less annoying to be standing around waiting on them while his fever sweat soaks through his robes and the world sways under his feet. If only he could have, he definitely would have preferred taking the more clandestine route of scaling the walls – it would've been much faster.

Thankfully once they through the queue, things move along smoothly enough. Jabal's skill in forgeries remains unparalleled – the seals on their false paperwork pass the muster and through the guards at the gates give him some suspicious looks for his no doubt obvious ailment, they are let through and into the City of Akka with no more cost to them than slightly higher bribe than it would take in Jerusalem. Kadar does most of it – Malik is finding that his head is spinning a little too much and it's hard to mind his balance, never mind the intricacies of infiltration. But eventually they're through.

Altaïr waits them inside, sitting on a bench not far from the gates. He rises to meet them as they approach, keeping his head down. "This way," is all he says before turning to lead them into the city. Tugging at his robes to get the weight of his aching shoulder, Malik follows, Kadar close behind.

"This isn't the way to the Bureau," Kadar says quietly. "I have been here before – it is the other way, is it not?"

"It is, yes," Malik agrees, weary. "But we're not going to the Bureau."

Kadar gives him a confused look, but Malik only shakes his head. His brother knows better than to ask, but he looks very curious indeed. Together, they follow the former Master Assassin leading the way.

Altaïr takes them through the crumbling streets with their ransacked, destroyed buildings to what is easy to recognise as the poorer district of Akka. The people there are obviously worse off, their clothes torn and their cheeks hollow. The place has seen lot of hunger, first during the siege and then in the current occupation – the Crusaders don't exactly have easy time of it trying to find supplies in the countryside, after all.

Through the streets and alleyways, Malik loses the track of twists and turns until finally they arrive at a dead end. It's a surprisingly clean end of an alley, with none of the trash and filth you'd expect – no one has emptied their chamber pot here. The place looks lived in. There are buckets, jars, a bench and drying racks by the walls. On the racks, long strips of bandages hang in loops, drying.

Altaïr goes to a door to the left knocks on it, waiting with his head tilted, listening for something. The door remains shut.

"He hasn't arrived yet," Altaïr decrees.

"Altaïr," Malik says, irritated and tired.

The former Master Assassin turns to him. "I saw him at the hospital, but it's ways away and he was working," he says, not quite an excuse. "He said he would come, after he finished."

"Who did?" Kadar asks and looks between them.

Altaïr looks at Malik and then looks away. "Wait here," he says and then takes a nearby wall at a few running paces, clambering up it quickly and disappearing over it's edge. Malik looks after him in frustration and then sways a little.

"Come, brother – come sit," Kadar says, taking him by the elbow. "Do you need water?"

I need a new arm, Malik thinks furiously but doesn't say it – such things are impossible and even fever will not make him a fool. "I could use a sip, yes, thank you Kadar," he says instead and Kadar quickly gets out his water skin, pulling the stopper off and handing it to him.

"Why are we here, Malik?" Kadar asks quietly. "What is this?"

Malik drinks and sighs. "Don't ask me, Kadar, not yet," he says and lowers the water skin. "If this is a fool's errand it's best you don't even know."

Kadar frowns with frustration but accepts the words and doesn't ask. Together they sit in silence, Malik shivering every so often and rubbing at his shoulder, until above they hear clatter of footsteps. Then, thump, as someone drops.

Altaïr first, taking the fall with a slightest roll. Then, another Altaïr, who drops down to hang on the edge of the roof before dropping down the rest of the way. Malik looks at him, wondering if he has begun hallucinating now. The fever doesn't feel that bad, he doesn't feel delirious, just hot, cold, shivery and sweaty. And yet there is another Altair there, dressed in dark robes with his head bared.

"You!" Kadar says, standing up, while Altaïr rises to his feet smoothly and the other Altaïr turns to them and – no. No of course not, Malik thinks, not another Altaïr.

"Oh, Kadar – hello," the man says and smiles. "You look better."

Kadar only gapes in answer. Malik blinks slowly as things ever so slowly slot into their places. "You must be Desmond," he says.

"I must be, yes," the man says and comes closer, his face in the light now, and familiarity all the more striking for it. Were Malik feeling better, he thinks he would actually be alarmed by the sight. It is uncanny.

Kadar had said he'd mistook the man for Altaïr at first, but Malik had expected them to only share some features, have similarly shaped faces perhaps – not to look like each others mirror reflections. Both have a scar and it's on the same spot on both their lips – even their hair and the stubble on their cheeks is so alike. It is as if Altaïr had somehow split into two people, right in front of them.

Altaïr steps beside the other man – he's almost full head's worth shorter and still the likeness makes Malik feel dizzy. "Malik has a fever – and infection," Altaïr says. "The arm – it festers."

"Yes, I can see that," Desmond says, his eyes looking Malik up and down. "I think we should go inside and get you warm, to begin with, and then if you don't mind I'd like to take look at your arm. Altaïr, could you go make a fire?"

Altaïr hesitates and then makes a face and Malik expects him to argue but what comes out of his mouth instead is; "Don't tell me you leave your door open."

His paler reflection grins. "I do leave my door open, yes. Who would steal from me?" he says and turns to Malik. "Can you walk?"

"Yes, I can walk," Malik snaps and stands up – and to his relief, stays standing, though his head spins. "Are you and Altaïr related?" he asks suspiciously.

"Everyone is related if you go back far enough," Desmond says and motions him to go ahead, to follow Altaïr who has already vanished inside the man's house.

Chapter Text

Desmond missed Altaïr. It has been a long week, long and properly arduous, with a bout of diarrhea spreading in the hospital because somebody fed the patients dirty water and with doctor Edgard having an unfortunate accident that broke several of the man's fingers, they were more short staffed than before. And Garnier had gotten a shipment of supplies from Jerusalem and thus was busy with those and… yeah. It was a long week, and Desmond just missed Altaïr. He hadn't even realised it, how used to the man's quiet presence he'd gotten, but he had.

Altaïr is now crouched by his fireplace, stoking a cinder into a flame, his back to Desmond. It's so mundane, but already Desmond feels a bit more settled for it. Kadar and Malik being there is a little less mundane, but it was bound to happen eventually, so Desmond can deal with it. It is good to see that Kadar had recovered so well, anyway, considering the surgery Desmond had done on him had been the first of that severity he'd ever done. And Malik…

"Sit, please, and strip down to waist," Desmond says while going to wash his hands.

Malik doesn't move at first, watching him while Kadar looks around, wide-eyed and curious. Then, with an angry harrumph, the Dai begins struggling out of his clothing. Kadar does to help him but stops at the glare aimed his way. Altaïr doesn't even look up.

Desmond takes off his robes and checks his bracers. They look clean enough and with hope he wouldn't need to do any surgery here, so he leaves them and just scrubs his hands clean. Then he turns.

Malik had not stripped fully – his robes hang slanted over one shoulder with only the injured one bared. He still has his belt on. Well, it's good enough.

Desmond goes to him, kneeling down beside him and considering the stump of his left arm. It's still in bandages and they look a little crusty. "I'm going to take these off, alright?"

Malik nods, watching him warily. Altaïr is looking at them over his shoulder now and Kadar is sitting down beside them to watch.

The atmosphere is tense enough to be cut with a knife. Guess that's unavoidable with this many Assassins in one room.

Desmond unwinds the bandage until he can't – it's stuck to the wound by slightly pink crust and when Desmond pulls at it lightly, Malik winces.

"There's a blue pitcher on the table – could you give it to me, Kadar?" Desmond says and waits until the young man gets it for him. "Thank you."

"What's in it?" Malik demands, stopping him before he can pour it on the bandage.

"Salt water," Desmond answers.

"You are not pouring salt into my wound!"

"Salt water, Malik – it's not the same thing. I promise you, it won't even sting," Desmond says. "It has less than one part of salt to hundred parts water."

"Then why does it have any salt at all?"

"It helps to clean wounds – and in this case, it will loosen the white blood crust. Can I try it now? I promise; if it stings at all I'll stop."

Malik squints at him. "... White blood?" he asks dubiously while leaning in again so that Desmond can continue.

Desmond starts pouring the saline in carefully measured amounts on the bandage, to soak it through. "It's a type of blood your body produces to fight off infection," he explains and sets the pitcher down. "And to prevent it. Let's just let that sit for a moment while I do something else."

"White blood," Malik mutters. "I was told it was phlegm and that the loss of arm set my humours in imbalance."

"I'm sure they were just trying to help," Desmond says. "But they're wrong. I'm going to touch you in places. Is that alright?"

Malik gives him a look that dares him to try it. Desmond arches his brows and then does – first checking the lymph nodes at the man's neck before running his fingers down his shoulder, pressing at places. The closer to the arm, the more swollen they are, but not fighting-deadly-infection swollen.

Malik sputters at him while Desmond tests his pulse. Steady, it doesn't even feel that elevated. Probably elevated blood pressure though, judging by how flushed the man is, but Desmond doesn't have the means to really check for it. Malik definitely has a fever, but it's not dangerously high.

Desmond rinses his fingers with the saline to wash off Malik's sweat and then goes back to unwinding the bandage. It comes off slowly, and even Altaïr leans in to look, ignoring Malik's glare.

The wound is not pretty, but it's not as bad as Desmond feared. It wasn't cauterised with fire like poor Jacob's stump had been – instead it had been closed to with careful application of loose skin, which had been pulled in to cover the point where it had been sawed off. The skin has been stitched up and it wasn't even that a bad job – except for one thing. They'd sewn skin on top of skin.

"This will probably hurt a bit," Desmond says and then carefully prods around the surgery marks and stitching, churning on the swelling. Malik grunts and grits his teeth, watching closely while Desmond feels around for the – there. Under the swollen skin, he feels movement that should be there – a pocket, filled either with white blood cells or pus. Left as it is, it would be the latter sooner or later.

"I'm going to have to cut the skin here and rinse it out," Desmond says and motions to the place where the pocket is. "And then cut the excess skin off – otherwise this will never heal. The physician who closed the wound left too much skin here."

Malik looks down. "And then it will heal?"

"You're already healing well, all things considered," Desmond says. "This is still minor, as infections go. But leave it and it will get worse."

Malik hesitates, scowling at him and Kadar leans in. "He treated my wound when I was all but slated for death and I healed," he says to Malik, watching Desmond. "I believe he knows his craft, brother."

Desmond smiles at the young man and then looks at Malik. "If you don't want me to do it, there are other physicians – though I honestly wouldn't recommend any of them. And the Hospitalier hospital only treats Christians."

Malik's eyes narrow and he looks down at the stump, lifting a hand to touch it. Desmond grabs it before he can. "Wash your hand before touching wounds," he says firmly. "You'll get it dirty."

"My hands are clean," Malik snaps and then seems to realise what he said and scowls even harder. "My hand," he grounds out, "is clean."

Kadar lets out a muffled noise and even Altaïr winces a little at that.

Desmond gives Malik a flat look. "When was the last time you washed it?" He asks. Malik glares in answer. "It's not clean then. Don't touch the wound."

"This isn't why we're here," Malik says angrily and casts a look at Altaïr, almost accusing. "Altaïr?"

Desmond turns to look at the Master Assassin who looks up from where he was examining Desmond still set up. "I have the Apple," Altaïr says and stand up, reaching for his belt.

Desmond leans back to sit on his heels. "You do," he says and he thinks he's pleasantly surprised. He hadn't thought Altaïr was exactly lying to him, but – there was always a chance. Altaïr was very loyal to Al Mualim in the beginning, after all. "No," Desmond says when Altaïr goes to take something out from a leather pouch. "Keep it with you for now – I don't want to risk it before I deal with this," he notions to Malik.

"Risk it?" Malik demands.

"Yeah. The damn thing has a way of addling your mind, and if I'm going to do surgery, I'd rather do it with a clear head," Desmond admits and looks at Malik's stump. "So, how is it going to be?"

The Dai chews on it for a moment and then lets out a frustrated breath. "Fine," he grunts. "Get on with it."

"Great," Desmond says and stands up to take off his bracers and to get his tools. "Come lay here, by the door – I'm going to need the light for this. Lay on your side, please – Kadar, could you get a pillow from over – thank you."

The whole operation doesn't take longer than half an hour. Desmond numbs the skin to the best of his ability, feeds Malik some willow tincture diluted in water and once they've worked he then cuts into the swollen skin with sterilised knife, breaking into the pocket of what turns out to be indeed puss. It's not pretty, but good saline rinse takes care of most of it, and once Desmond is done cutting the excess skin and sewing in few stitches to keep the wound from opening again, it already looks a lot better.

He gives it a generous coating of honey, just in case, before bandaging it up while Malik stares blearily at his work, squinting at Desmond's tattooed arm.

"Now keep it clean, wash it regularly with soap and clean water, preferably boiled water, don't touch it with unwashed hands and it should hopefully be alright. If it irritates you, use honey on it. I'm also going to give you some tincture of willow for the pain – should take the edge of," Desmond says, carefully easing the bandage's ends under a fold. "If it doesn't bleed or irritate you and you can keep it clean, you can stop bothering with bandages – just let it breathe. Smothering it forever won't help."

Malik blinks at him with slightly reddened eyes and nods. "And if it starts leaking phlegm – white blood – again?" he asks, drawing a shaky breath.

"If it's clear you can just let it dry and crust and leave it. So as long as you still wash the thing every so often and keep it otherwise clean," Desmond shrugs and takes the cloth he'd used to wipe at the mess outside – Hadia would either wash it or burn it whichever was easiest.

Malik is sitting up again, carefully pulling on his robe when Desmond comes back in. Kadar helps him gingerly and looks up at Desmond. "And what of the fever?" he asks. "Does Malik not need something for the fever as well?"

"Rest, warmth and good food," Desmond shrugs. "And plenty of water to drink. I'll give you something for the case it develops into a cold but right now it just seems like your body is fighting off the infection, which should get better now that we've taken care of the source."

"My body is doing what?"

Desmond shrugs. "Our bodies are pretty good at healing, in the end. Sometimes it's just better to let them do it. Fever is the body's way of fending off illnesses – it's not always a good thing, but in this case I'm inclined to let it run its course."

"I see," Malik mutters and winces as they get the robe over his left shoulder. "Thank you."

Desmond nods and then looks around. "Well," he says.

Altaïr is sitting by the fire, watching them silently, frowning Malik is bent over slightly, hand hovering shakily over the stump, covered under his robe again. Kadar looms over his brother, worried and uncertain.

Desmond hums. "Food," he decides and turns to his so called kitchen corner, where he has herbs and vegetables hanging from the ceiling and dry food sitting in pots. "Food and drink, that'll do all of us some good."

"Emphasis on the drink," Malik mutters and lets out another slow breath. "I would like some now if you have any."

Desmond hesitates. Definitely not something a doctor would order but – hell. He just did an open surgery on the guy with barely any anaesthetic. "Yeah, sure – I only have wine though." And some pure ethanol, but after the trouble he went to get it, he's not sharing it.

"I'll take it," Malik says and accepts the wine bottle with a nod while Kadar rises to his feet.

"Let me help you," he offers to Desmond. "With the food, I mean." Behind him Altaïr rises to his feet as well and goes to fetch Desmond's cooking pot.

Between them, they manage to put together something halfway palatable while Malik pulls himself together with the power of wine and sheer stubbornness, it looks like. He still glares at everything, at Desmond, at Altaïr, at the wine, at the food – Kadar is the only one who is spared from the daggers of Malik's gaze. It would be amusing, if the guy didn't look like he was in a lot of pain.

Kadar is the one to break the increasingly awkward silence. "I'm glad to see you well," he offers to Desmond. "Altaïr said – and I assumed – but I am glad to see I was wrong. Your name is Desmond, is it not?"

"It is," Desmond says and looks at Altaïr curiously. "Altaïr said what?" he asks and then smiles at the sideways look Altaïr gives him.

Kadar frowns a little, looking at Altaïr and then at Malik. "That my brother ordered him to gain information from you, at any cost."

"And I did," Altaïr said.

"You made me think you left him worse off," Kadar says, slightly accusing.

"You assumed," Altaïr harrumphs. "Though I did not lie. I told you his position is an uncomfortable one and it is," he adds and then looks at Desmond. "How do things at the hospital?"

Desmond sighs and looks down at his food. "About the same, really. I think I'm going to have to kill Garnier," he admits and shakes his head. "The man is getting worse."

Malik looks up. "The Grandmaster of the Knights Hospitalier?" he asks sharply.

"I thought there might be something good about his intentions, but the man is a monster, and his methods are terrible," Desmond says grimly. "And maybe once he's dead I can finally make that damn hospital a better place. Right now it's a death trap more than a place of healing."

"I can kill him for you," Altaïr says, which makes Malik narrow his eyes dangerously.

"No," Desmond says. The Master Assassin scowls at him in frustrated confusion and Desmond smiles a little. "I appreciate the offer, but the way you do things is a bit too public for my tastes. I can make it look like natural causes – it will cause less chaos in the hospital that way, and hopefully we can continue our work there. If you do it, the whole city will know that the Assassins are after the knights and it will just start a hunt for you guys."

Altaïr scoffs and bites his head. "As you wish, then," he says.

Malik looks between them, obviously irritated. "And this is a decision that's up to you, is it?" he says. "Do you have any notion what kind of consequences such a thing might have?"

"I do, I know exactly what kind of consequences it will have," Desmond says calmly. "Garnier is making the world a worse place just by existing in it. Even running wild without leadership, the Hospitaliers will be better than they are under his rule."

"So sure of that," Malik says, his tone dry.

"You come to his hospital and watch him at work. You'll want to kill him by the end of the day too," Desmond snorts. "As it is, this has nothing to do with you. Aside from your injury and the Apple, why are you here?"

"To see with my own eyes who and what you are," Malik says and sets his spoon down, looking at Altaïr. "And speaking of the Apple, I think it's time you show us exactly what it is and how it works."

Desmond looks at him confidently and then sets his bowl aside. "Alright, let's see it," be says and turns to Altaïr.

Altaïr takes the thing out, removing of the cloth wrapping around it while Malik glares and Kadar leans in, looking both confused and fascinated. Desmond leans back to appreciate the weird symbolism of it – of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad handing the Apple of Eden over to him, Desmond Miles. Eight hundred years of history condensed into this.

And then there it is. Gleaming innocently in firelight with no internal glow to be seen, the Apple of Eden. It looks deceptively simple and harmless, just a ball of metal, warn silver in hue. Nothing weird or suspicious about it, no sir. Just alien symbols and strange writing.

Desmond really doesn't want to touch it – but Malik isn't the only one with a keen, intense expression. Altaïr probably needs proof too.

"Brace yourselves," Desmond says, looking him in the eye and holding out his right hand. Altaïr meets his gaze and then drops the Apple of Eden on his awaiting palm.

It snaps in place like a piece into a puzzle, and Desmond's arm thrums into life in answer. Golden circuitry runs over his hand and under the bracer and he can feel them racing up his arm, shoulder, neck, over his cheek and into his right eye – and he does blind with knowledge as the Apple explodes into light.

He can't feel Juno there, but he can feel her influence as the Apple latches onto his desires and feeds him knowledge to tempt him, this is what I can give you, use me and become powerful.

It takes effort to tilt his hand and let the Apple drop to the floor. The light cuts out and there is a collective gasp as not only Desmond but everyone is the room is released from the Apple's thrall.

"What – what?" Kadar asks while Altaïr swings violently to his feet and Malik scrambles back, shocked.

Desmond blinks and rubs at his right eye until he can see out of it again. "That's," he says and clears his throat. "That's what it can do. Tempts you with knowledge and power until you find yourself becoming enslaved by it."

"Sorcery," Kadar whispers. "It cast images to my mind, like shadows.

"What was that, the light that went into you?" Altaïr asks, looking at Desmond. "What was it?"

"I'm a little more susceptible to these things than most people," Desmond admits and rises to get something to throw over the Apple – and to get away from the thing. "Call it an infection. It just affects me more. Prolonged use might cause it on you too – I suggest you don't risk it." He throws a linen towel on the Apple and then has to take support from his work table as vertigo suddenly strikes him and sends the world spinning.

The knowledge the Apple fed him is quickly and inexorably unspooling inside his mind. He's already feeling the headache coming on, but as the knowledge makes itself at home in his brain, becoming part of the things he knows and has mastered… it's tempting. Damn, it but it it's tempting to reach out and chase after the rest of it – the part it conveniently did not give him.

Fucking Apple knew just what to go for too, didn't it? Bitch.

Desmond closes his eyes. "What's the verdict, Malik?" he asks, rubbing two fingers at his temple. "Would the Apple be safe in Assassin hands?" In Al Mualim's hands.

Malik doesn't answer at first, while Altaïr begins to pace angrily and Kadar waits, his breathing shuddering. "Altaïr spoke of danger," Malik says finally. "Malevolent mind within the treasure."

"Juno," Desmond says and opens his eyes. "Her name is a Juno and she is a bitch."

Malik scoffs. "What is her plan?"

"A war that will shape human history for the next eight hundred years to start with," Desmond says and sighs. "Is there any of that wine left? I think I need a drink before I continue."

He's not the only one. Malik refills his own cup and nurses it with a grim sort of fervour, and in the end Desmond fetches cups for Altaïr and Kadar too. Kadar downs half of his cup in one go and Altaïr sips on his like he expects it to knock him out instantly.

Desmond wishes he had something stronger. Proper whiskey or brandy or something. Even port, and he hates port. Damn religious times and restrictions of alcohols. The Mediterranean area had all sort of anise flavoured alcohols, didn't it? Ouzo and stuff. Wonder if he could get his hand on some and actually mix himself a drink.

The wine does settle his nerves a little, enough to rehash what he'd told Altaïr, what seems like ages ago. Story of the ages, The Ages even, the wondrous tale of the Isu and their destruction, and those who were left behind and what their plans were and all that. With the Apple's power still pounding at his temples, all of it hits a bit too closer than it usually does – the reminder isn't particularly welcome either.

"They see into the future?" Malik asks dubiously. "By calculating it?"

"It's like…" Desmond trails off, trying to put it into words. "If you know the weight and shape of a knife, and you know your own skills, the speed of the wind, the distance… then you can pretty accurately tell where the knife will land when you throw it, right?" Being assassins, they all probably can do that much. "The Isu figured out how to do that with every single thing in the universe. Don't ask me how, I don't know. All I know is that they did and it works."

Malik squints at him and Kadar clears his throat. "And it is not magic?" he asks confusedly.

"It's technology," Desmond says and shakes his head. "A device. I don't know how to explain, I can't claim I even understand it, but trust me, it's not magic. It's just manipulation of energies and calculation and… whatnot."

Even Altaïr gives him a sideways look, like he's full of shit.

"Anyway," Desmond says, grinning a little. "The pieces of Eden are Juno's way of influencing people. You can do a lot with them, but they're a double edged sword and Juno has left traps in them, or uses them directly to influence the people using it. They give knowledge, but only enough so that you come back for more and more, and in the meantime the Pieces twist your thinking, make you make decisions, commit acts thatyou otherwise wouldn't."

"Like Al Mualim, enslaving all of Masyaf," Altaïr says.

"What?" Malik snaps.

"An eventual future if I hadn't prevented you from taking the Apple originally," Desmond says with a sigh. "Al Mualim would have used the Apple on the people of Masyaf, eventually."

"And now you know the future as well?" Malik asks flatly.

Desmond smiles as sweetly as I can. "Just the one," he says and shrugs, casting a glance at the ball beneath the linen towel. "That one isn't the first one of its kind I've handled – and I've seen three Isu temples too," he says. "It's funny what you can get used to."

"Tch," Malik answers, following his gaze. Then he looks away, at his wine cup, and drains it. "I don't know if I believe you on all of it – but I believe some, and that's already too much," he says and sets the cup down on the stones of Desmond's rough fireplace. "What does it all mean for us?" he asks and looks at Desmond. "What do you mean to do now?"

"I mean to keep the Apple away from people. The Templars are bringing something from Cyprus to find the thing," Desmond says and glances at Altaïr. "Another Piece of Eden, we think. I've people keeping a watch on the harbour but there haven't been any ships from Cyprus yet, so I am still waiting. In the meantime, I am going back to the hospital first thing tomorrow morning and possibly killing a Templar sometime after. You, I don't know about."

Malik scoffs and casts a look at Altaïr. Altaïr glances at him and then looks down to his wine cup. "We will think on this," Malik says and moves to get up – Kadar quickly moving to his side to help him. "We need to report to Jabal, at any rate. I am assuming you know who that is, since you seem to know everything, Desmond."

"I do know who that is, yes," Desmond says, amused. "I don't know everything, though."

"Right," Malik scoffs and looks at Altaïr. "Novice."

Altaïr sips his wine, looking up at him from under his hood. Then, as Malik's look turns into a severe glare, he sighs, drains his cup, and stands.

"Tch," Malik says, satisfied, and turns to Desmond. "Tomorrow we shall see how your assassination went, I suppose. We'll talk more then."

"I'll look forward to it," Desmond says and stands up, hiding his amusement. He clears his throat and nods at Malik. "I'll want to take a look at your arm too, once it has had time to rest. Don't do anything strenuous with it, Malik – and if it begins swelling noticeably, come to me."

Malik looks at him flatly. "How likely is that?" he asks.

"We'll hope for the best – and prepare for the worst," Desmond answers. "Eat well and rest as much as you can."

Malik scoffs and nods. "I shall make the attempt," he says begrudgingly. "Come on, Kadar."

Kadar quickly bows to Desmond. "May fortune carry your blade tomorrow."

"Thank you, Kadar," Desmond says and bows back before watching them go. Malik is swaying little as he walks, though whether it's the injury and the fever or the alcohol, is hard to say. Kadar is much steadier, and quick to catch up with his brother – together they step through the door, leaving Desmond momentarily alone with Altaïr.

Desmond casts a look at the Master Assassin, who's hesitating beside him. "Sounds like you've had interesting time of it," he says, amused. "Novice?"

"I'm beginning to regret every moment of it," Altaïr mutters and gives him a look from under his hood, searching. Then, shaking his head, he turns to stalk after Malik and Kadar.

Desmond laughs. "I have missed you, Altaïr," he says honestly. "Welcome back."

Altaïr hesitates a moment, tilting his head. Only his chin is visible, but it's enough for Desmond to see his nod and the slightest curl at the corner of his scarred lips before he's out and through the door.

Desmond breathes and turns away, the smile falling from his lips. His eyes land on it again - the lump of metal under linen, a pitiful cover for something so dangerous if there ever was. "Now, what the hell will I do with you?" he mutters to the Apple of Eden.

True to form, it has nothing helpful to offer.

Chapter Text

Altaïr can't purge them from his mind – the images the Apple had cast upon it, like visions seen through coloured glass, vivid and detailed but strange, so very strange. Seeing into the Disc had been bad enough, but those were only moments in distant past. This – this was temptation itself.

Is that where the story of the Bible comes from, Eve and Apple? Desmond had said that Eden was a city and gods and myths are based on those who come from there – was there once a woman who glimpsed what the Apple had to offer and was tempted? If so, then Altaïr isn't sure he could blame her. He'd seen only few confusing images and already he wants to go back, grab the Apple, and see more.

Had Malik and Kadar seen the same things?

Altaïr casts a glance on them, wary. They'd made it to the Bureau without much of a hitch and Malik had gone through all the proper pleasantries with Jabal, something Altaïr isn't sure he would have bothered with. Kadar is now helping Malik make himself comfortable on the pillows – much to Malik's obvious irritation. The man does not seem to enjoy his own infirmity.

Neither of them is saying anything about what happened – and when Kadar opens his mouth to ask, Malik glares him into silence. Altaïr watches and muses – are they all now embroiled in a conspiracy against their Master? They are certainly not doing what Al Mualim wishes and for all of his obvious dislike even Malik had left the Apple in Desmond's care without a second glance backwards. Even if he had done it to avoid being tempted himself, it's still a convoluted sort of trust, isn't it?

Kadar goes inside, asking Jabal something and then heading off to the man's kitchen, which leaves Altaïr alone with Malik and good glare. Altaïr looks away. Malik is looking for any explanation, justification, and Altaïr has neither to give.

"Altaïr, come – sit with me," Malik says with gritted patience that makes it sound like he's beckoning Altaïr into a trap. "Let us talk."

Al Mualim had named Malik his mentor – and damn the man for taking that appointment with some level of sincerity.

Altaïr goes to sit, making sure that he has a quick line to the fountain, just in case. Four steps and he could scale it and escape.

Malik looks at him, silent and judgemental. "That man is not part of our Order," he says. "He is not your superior. In your own words, aren't you supposed to be above us all? Why bow to him, an outsider?"

Altaïr scowls at that, thinking of the vision, of the sights he'd seen. Desmond at the root of stairs in the dead of night, looking upon a beautifully carved effigy above a waterless fountain. Their symbol, emblazoned proudly in stone for all the world to see.

"Altaïr – you offered to kill a man for him," Malik says sharply. "While normally I would be in no way surprised at this disregard of our ways and tenets, you have at least pretended to be more sensible of late."

"I do not have to explain myself to you," Altaïr snaps.

"But you do," Malik says, eyes narrowing. "Tell me – were he to point a finger at me or Kadar and tell you to slay us, would you?"

Altaïr blinks and looks at him with surprise. "He would not," he says.

"And if he did?" Malik presses, watching him closely. "You obviously defer to his wisdom, regardless the fact that you can't know what that wisdom is built upon. If he ordered our deaths, would you follow through blindly, trusting his judgement?"

Altaïr stares at him for a moment and then looks away, troubled. The question comes seemingly from nowhere, but now that it has been asked, Altaïr sees the origin. And the troubling thing is, he isn't sure of the answer, now that the point had been raised.

Desmond is a healer, and a kind man – he sincerely cares for people around him, regardless of if he knows them or not. He gives medicine for free, heels people for free, where he could be charging for it through the nose. He lives the way of charity Christians make sermons of and he delivers. That makes Desmond's decision to kill Garnier all the more momentous because of it – his creed begins with First, Do No Harm. Desmond does not resort to violence and murder lightly.

"If he ordered a man's death, it would be easy to trust that it was for a reason," Altaïr admits quietly. "In Garnier's case, I have wished to put my knife to that man's neck ever since I learned of the things he does, but Desmond still naïvely searched for good in him. Garnier's death cannot come soon enough."

He turns to look at Malik. "But if he ordered your death, Malik, I would question it."

"Would you?" Malik demands.

"You're a good man, Malik," Altaïr says and looks away. "It is not within his nature to kill good men. If he ordered your death, or worse, Kadar's, I would expect him to have gone mad."

Malik arches a single brow at that and then looks up as Kadar joins them, carrying with him a tray upon which sit pitcher and cups – the pitcher is visibly warm, steam wafting from its spout.

"Tea," Kadar says, kneeling down and placing the tray on the carpet between them. "Jabal had some water ready, thankfully – here, let me pour for you, brother."

No, Altaïr thinks wryly, he can't see Desmond ever ordering Kadar's death. A fond pat on the head perhaps. Malik, judging by his expression, can't fully imagine it either.

"Thank you, Kadar," he says with a sigh and accepts the cup Kadar puts in his hand. He considers it and then sets it down on the tray, taking out the little jar of tincture Desmond had given him and mixing half a spoonful in his tea. Judging by his expression, it still tastes foul.

Altaïr sips his tea, looking away. He can understand Malik's concern, he thinks – part of him still shares it. Desmond still keeps secrets, that much is obvious even without the visions. But his motives Altaïr no longer doubts – they have stayed consistent and he has altered none of them. Desmond's eyes are still set centuries ahead, seeking to prevent unseen catastrophes and wars. As hard as such motives are to understand, there is an odd sort of comfort in the idea that Desmond can and does think so broadly. Or is a little naive perhaps, but… there are worse things than that.

"I can imagine the Old Man doing it," Malik says, breaking Altaïr's line of thinking. He looks to find Malik frowning at his tea cup. The Dai glances at him and then drinks, looking grim.

Altaïr can too – he had even seen it happen. Al Mualim will punish for failing to follow the Creed and the Tenets – but Assassins themselves aren't included in it, are they, they aren't protected by it other than as a whole. As individuals, none of them are innocent. And more often than not, Never Compromise The Brotherhood is the cause of an Assassin's death and execution, rather than protection from them. Yes, Altaïr can imagine Al Mualim in his office, ordering Malik's and Kadar's deaths, and though some might question it, there is no doubt that the Old Man could give a reason both solid and vague enough to satisfy.

Well, perhaps not satisfy – considering how Malik sees him, how perhaps all of the order sees him, maybe only Altaïr had been blind and trusting enough to believe. Malik certainly would question such orders, and loudly at that.

Altaïr would question them now, though. He would not follow blindly any longer. Not even orders given by Desmond, as alluring as the concept seems.

Kadar looks between them and then seems to decide that whatever they were talking about, he was excluded for a reason and changes the subject instead of pursuing the previous one. "What did you see in the light?"

Altaïr and Malik both glance into the Bureau interior, but Jabal is busy transcribing something. Malik frowns. "You think we saw different things?" He asks, his voice low. "And mind your voice, these are not stories that should be spread."

Kadar nods and perches his voice lower. "I think no two men desire the same truths," he shrugs. "And I doubt we could be tempted by a single solitary thing. It would have to be different. Also, if you had seen what I saw, you would have said."

Malik blinks and Altaïr turns to Kadar, frowning. "What did you see?" he asks quietly

"I didn't realise it at the time, I didn't know what it was – but as Desmond told his stories it started making more sense," Kadar says. "I think my vision was of another of these… Pieces."

Altaïr sites to straighter and even Malik leans in, winching and running at his shoulder. "Your saw another Apple?" Malik hisses quietly.

"No, it wasn't an Apple – that is what confused me. It wasn't a device at all, but a thing of cloth, a veil," Kadar says. "I saw a vision of it being placed on an injured man and I saw his injuries disappear."

Altaïr blinks at that, confused. "Why do you think that cloth is one of the Pieces?"

"There were streaks of light, like when Desmond… did whatever it was he did," Kadar says, shrugging, and looks at them. "What did you see?"

Malik frowns. "I – don't know how to explain it. I don't know if I understand it. I saw reasons for which a man might look like another, and a long, long line of blood stained men sharing same faces," he says and casts a look at Altaïr. "I almost grasped at understanding but it eluded me – I know if I had touched the Apple as Desmond did, I would have known."

Altaïr harrumphs at that.

"I felt that if I had touched the Apple, it would have given me the location of the cloth I saw," Kadar says. "The temptation was great."

"What did you see, Altaïr?" Malik asks, watching him.

Altaïr hesitates. "The past, I think," he says quietly. "Distant, distant past."

Amidst the visions, there had been one of great towers, with glowing windows and streets thousands of feet below lit with golden glow. It wasn't firelight, he could tell it wasn't – some of the light was cold, white, nothing like what a warm flame might produce. And surely no man could build such towers, all glass and metal, high enough to reach the sky.

It must have been Eden in its prime.

Malik hums, looking between Altaïr and Kadar. "It seems as if the Apple gave us what we desired to know, but only enough to make us reach for more," he says slowly. "But why would visions of the past tempt you, Altaïr?"

Altaïr sees it so clearly – Desmond confidently walking up a protruding metal plank, high upon the glowing glass city, wearing clothes unlike any Altaïr had ever seen. He sees Desmond spreading his arms and making a Leap of Faith into the vast city.

Altaïr shakes his head. "It's tempting enough, trust me," he mutters. He'd had to physically back away to keep from grabbing the Apple and demanding more. Even now he wants to go and question Desmond about it, desperately.

Malik watches him suspiciously but drops the line of questioning. "Well, his warnings about the temptation at least are proven true," Malik says and picks up his tea cup again. "As well as the things it can give."

"Hmm," Altaïr nods.

Kadar rubs at his shoulder, looking awkward and troubled. "It is easy to imagine how I might have reached for it, were it not for the warnings," he says. "An unknowing man might give himself to the thing without ever knowing what he had done."

"Indeed," Malik says and started at his cup for a moment. Then he sets it down again and moves to rise to his feet. "I grow weary," he says and looks at Altaïr. "If you go to him, try and make no more offers without thinking of the consequences."

"Excuse me," Altaïr says, frowning. "Why would I go to him? We only just came."

Malik's expression is entirely unimpressed. "Well, at least he had some sense of discretion," he mutters. "I wish you would discover yours, Altaïr, but I will not hold hope. Good night."

"Do you need help, brother?" Kadar asks quickly.

"I'm not completely useless yet," Malik says and leaves, grumbling to himself as he goes.

Kadar looks after him with conflicted expression until Malik is gone from view and then looks at Altaïr. "There was a reason for your vision, wasn't there?" he asks quietly.

Altaïr looks at him and says nothing.

"I saw in mine how the cloth remade a limb that was lost," Kadar admits. "I think… if I see the Apple again I might be tempted to touch it."

Altaïr eyes him and then looks away. "He will have sealed it safely away by now," he says. "You will not get the opportunity."

Kadar blows out a breath. "That's for the best isn't it?” he says and collects the tea set back to the tray. "Isn't it," he mutters and rises to carry it off.

Altaïr bows his head and wonders at the power of loyalties.

He goes to Desmond that night, slipping past the night watch roaming the streets and jumping over moonlit rooftops until he's above Desmond's house. There is light screening through the gaps in his doorframe – he must be still awake, if he has fire burning high enough to cast light.

Altaïr hesitates for a moment. It is very late, but… he needs to know and he needs to know before the next day, before Malik makes the decision he is struggling with. And he needs to find out in secret, beyond Malik's and Kadar's gazes and judgement. Some things are and perhaps should remain private, after all.

Silently, Altaïr drops before Desmond's door and knocks on it. It's only a breath's wait until the door opens and tired looking Desmond peers out at him. Altaïr meets his gaze and at the hint of weary annoyance in Desmond eyes wonders if he has finally reached the limits of the man's patience.

Then Desmond sighs and lets him in. "I'm not going to be very good company right now," he says. "But make yourself at home."

Altaïr steps in and closes the door behind him while Desmond walks to his work table, falling to sit on a bench there with a sigh. There is a mostly empty wine bottle sitting there, and Desmond is already reaching for a cup, taking a drink. It doesn't look like he's stopped since they left.

Hesitating, Altaïr wonders if this is the right time to pressure the man with his question. He, Malik and Kadar weren't the only ones who saw visions and Desmond's seemed far worse – he actually held the Apple as it projected them. His hands shook for so long after.

"I won't take much of your time," Altaïr says promises, awkward. "The things the Apple showed us – were they true or can it lie to us?"

"It doesn't lie, no, not directly," Desmond says, setting the wine cup down and rubbing at his eyes. "But it omits things, most of the things really, so that the viewer won't ever get the full picture. Leaves you wanting."

That's a word for it, yes, Altaïr muses, watching the tense line of his neck. Desmond bows his head and sighs. "Alright, Altair. What did you see?"

Altaïr frowns and looks away. "Kadar saw another piece of Eden," he says. "One that heals."

"I figured one of you would see something like that," Desmond agrees and takes a quill, starting to write something down on a book open in front of him. "But you're not here because of what Kadar saw. What did you see, Altaïr, that couldn't wait until tomorrow?"

Very well then. "I saw you, on top of a city of glass and light," Altaïr said. "And again, standing under the symbol of our Creed, stairs at either side of you. In a room full of what I assume were machinery covered in flickering lights. Sitting on a strange chair with lights running to your head. I saw you in a room of light, in the temple – their temple I assume – holding an Apple of Eden."

Desmond says nothing and Altaïr lets out a frustrated breath. "You said you weren't one of them – but you're from their city, aren't you?"

"I'm really not," Desmond says tiredly, sketching out some sort of drawing and then bowing his head slightly and sighing.

Altaïr waits for him to explain, but Desmond just sits there, listless, staring at his work. "Desmond," Altaïr says and the man snaps back away. Altaïr sighs and steps forward. "What are your working on this late in the night?" he asks impatiently, leaning in to see.

Desmond leans back with a yawn and he must've not realised how close Altaïr got because his head comes to rest on Altaïr's belt with a soft thump. "I couldn't sleep so I'm writing down what the Apple gave me," he admits and leans his head back even more, to look up at him upside down. The man must be drunk. "As dangerous as the thing is and as much as I hate the one behind it, the knowledge itself is useful and I'm not going to just waste it. And if while doing this I purge some of it from my head, then all the better. It's giving me a headache."

Altaïr looks at the writing but little of it makes sense – Desmond isn't using Arabic to write it. There is a sketch beside the writing, lines in a strange pattern, but even that looks nonsense to Altaïr. "What is it?" he asks, trying to ignore the weight of Desmond's head on his stomach.

"Medicine," Desmond says and sighs. "I play a lot of pretend with the business of healing – I know more than most, but not as much as I'd like. The Apple offered to give me the knowledge I'm lacking, making me a true doctor." He snorts and then shakes his head. "Damn thing knows just what to go for, huh. If I got this right, I could save millions of people."

"What is it?" Altaïr asks.

"Smallpox vaccine," Desmond says.

"… and what precisely is a vaccine?" Altaïr asks, confused.

"A medicine that will prevent you from getting a certain illness, specifically the one this vaccine is against," Desmond says and taps the quill against the edge of the book. "If I manage to get this right, and others like it too, then who knows, maybe by the time they find the new world they won't end up killing most of the native population by accident."

Altaïr frowns. Starting at the nonsensical scribbling on Desmond book. "What illnesses can these... vaccines prevent?" he asks, tilting his head.

"Smallpox, measles, polio, rabies… a lot of things. Not all of them, but enough to matter. I started with smallpox because it's kind of the easiest," Desmond sighs and then looks up to him. "The Apple gave you visions about me?"

Altaïr looks at him, arching a brow. "Yes."

Desmond smiles. "It latches onto the things you most desperately want," he says. "I'm flattered, Altaïr."

"Then in gratitude you can explain yourself," Altaïr says wryly. "What was that city?"

Desmond looks at him for a moment, still upside down with the back of his head resting against Altaïr's belt. Then he straightens his neck, lifting his head's weight from Altaïr's stomach and taking something from his own belt – the slate he'd once entrusted to Altaïr for safe keeping.

As the Master Assassin watches, Desmond activates the device, pressing a sequence onto a square of numbers, and waiting until the surface lights up. As Altaïr watches, Desmond flicks his finger this way and that on an array of strange symbols and suddenly there is a glowing image on the slate, as clear as if the thing was a window and beyond it there was another world.

Almost too fast to see, Desmond flicks through images. A cave, a man and a woman in strange clothes, Desmond himself asleep on a familiar looking chair, an elder man glaring through the screen, a flower, more cave, image of a small group of people, one of them Desmond, in familiar but strange clothing, and then, the vision, the city.

It's just like in the vision, only smaller and seen on a shining surface of the slate.

"Hell of a view, isn't it?" Desmond asks, lifting the slate so that Altaïr can see better. "Thousand feet above the ground. Tallest place I've ever climbed."

Altaïr reaches out to tilt the slate so that the image shows better. Desmond uses his thumb to flick to another image, seen at different angle, aimed at different part of the great city. Then a third image, of indoors, with familiar white hooded shape in it. There is a triangle on top of the image, and Desmond presses his finger on it.

The image comes alive and moves and it is as if they are hovering above, looking down at tiny version Desmond. As Altaïr watches, wide eyed and enthralled, the small image runs, takes a strange gate at a slide and then the city blooms before him, made seem even vaster by how small Desmond is in the moving image. There are distant sounds coming from the slate now, a male voice and Desmond's own voice, answering in a language Altaïr doesn't know. And then they're quiet – appreciating the view, the same as Altaïr is.

"Almost fell to my death there, but who cares, we had to stop and check out the scenery," Desmond says with a tired laugh.

"Where is this?" Altaïr asks quietly as the image stops moving.

"It's called New York City and it doesn't exist anywhere yet," Desmond answers, reaching to flick through more pictures. "If it gets built again, it will be on a continent people in the Old World haven't discovered yet and won't for centuries. Old world being the continents you know – there are few more, four, if you include South Pole."

Altaïr takes a moment to think, staring at the slate and then looking down at Desmond in a slow but somehow inevitable realisation. The man offers him a weary grin and lowers the slate, cutting out it's strange light.

"This isn't Isu technology, by the way," Desmond says, waving the slate before putting it away again. "Regular old humans built this one. Though we did probably use their technology as an example, I don't know." Then he leans his head on Altaïr's stomach again, sighing and looking up at him. "Say something, Altaïr."

Altaïr lowers his hand and with nowhere else to put it, he rests it on Desmond's shoulder. "You're from the future," he says finally. "That is why you know so much. This is the past to you, already lived. This is history." Desmond only hums in agreement, watching him, not saying anything. Altaïr frowns. "Why not just tell me? Did you think I wouldn't understand? Or did you still not trust me?"

"You wouldn't have believed me before," Desmond says, shaking his head, grinding the back of it against Altaïr's stomach. "And I'm telling you now, aren't I?"

"Under duress," Altaïr scoffs but it's without heat.

Desmond smiles a little at that, closing his eyes and releasing a slow sigh. "Do you want to hear how it happened?"

"Of course I want to hear how it happened," Altaïr says flatly. "Tell me."

Desmond does, painting a picture with words, telling him of the Grand Temple of the Isu and Desmond, their latest descendant and the last one who could open their great vaults – and of course Juno, who was there waiting, who has been plotting for centuries.

"I knew it was going to kill me pretty much from the moment I saw the thing, the Eye," Desmond says while showing another image on the slate – a glowing wall between group of people and their goal. "It wasn't until we discovered the Disc that I realised what else it could do. It wasn't designed just for the shield – it could do anything. And I used it to do… this."

"Using their technology you came here," Altaïr says, thoughtful. "To this time."

"When you put it like that, it sounds dumb, doesn't it?" Desmond asks and shrugs. "Trust me, Juno did not agree with me coming here. This is the point she started manipulating Templars and in lesser part Assassins. If I stop her here and now and lay some sort of groundwork that will warn future generations about the dangers of using those things, then…" he sighs. "It's a long shot, I know. But I want to try."

Altaïr nods slowly, thinking of it, imagining it. He isn't sure if it makes sense to him – but it makes sense to Desmond. "And the medicine?" he asks slowly.

"Complete accident," Desmond admits. "But it was a good one. And it's a way for me to help people so I'm going to keep at it."

Altaïr looks down at him, biting at his lip in thought. "You know my future," he then says.

"One version of it," Desmond agrees and opens his eyes slowly, looking up at him. "It's been changed now."

Altaïr falls quiet, thinking about it and then… no, he doesn't want to know. However he will live and however he will die, he rather it comes to him naturally, and not as decreed by future and history. He will not live his life according to a pattern that does not seem to even exist anymore.

Desmond yawns and Altaïr steps back from the man. He's gotten what he wanted and he's kept the man up for long enough. "I should let you rest," he says. "It's late and you have an assassination tomorrow. You should get rest."

Desmond frowns a little and reaches out his hand to tangle his fingers in the loop of Altaïr's sword sheath. "You're right. But you could stay," he says. "To be honest, I could use the company."

Altaïr coughs. "… as you sleep?" he asks, amused and a little alarmed. "Are you drunk?"

"A little bit," Desmond agrees, smiling, and tugs at his sword sheath. "I'm also a little bit –"

There's a knock on the door, heavy and urgent. Desmond lifts his head from Altaïr's stomach with a slight, definitely annoyed sigh. "What now?" he mutters and pushes himself up while Altaïr, almost relieved, backs away. He can still feel the weight of Desmond's head on his stomach.

Desmond pushes the door open and leans heavily to the frame. "Yes?" he asks and Altaïr looks up quickly, just in case it's a guard or, worse yet, Kadar, send after him by Malik.

It's neither. There is instead a harried looking sailor behind Desmond's door, completely out of breath. The man must've ran the way. "Healer – a ship – the ship. It's here," the man says and bends over to gasp for breath. "The ship from Cyprus – it's arrived."

Chapter Text

Desmond had prepared for… basically a war, when he'd come to the past. It was partially because of the horrifying mental images Rebecca brought up with her preparations and partially because of Shaun doing the same but worse – mostly, because both of them were right. He was woefully unprepared for the life in the past with all of its dangers and threats. Worse yet, the Holy Land was in near perpetual conflict, and being skewered through with a sword was a very real danger.

So Desmond had… made a honest to god attempt of preparing for everything. He'd gotten what he could from the future, using Rebecca's lists and Shaun's pointers. He'd used literal omnipotence to grab things all around the world, everything from gunpowder and ball bearings for bullets for a makeshift pistol to all the parts to make it to whole sheets of steel to work into other weapons if needed. He'd gotten parts for tools, for other weapons, and he'd gotten tools and weapons. And armour, too, thank you Abstergo for obsessively hoarding Assassin artefacts, you creepy fuckers.

Once in the past, he'd hidden most of it and used some. He had to employ some potters and pay a very suspicious blacksmith to help him, but he'd put together his own workshop where he'd made his hidden blades, fitted them with pistols and armour – and then, once he had the shell sfor it, he made bombs. Probably the most dangerous of all the inventions he'd brought in with him, really, the bomb craft Yusuf Tazim had taught Ezio – and through him, Desmond.

He'd kind of hoped he didn't need to use it, any of it, ever… but he was prepared to do it if there was a call for it. And preventing the Templars from finding the Apple was one of those things seemed to indeed call for it.

What he wasn't prepared to do was make that decision and use those things whilst drunk.

"Shit," Desmond mutters, thinking. He wouldn't be able to walk straight for another three hours, never mind doing a raid on potential Templar-infested ship. Time would be short now though – if it's Sibrand's men on that ship and if they brought the Piece of Eden with them, it would only be the matter of time before it was used, either as it was or to find the Apple. And Desmond still has no idea what kind of Piece it even is. The Knights Templar are a religious order, it might be the Papal Staff for all he knows.

He needs to intercept them and get the thing before they can use it and he can't even stand up properly right now. This is a fucking mess.

"Desmond," Altaïr says and Desmond looks up, frowning. The Master Assassin is watching him, and looks like he's come to the same conclusion as he has. "Let me go for you. I will get the Piece of Eden before it's used."

Desmond grimaces and looks away. It's tempting. Altaïr probably could do it, especially if he gave the man some of the bombs, maybe the armour too, who knows, not that he'd necessarily even need it, but, "No," Desmond says. "I can't send an Assassin. That's the last thing I need, Templars knowing you're involved and starting a feud with Masyaf. That's the thing I'm here to prevent."

Altaïr hesitates, looking frustrated. Then he pushes his hood back, making Desmond look up and then stare in slight surprise. He hasn't seen Altaïr without his hood, actually… ever.

Man, they really look exactly like each other huh?

"Then I won't go as an Assassin," Altaïr says and tugs the cowl off entirely. "Give me your clothes and I will go as nobody, part of no order and no brotherhood, and the Templars can backtrack me back to no one."

Desmond stares at him for a moment, hesitating. He shouldn't risk it, but he knows if he goes himself as he is right now, it will probably end up a disaster, and probably with him killed. He can afford that even less than the alternative.

And there is no time. All this wait, and now there is no time.

"Alright," Desmond says and turns to head to his bedroom. "Come here, I have something for you – and yeah. Take off your robes. You can't wear white for this, it's too recognisable."

Altaïr follows him without hesitation, starting to open his belt briskly like man on a mission. Desmond's head is pounding, the remnants of the Apple's gracious gift fighting against the wine and making him feel like he's stuffed full of wool that someone set on fire – it's hard to focus. The sound of Altaïr's belt is distracting. The sight of him dropping it on a side table and then pulling off his robes is even more so.

Altaïr has scars and – no, not right now. Desmond turns away, stumbling his way to his clothes' chest where he pulls out a more nondescript dark grey robe from his stash of second hand clothing. After checking that it's reasonably clean and not too big, he hands it over to Altaïr, followed by a scarf and a veil. Altaïr looks at them for a moment and then snicks out his hidden blade and cuts into the robe's hems, opening slits in the sides, front and back.

While Altaïr pulls the robe on, Desmond kneels by the bed and pulls out the chest from under it. It too is filled with clothes, slightly finer ones, with a fat money pouch sitting on top of them – full of pennies. It's a bait – it's under the money and under the clothes where the really valuable stuff is.

"What is that?" Altaïr asks, stopping in mid motion, as Desmond takes out a piece of the armour and considers it.

"An Assassin's armour from 15th century, made in the 21st. Amusement piece for Templars of the future," Desmond answers and tugs at the straps. "They had it on a display and I stole it. Nice, isn't it?" Altair lets out a noncommittal hum Desmond looks up to him, sizing him up. "You're not used to wearing this much armour though, are you?"

Altaïr shakes his head, frowning, and with a sigh Desmond puts the thing away again. It is nice, but Altaïr isn't built like Ezio or even like Desmond himself – the thing would slow him down and whatever benefit he'd get from better armouring would be lost. "How about chain mail?" Desmond offers plaintively.

"I'm used to going without," Altaïr says, leaning in to look into his weapons chest. "You have all this lying around and you don't lock your door?" he asks incredulously.

Desmond glances at him and then shrugs. "Who expects to find armour and weapons at a healer's house? If someone would break into my house, they'd find the money, grab it and go." And considering how many thieves owe him for medicine, Desmond's house is pretty safe from thievery. They might not be organised yet, but word spreads fast in Acre. "You might be right though, should probably hide this stuff better." Who knows, maybe one day he'd have a hideout with an armoury too. Hah.

He looks at Altaïr, who is adjusting the grey robes now, tugging at the collar. "I don't like the idea of you going in without any armour," Desmond mutters, turning back to the chest. "You don't even wear a gambeson or anything."

"I don't need them, they hinder my movement or make noise when I can't afford it. My skills with a blade are all the protection I need," Altaïr says and pulls on his belt again, adjusting his sword sheath as does. Desmond gives him a helpless look and he sighs. "I'll be fine, just tell me what I need to do."

"Not yet, there is something I can give you at least," Desmond says and pushes the chest aside, to get another one behind it, smaller one, this one locked. Desmond opens it and shuffles through the contents, taking out one of the satchels inside. "Here, take these," he says, handing the satchel to Altair. "And let me introduce you to wonderful world of explosives."

"Wonderful world of what?" Altaïr asked dubiously and opens the satchel, peering inside.

"Explosives. Things that explode. Is that not a concept yet?" Desmond wonders and then shakes his head. "Never mind. These are smoke bombs. You throw and break them – when you do that, they create a thick cloud of smoke. Good for distraction and making a quick getaway. Try not to breathe in the smoke, though, it can be noxious."

Altaïr frowns thoughtfully, taking out one of the impact smoke bombs and eying it suspiciously. "You throw and break them," he repeats and nods, adding the smoke bomb pouch to his belt. Then he takes the headscarf and the veil and pulls them on. With them and the dark grey robes, he looks nothing like an Assassin.

He looks a bit more like a ninja, actually, which Desmond's drunken mind finds inappropriately hilarious.

"What?" Altaïr demands from behind the veil.

"Nothing. You look great," Desmond grins and then shakes his head. Focus. "Right. The Piece – they're probably being pretty careful with it and if they transport it, they'll either do it in secret or with a lot of guards, it depends on how many people are in with the Templars among the Knights Teutonic. Either way, they will look to take it into a safe place, once off the ship. If they have it."

"If they have it," Altaïr repeats, unamused

"I think they do, but I don't know for sure," Desmond admits. "I don't have people on that ship."

Altaïr eyes him and then nods. "Anything more I should know?"

Desmond looks at him and makes a face. "I'm sorry, I don't know more, I can just guess," he says guiltily and slumps a bit. "I should be the one going."

"You can't even sit straight," Altaïr comments wryly, looking down at him. "And I am a Master Assassin – I am capable of retrieving a single object. Or do you think me incapable of improvising?"

"No, I know you're good at what you do," Desmond says. He is when he's not being an idiot, anyway. Desmond clears his throat. "I just don't like it. Sending someone doing something I should be doing but can't because…" because he was being an idiot and decided to drink his problems away and it happened to be the one day when stuff would happen. Desmond sighs. "Promise me you will be careful, Altaïr."

Altaïr eyes him quietly and says, "I won't kill anyone, and no one will see me," he promises quietly. "I'm but a shadow in the night."

Desmond blinks at him, slow. Altaïr nods at him and then he's gone, leaving Desmond staring at nothing, with the only sign of Altair left behind being the man's robes discarded over Desmond bed.

Damn, he'd forgotten that sometimes Altaïr could be downright poetic when he wanted to be.

Desmond gets no sleep and before he knows it, he's sober, has a headache and the sun is rising. While he's been sitting and waiting and fretting, there'd been no sign of Altaïr – but no sound of bells either, which he takes as a good sign. If there is any action happening at the harbour, he doesn't hear of it and sometimes no news is good news.

The wait for news is the worst.

The hours drag on while he takes his own medicine and winces his way through a cup of willow bark tea. As soon as he could, he would need to figure out how to roll medicine into pills. They used some sort of plates for that, didn't they, in the early days? He could have those made, he's pretty sure. He had a potter making him actual bomb shells with no questions asked – she could probably figure out how to make pill rolling plates.

Eventually sun rises enough that Desmond can't hang back and just wait anymore – it's been too long. And he has a job, after all, which he now regrets, and a decision to make about Garnier. He'd planned to kill the man today, but that was before the ship from Cyprus arrived – would it be suspicious to carry it out now? Probably. Should he still do it?

Two cups of willow tea and several cups of tea and he still feels like shit. Today is not his day.

He's still thinking about it as he steps out of his house, trying to decide if he's heading for the hospital or the harbour, when an Assassin drops on him – and it's not Altaïr.

"Desmond," Kadar greets him. "I'm sorry for coming up on you like this, but my brother says it's urgent. Is Altaïr with you?"

Desmond blinks at him – and at the light of day which is… bright. Then he shakes his head, to try and clear it.

He's not worried for Altaïr; he knows first hand how good the man is when he's actually taking care, and not being a dumbass. It would take more than the Teutonic knights to take down Altaïr Ibn-La'ahad. But… It's been several hours now. Passage of time in the Animus was weird, so it's hard to say how long Altaïr's missions usually took him, but this does feel a little long.

Desmond peers at the sun. It's still very low. He usually arrives at the hospital pretty early, but… he thinks he can get by with later appearance. "Go tell your brother a ship from Cyprus arrived at night," he says and looks at Kadar. "Altaïr went to investigate it."

Kadar frowns and then nods – then he's gone, climbing a nearby ladder and disappearing over the rooftops. Desmond glances after him and then looks to the general direction of the Acre harbour, activating his Eagle Vision. He can't actually see anything, there are whole districts worth of buildings in the way… but Eagle Vision doesn't care about physical objects.

He can feel it – points of interest. Altaïr and, yes, it has to be a Piece of Eden. But there is something else too, something…

Desmond blinks, concentrating, but… he can't make sense of it. Pity real life doesn't have a mini map to point locations out on, he thinks and then looks up to where Kadar had gone.

Sadly, in real life, you have to do it manually.

Quickly Desmond swings his shoulder bag over to his back and then takes a nearest wall at a run, scaling over the doorway and onto the rooftop. It's nowhere near high enough, so, Desmond glances around quickly until he spots the nearest tower and begins making his way over to it, over rooftops and scaffolds. It's probably not smart, being hangover, but… ugh.

The climb is a bit more scary in real life than it was in the Animus – but nothing gets anywhere near the construction crane over New York. If he could do that, he can do this, hangover or not.

Hauling himself up to the top of the tower with a grunt, Desmond crouches there, taking support from the tower and turning his eyes, again, to the harbour. Now, now he's high enough to tell the points apart.

Altaïr is moving about the harbour, at a quick enough pace that he must be still on the loose and uninjured. The other points of interest are moving too, much slower – and together, as if overlapping each other. One is carrying the other. A person of interest is carrying the Piece of Eden – taking it away from the harbour, and away from Altair.

Altaïr must have missed it, somehow, and is still searching while the Piece itself is being taken away.

"Damnit," Desmond mutters and looks down, still with Eagle Vision. Under its gaze a safe point to land glows safe, neutral white and without hesitation, Desmond jumps – and regrets it the moment he lands. And so does the alleyway and the haystack he landed on.

One bout of sickness later he feels a lot better though, and so he sets out hunting, checking his gear as he goes – and if he makes couple of false turns, well, no one is going to know.

Thankfully his point of interest is coming towards him – it's not heading to the castle, not to the Hospitalier stronghold, and it's already left Teutonic territory entirely. It seems the Templars are intending to get the Piece out of Acre immediately, without bothering to store it even for a moment with Sibrand, Garnier or even Montferrat. Robert de Sablé knew it was compromised then.

Desmond scales over the rooftops as the point of interest approaches, closes in, and finally walks into the street right below him. And, ah. Desmond sees why Altaïr completely missed it.

Altaïr wouldn't know to pay attention to a solitary woman in simple clothes, would he? Not even one as tall as this one. Without armour or visible weaponry, Maria Thorpe probably passed right under Altaïr's nose without him being ever the wiser.

"Well, shit," Desmond mutters, leaning his chin onto his knuckles. "You complicate things, lady, you complicate them a lot."

If it had been some random courier he could've maybe killed them if need be and grabbed the Piece of Eden from the corpse. He can't do that to her, nor can he risk getting into a fight with her. She's high enough on the Templar ladder that if she remembered and recognised his face, his place in the hospital would be compromised.

But she is also heading for the gates and he can't let her leave with the Piece of Eden on her.

"Damn it," Desmond mutters and swings down from the rooftop and to the ground, to follow her. Maria stands out a little in the crowd – she's a whole lot taller than anyone around her and it's gaining her some attention. Watching her try and pretend she doesn't notice it and wasn't anything special to be noticed herself gives Desmond the impression she both is and isn't used to it. She's definitely not used to Acre yet, judging by how she looks around with barely hidden curiosity. She must've come onboard the ship.

She still has sea legs going on too, though she's covering for it pretty well.

Desmond frowns a little and looks away, scanning the area until he catches sight of a group of beggars and suffles over to them. "Five coin for each of you, if you stall her a little," he says, motioning to Maria. "Ten, if you can stop her at a crowd."

"Oh, somebody caught your eye finally, healer?" one of the beggars asks and gives him a once over. "You know, if you need someone to keep you entertained…"

"Unfortunately I am quite keen on this one," Desmond says with a smile and lifts his money pouch a little, letting it jingle. "Will you stall her for me? Before she gets away, preferably."

They take the coin and hide it away before quickly running after Maria, shouting in bad French, "Mademoiselle, please, will you not hear my story?"

"Madam, a coin, please, for my poor husband, my children?"

And Maria actually stops to listen. "Yes?" she asks is Arabic.

Immediately the beggars changes languages. "My husband, Mademoiselle, he died in the siege and my house was destroyed – my children sleep in the street at night and starve. Will you not spare a coin to help me feed them?"

"You have my sympathies, good woman, but I have no coin to give," Maria says kindly and turns to continue.

Desmond smiles. Maria is kind, but kindness isn't enough to brush off the beggars of Acre – now that she's engaged them a little, they just become pushier, crowding her and begging for coins while she tries to tell them, very earnest, she has none. She's so nice about it too.

"My children, Madam, my children are sick, I haven't the food to feed them – won't you spare a coin, please?"

"I'm so sorry, I don't have any –"

"My family is sick and dying, just a few coins, please –"

"Please, ma'am, I have nothing to give you –"

Whether it's an act she's keeping up to pretend to be a humble peasant woman or if she truly feels it, Maria looks a little miserable. It makes Desmond feel a little bit bad for sidling up behind her and slicing the bottom of her bag open with his hidden blade. The Piece of Eden, still glowing in Desmond's eyes, falls into his awaiting, sleeve covered palm and then disappears into his bag.

Desmond intends to continue past them and leave poor Maria dealing with the beggars and with the contents of her bag, spilling everywhere – but before he can, a hand grabs at his wrist and there is a blade pointed at his stomach. Maria, it seems, is quicker than he realised.

"That is not yours, Assassin," she says, while the beggars around them scatter. Not a hint of the nice peasant lady on her face or tone anymore; she's all steel now. "Hand it over."

"Not an Assassin," Desmond says, eying her with interest. She's almost at eye level to him – which makes her a whole lot taller than Altaïr, doesn't it? How cute is that?

… this is probably not the time.

"Whatever you are, I've the mind to slice your stomach open right here and now," Maria says and presses forward slightly. "Hand it over, now."

Desmond blows a breath and then moves, knocking her blade aside and twisting his arm in quick circle, so that he can grab at her wrist. Maria's knife skirts on his stomach, but only cuts through cloth – unlike Altaïr, Desmond does wear chain mail. Desmond pushes back away from her just as she goes to thrust with her knife instead of swing, backing away quickly into an alley behind him.

Maria, discarding her broken bag and all of it's contents entirely, moves immediately to pursue – and considering all the skirts she's wearing, she's fast. She doesn't look like she has other weapons than her knife, though – not until she rips the skirts right off, to reveal she's wearing armoured greaves underneath, as well as a whole sword belt.

Well okay then. Skirts can hide a lot of things, huh?

"Were you the one who stole the treasure from us?" Maria demands, flipping the knife to her non-dominant hand and pulling the sword out with the other.

"What treasure?" Desmond asks, backing away, thinking fast. Well, she's seen his face now. Shit. If he's to go back to the hospital… he can't let her go now, can he? Kill her or capture her, those are his two options. Really not how he wishes this would go, really, really not. Well, in for a penny and all that. "Do you even know what that thing is?"

"So it was you," Maria says dangerously and takes a guarded fighting stance, blades at the ready. "Tell me what you know, or suffer the consequences."

Déjà vu, right there, Desmond thinks and clicks his tongue. "Don't think so," he says and considers the walls. As Maria launches into an attack, Desmond ducks past her and then runs to the opposite wall from her – she shouts at him as he climbs, and isn't too far behind him. Desmond glances back at her and then runs.

"Stop, you brigand!" Maria shouts after him. "Give back the things you have stolen, they are not yours to keep!"

"But they are the Templars'?" Desmond asks. "Do you have any idea what your friends were going to do with them?"

"Many good things which you have selfishly hindered!" she snaps. "Now stop and face the consequences of your actions!"

No, Desmond thinks. She doesn't know. "Yes, facing consequences sounds about right," he says and grins at her grimly. "Let's do that, shall we?" Desmond asks and turns, and while Maria dashes after him, he sets out running – towards the Hospitalier hospital.

Chapter Text

It's good to be out and about and finally, oh lord, finally in action. How long had she languished in Limassol under the derisive and judgemental glares of Templars who knew little but thought they knew everything, who saw her as little more than curiosity at best, and heretical insult at worst? So much mockery and hateful words and suggestive overtures, but she'd borne then and she'd waited and now, finally, a chance to prove all of them wrong.

Keeping her eyes on the thief, Maria runs, shaking off her sea legs and landing feet first in her element. It is so good to be moving and doing something worthwhile that she's barely holding back a jubilant grin. She'll capture this brigand, or else kill him, and then she would deliver him or his things at least to Robert, a gift and clue as to what happened to the artefact. A proof that she is as good, nay, even even than the arrogant men at arms at his side. That she could, one day, be a knight. Wouldn't that shut the mouths of bragging, gossiping men with more metal than bollocks on them, to see her become the very first Lady Knight of the Knights Templar.

If only the slippery bastards stopped running!

"There is nowhere you can run, thief!" Maria calls in hopes that he'd come to his better senses and just give up. "Stop and I might treat you leniently!"

"Not as comforting as you might think!" The thief calls back, with tone of amusement in his voice. He jumps from one flat rooftop to another and pauses for a moment. "How about you and I make a deal instead?"

"And what kind of deal would that be, thief?" Maria asks and oh she can just imagine what it would be.

The thief smiles. "Follow me," he says and then keeps running. Maria snarls – as if she was doing anything else!

The thief, tall for an Arab, leads her to what one might call a merry chase across the roofs of Acre. Over flats and struts and hanging platforms, he runs from the eastern gates of Acre all the way towards a – fortress? She's never been to Acre before but she's learned enough from descriptions to know that it is the fortress, currently housing the Knights Hospitalier, and where they had set up their hospital. Confused, Maria looks around. She's assumed he was leading her into a trap or at least looking to tire her, but this is the territory of the Crusaders.

The thief clambers up a taller building and pauses to crouch on the corner of the rooftop, looking down at her. "So, a deal," he says and pats his bag. "I'll give this back to you – I'll even give your the Apple if you ask for it – if you do what I say for a bit."

"Why on Earth would I lower myself to that, when I can just take the artefact and force the location of the other one out of you?" Maria asks incredulously.

"You'll never find out why I took them, or what I know. I'll kill myself before telling you," the Arab says almost pleasantly. "It's just a small incursion into the hospital down there – and Hospitaliers are allies of the Templars, aren't they?"

Maria narrows her eyes. "It is obviously a trap," she says, wondering how much he knows and how does he know so much.

"Of course it is," the thief agrees and leans his elbows on his knees. "You can hold a knife to my back the whole time if you want – come on. It will be fun."

Maria gives him an incredulous look. "Give me the artefact and –"

He stands up and backs away from the roof’s edge. Hurriedly Maria makes pursuit, climbing up on the roof just in time to see the thief jump, arms spread eagle, going down head first. Is the man trying to kill himself?!

No, Maria finds as she dashes to the opposite edge of the roof and sees what's below. The thief landed on his back on a pile of hay being grazed on by couple of war horses. Brushing himself as he stands up, the thief looks up at her and then, bold as anything, he begins walking towards the entrance into the fortress.

Cursing under her breath, Maria jumps as well, landing on her side in the hay and quickly getting up. She must look a state, her skirts gone but the top of her dress still in place, but there is little she can do about that – hurried, she makes pursuit, again, towards the fortress and up its impressive set of stairs.

The thief waits for her at the top, hand resting on top of his bag. "I'll give it to you here and now and tell you everything, if you just play along," he says. "Come on – you have nothing to lose and everything to gain."

Maria narrows her eyes. Maybe he doesn't know that Garnier too is a Templar and more than mere ally. Or is he going to use her to infiltrate the place somehow? "Why would I walk into an obvious trap?" she asks wryly. "I can just scream and the guards here will come and arrest you."

The thief grins at that and backs away, again, this time right into the Hospitalier fortress. Maria blinks at him and then hurries after him and then – the thief starts greeting the guards in oddly accented French.

"Morning, Jean – good morning, Cécile."

"Good morning, Doctor," they say and Maria could swear they look happy, even relieved to see the thief. And, a doctor?

"Not a doctor," the thief says pleasantly, in tones of exasperation and amusement. "Is The Good Doctor in yet?" He asks then, emphasising the words.

The Hospitalier men at arms exchange looks. "He started first thing at dawn," the man named Jean says.

"I see," the thief says, grim, and then glances at Maria. "Better go and see if I can be of help then. Thank you, Jean," he says.

"Who's she, Doctor?" the other guard asks. "A patient?"

Maria opens her mouth but the thief speaks before she can. "This is Lady Maria Thorpe, she's sent by the Knights Templars," he says and looks at her, arcing his browns.

Maria scowls at him, confused. How does he know her name and how does he know the guards? Does the thief actually work here? And as a doctor? No wonder their letters were so easily intercepted. Pressing her lips tight together, she turns to the guards. "I must see Grandmaster Garnier de Naplouse at once," she says firmly.

"I'll take her in," the thief says quickly to the guards, who look suddenly very relieved. The thief smiles. "You two keep up the good work – please, come this way, Lady Thorpe."

Maria hesitates. She should have him arrested by the Hospitalier guard; the man is a thief, a criminal and no doubt a liar too – and who knows what kind of horrible things he might be subjecting the patients of the hospital to, pretending to be a doctor. But…

The thief is already walking in, calm and casual as if it is something he does every day, and there now lives the liveliest curiosity on Maria's mind.

She follows – with so many men at arms here, she can have him overrun by guards any time.

"What is this, Thief?" She demands under her breath as they enter what she assumes is the hospital. "What game are you playing?"

The thief gives her a look. "The worst one," he says. "It's called Reality."

She scowls and opens her mouth to say something – and just then, someone starts calling for help.

"No, help me, help me – save me!" A man shouts, half naked, as he rushes out through an open door, pursued by guards. "Let me go, please –"

The guards catch the man and as Maria watches, confused and then surprised, one of them knocks him over the head, making him stumble to the floor. The Hospitalier then grab the man by his bare arms and the thief steps forward.

"Hisham, Burke, what's going on?" he snaps, looking alarmed. "What do you think you're doing?

"Doctor Desmond!" one of the men says, looking a little wild around the eyes. "Doctor Garnier ordered us to capture him and stop him from escaping and –"

"That's enough, my child," another voice says. "I told you to retrieve the patient, not kill him."

Maria looks up as the patient on the floor begins struggling twice as hard against the men holding him, looking obviously terrified. "No, no, please, don't touch me, not again."

"There there, my child, it's alright," the elder man, presumably Doctor Garnier says, walking up to the man and reaching for it. "Cast out this fear, else I cannot help you."

"Help me – like you helped the others?" the patient demands. "You took their souls, I saw you – but not mine. No, you will not take mine!" The patient struggles almost free and then spots the thief. "Please, Doctor, you have to help me!" he cries. "He will make me like the others, he will take my soul and make me bow too, I don't want to be his soulless slave!"

"Ah, Desmond," Garnier says, seeing the thief as well. "There you are – can you please take this one back to his room? I will look him over once I am done with the others."

"Doctor Garnier," the thief, Desmond, says carefully. "I thought Cade's treatment was complete."

"Not quite yet, obviously, the man is still of feeble spirit and mind," Garnier says sadly. "I have an experimental treatment which I think might produce better results however, not to fear."

"No, no more experiments," the patient says, writhing to get free. "You can't keep me here – I'll escape again!"

"No, you won't," Doctor Garnier says. "Desmond, break his legs."

Maria's eyes widen a little and beside her the thief loses all expression. "Excuse me?" he asks.

"Break his legs," Garnier says again. "I assume you know how to do it cleanly. Don't worry – they will be quite healed by the time his treatment is complete."

"I am not going to break the patient's legs, Doctor, I'm sorry," Desmond says, frowning. "That is the opposite of healing."

Garnier sighs, looking a little long suffering, and then looks at the terrified looking guards, still wrangling the struggling patient. "Break his legs," he orders.

It happens so fast that Maria can only gape - even as the thief moves to stop them, the guards obey Garnier without hesitation. It's done in a second and then Maria is wincing at the sound of bones being broken under the guards' heels. The patient cries once and then again and then whimpers in pain.

The thief gapes for a moment and then rounds up on Garnier and grabs the man by the front of blood stained apron with one hand. "Doctor Garnier, you go too far!" he snarls. "What the hell are you thinking?! If you don't want him to escape, chain him to his bed! Don't break his fucking legs!"

"Unhand me, Desmond," Garnier says firmly and winces slightly. "Don't be stupid, child. What will this accomplish?"

"A great deal of satisfaction," the younger man growls but as the guards hesitantly step closer he does let the man go, pushing Garnier back angrily as he does it, though not quite shoving him. As he does he pushes his hand in his bag – checking for the artefact, maybe?

"There you are," Garnier says and smiles at the thief. "Let's be smart about this. I know your concept of healing remains naïve, Desmond," the elder man says, tutting disapprovingly. "But sometimes one must break a thing in order to righten what has grown crooked. If you don't rid yourself of this displaced sentimentality, you will never be more than student of medicine and never its master. Now take him into his room."

"Yes, Doctor Garnier," Desmond says angrily and goes to the patient who now hangs limp in the hands of the guards, moaning in pain. The thief checks the man's legs and stands up. "Get me a stretcher," he snaps to the guards and turns to Garnier. He looks like he wants to say something but obviously bites it back. "Doctor Garnier – this is Maria Thorpe of the Templars," he almost spits out. "She says she's here to inspect the supplies."

Maria, who'd been watching the events unfold with a sort of shocked curiosity, lifts her chin and meets Doctor Garnier's eyes. He looks her over and hums, rubbing at his arm. "Ah yes, Robert's girl," he says, in tones of fascination and disapproval, which, with the experience of many years of bad experiences, makes Maria's skin crawl. "I had been hoping to meet you, my dear – come right this way."

Maria opens her mouth, glancing at Desmond. He's turned to attend to the man with broken legs, the back of his neck tense. Around them are guards and patients and they all, even the armoured men with weapons, look terrified. The Grandmaster of Hospitaliers, the head of their hallowed hospital, scares both his men and his patients alike.

Desmond glances at her and arches his brows, his expression helplessly furious. There is a pointed look in his eyes and – Maria presses her lips together. Garnier is turning away now, expecting her to follow.

She holds out her hand. "Our deal, Desmond," she says. If he follows through, she will see this through and play a good game. If not...

With a scoff the thief stands up and, tugging his sleeve over his hand, takes it out. Maria looks down to the artefact to make sure it's the right thing and then grabs it, hiding it in a waist pouch.

"What you see there happens on your Master's orders," Desmond says quietly. "Come find me once you're done."

With that said, he turns to meet the stretcher being carried in and starts shifting the moaning patient to it. Marie looks him over, taking in the care with which he handles the injured man and then, with a scowl, she turns to follow Garnier.

She's always known Robert kept secrets from her. He'd even admitted it, saying, "Once you're a full knight, Maria. These are things only our best and most trusted know, after all. Or do you want special treatment just because you're a woman?"

No, she'd said, she didn't want special treatment. But now she wonders how many things were hidden behind that barrier, how many secrets lay just beyond reach. And this is for the ultimate goal of getting back what was stolen from them – she isn't breaking Robert's trust, seeking this knowledge.

She catches up with Garnier. "Grandmaster de Naplouse, I am grateful for the time you're taking to accommodate me," she says. "Can I ask – was it truly necessary to break that man's legs?"

"Quite necessary, yes," the man says and looks at her. "So you are the Templar Woman at Arms, hmm? Robert has told me out you. Tell me, my child, what made you take up arms?"

Ridicule, pity, disdain, fury and righteousness, Maria thinks. "I wished to do my part for the cause," she says simply.

"Hmm," Garnier answers and coughs, making a slight face shaking his head. "I have seen women who pretend to be men, some who even thought they were men. It's a particular sort of madness, you know," he says almost conversationally. "But I admit I have not seen a woman take up arms before. Tell me, did your always wish to fight?"

Maria hesitates. It's nothing people haven't asked of her before, but something about the way he says it makes her wary. "I suppose so, yes?" she says slowly. "I've always been a bit boyish I suppose, played with swords and shields rather than dolls when I was a child."

"Ah," Garnier says, nodding. He is leading her past many sick and injured people – they litter the hospital in dozens, in hundreds. "Yes, that seems to be the case usually. It's a sort of birth defect, I suspect, that a creature normally docile turns out fierce instead. A type of hysteria. It is not an ailment without cure, however – have you ever wished to be like other women?"

Maria's blood runs cold. "No, Doctor, I can't say I have," she says coolly. "Now what of the supplies."

"Yes, yes, right this way," Garnier says and coughs again.. "Of course if we could induce battle prowess in women, armies over the world might double – a terrible concept to be sure, but a fascinating thought experiment, wouldn't you say?"

Whole lot more women would take up arms if they didn't have homes to mind and children to rear – and if in the face of every woman with a sword there wasn't twenty men crying heresy and insanity.

Maria says nothing to that. "The supplies, Doctor."

Finally he shows them to her, leading her through a locked door and down into the dungeons of the Hospitalier stronghold. There, in cages and in cells, there are people, hundreds and hundreds of people – men, in poor state of health and dress. They're sitting defeated in the cells or sleeping curled, often right on top of each other. Some of them are trying the bars, testing the locks and few are sitting in chains – all of them look up at the sight of Garnier and all of them scamper to their feet and back away as much as they can. They are silent in their terror.

Maria looks at them in confusion and then looks at Garnier. The man is inspecting the prisoners with a look of satisfaction and Maria's stomach drops.

These wretched people, too terrified to breathe, these… These are the supplies?

"What is this?" she asks quietly.

"I know they don't look like much yet, but we are making good time with the conversion process now," Garnier says. He's swaying slightly. "It is little in comparison to what we could do if we had the artefact of course, but Robert needs not great. I am sure the numbers I can add to the cause, hundreds of loyal soldiers who will never question an order… yes, it will make a difference."

Maria stares at him, and it is as if her mind is coming to conclusions without her conscious choice. "And the conversion process?" she asks.

"It is slow, I grant you," Garnier says, rubbing at his temple and sighing. "Medicine and treatment have their limits, I'm afraid, but with time and perseverance I have managed to perfect the technique. The indoctrination holds even under pressure – so as long the medicine is taken regularly."

"I see," Maria says, her voice remarkably level.

"And you have already seen fruits of my labour" Garnier says slyly. "The guards at my hospital are children of my method. From this," he notions to the slaves in their cells, "to unwaveringly loyal men at arms. Remarkable, no?"

Thinking back to the mad terror in the men's eyes, Maria swallows. "Very striking, yes," she says. "And this method, your indoctrination, it works always?"

Garnier presses his lips together for a moment. "There are losses," he says begrudgingly. "Less now that we have perfected the method, but sometimes the patients are – resistant. But we only lose one in three or four perhaps," he says dismissively. "And it rarely has to do with the method itself – just a slip at a crucial stage and then we lose the patient to his own hand. We are getting better at catching those ones before they commit the act, however."

"Hmm," Maria answers. Garnier seems to take that as a judgment, because he coughs and then takes a more defensive stance.

"We are short staffed here, of course, and my poor children are far from the most intelligent, and can offer only limited help. I have been forced to hire foolish medicine men to cover for the losses," he says and coughs again, frowning. "Has Robert no doctors to offer me?"

Maria gives him a look. "You are the Knights Hospitalier, surely that is your field of expertise, Doctor," she says sharply, her spirit rebelling against the idea that not only does Robert know and allow this – but he enables this. "By foolish medicine men, do you mean that man, Desmond? When did you hire him?"

Garnier harrumphs. "It hasn't been a month yet, and he proved to be less promising than I hoped. The man is easily the best physician I have ever met, but he is played by these notions that hold him back. Sentimentality and cleanliness," he says dismissively. "He will never be suitable for our work."

"Cleanliness?" Maria asks dubiously.

"Yes. The other day he even told me I should wash my hands," Garnier says in tones of exasperated amusement and shakes his head. He must be older than he looks, because that small act almost sends him tipping over and falling into Maria – she had to push him upright again. "Ah, excuse me, my dear."

"Are you alright, Doctor?" Maria asks, dubious. He looks a little pale.

"I haven't eaten this morning, just slight hungerbangs," he says. "I'm sorry, my dear, what was I saying?"

"Something about this young physician asking you to wash your hands," Maria says.

"Ah yes, Desmond," Garnier says and chuckles. "He keeps asking to hire people to clean the hospital as well. Young men, think they know everything. You'd think he's a Muslim with all the washing he does, afraid of being unclean, but he doesn't pray like they do. It's ridiculous either way."

Maria looks down at Garnier's blood stained apron and his hands, with crescents of black dirt under each nail. "Quite," she agrees and looks away, at the slaves quivering behind the bars and in the cages. "Do you have anything else to report to Robert?" she asks then, hoping he doesn't. What she has seen and heard is already too much.

"What is the word on the object from Cyprus?" Garnier asks. "Will it be of any use?"

Maria was ordered to bring the artefact straight to Robert. A show of great pride and trust he had in her, she's thought – she'd been so proud. He had told her to not let anyone else but him have it, too, to especially keep it away from Garnier and Sibrand. She hadn't wondered what it was for, why he wanted it, how it would used.

"Can you tell me how you think it might help?" Maria asks.

Garnier narrows his eyes a little as he looks at her. He's squinting a little and swaying again, but though he looks like he's dizzy, it doesn't seem to have any effect on his mind. "What did Robert send you here for, my child?" he asks slowly, suspiciously.

Maria thinks fast. "With the loss of the first artefact, the second had become all the more precious," she says. "You say your work here is progressing well – if it truly is, then perhaps the artefact isn't necessary here and can be applied elsewhere. We only have the one, now."

"Ah, I see, yes, I see," Garnier says and nods, looking at his supplies. "I think if my work is allowed to continue unhindered then, yes, I do believe I can do without. But I need more doctors – do tell Robert that. I need more good and reliable doctors who won't shy away from the grim work and tough decisions we must make here."

"Yes, of course, Doctor," Maria agrees. "I'll pass the word along."

"Now, if that is all, my child," Garnier runs a hand over his forehead. "I believe it is time I eat something. I am feeling a little faint."

She finds the man, Desmond, after asking around – the wild eyed guards point her into a room, where the man is just finishing setting the broken legs of the patient who tried to escape. The man himself is unconscious now, lying limp on a bed as Desmond works, wrapping splints tightly around the man's left leg – the right is already splinted.

Maria falls to sit on a bench by the door and just watches him work. Desmond glances at her and then goes back to it, winding bandages slowly. His hands are clean, as are his clothes – no dirt in his ears or around them. Judging by the basin of streaming water and rag hanging on its side, he also washed some of the wounded man, possibly his legs before bandaging them – they look cleaner than the rest of him.

"What do they mean to do with the artefacts?" Maria asks. She knows they have powers – she hasn't ever seen them herself, she wasn't permitted in the room when they used the one on her person now, but she'd heard it being talked of. The light, the power, the wonder.

"To enslave a lot of people into their army. Maybe enslave a lot of leaders too," Desmond says. "That's the power of the one they couldn't find in Jerusalem – it can manipulate people's minds."

"And the one I have?"

"That I don't know about, didn't get a good look at it," Desmond says and finishes tying the bandage. "But I know it's probably how they found the one in Jerusalem and they might use it to locate it again and I couldn't let that happen. Which is why I stole it."

Maria frowns and takes it out from her satchel. Desmond looks her way and then frowns – he makes a move to come closer and then stops at her frown. Maria makes sure he keeps his distance and then unwraps the cloth around the artefact.

It's a ball.

"Oh thank god," Desmond sighs and leans onto the bedpost. "It's not an Apple."

Maria glances at him and then turns the ball in her hand, trying to make sense of it. It looks like glass. Not even like crystal or some precious gem – just a ball of clear glass. It's not quite whole – there is a crack running along its surface, fractures like tree branches growing from it.

"What is this?" Maria asks dubiously.

"A crystal ball," Desmond says and grins as she looks up and glares at him. "It's a communication device – someone with similar device can project their thoughts across the world to that ball and vice versa," he explains, nonsensically. "That must be how she got to them – slipping literally through the cracks."

"Talk sense," Maria orders. "Who are you talking about?"

"A malevolent entity who is using the Templars for her benefit. The artefacts is how she does it, reaching through them and manipulating people, twisting them," Desmond says and looks away. "Not that all of them need much twisting. How did you like what Garnier had to show?"

Maria stares at him hard. "What is he doing to those people? Where do they come from?"

"There is a slaver in Jerusalem – another Templar – who sends them over. He takes whores, thieves, beggars and madmen and Garnier indoctrinates them here with mixture of mind addling medicine, torture and other methods. If they had the Apple, they could turn them loyal like that," he snaps his fingers. "But they don't, so they're forced to use other means."

"How many?" Maria asks.

"Hundreds. They're going to need thousands though," Desmond says and looks at her seriously. "Do you know what they are planning?"

Maria glares at him and then looks down at the crystal ball. "We mean to release Holy Land from the grasp of those to would conquer it," she says, brushing her hand over the glass. "Christians or Muslims. Free the land from the chains of religion and give it back to her people."

Desmond looks down at the ball and arches his brows. "Alright. You do realise that most of the people here are either Christians, Muslims, Jews or whatever?" he asks. "The people, I mean, not just the warriors fighting over this place – the actual people who live here are religious one way or the other."

"Yes, and it is their religions they fight for, that is causing all this strife," Maria says. "Take away the religion and this land will be at peace!"

Desmond arches a brow at that. "Really?"

"If there is no religion, there are no holy things, and there are no Holy Lands," Maria says. "And no one will fight for them."

"That's kind of brushing aside the whole aspect of Levant being strategic location for the Ayyubid Dynasty and to the west. There's this thing called Mediterranean trade happening, but okay," Desmond muses. "How are you going to eradicate the religious beliefs of hundreds of thousands of people? And if manage to take it all out, who are the people who own this land, really? The westerners who settled here during the Crusader Kingdoms, or the people who came from east, from the Ayyubid Dynasty who have settled in since?"

Maria frowns at him. "I… They will be the same people."

"Under who? No nation exists without government," Desmond folds his arms. "Who gets to choose who inherits the kingdom with no god, really? You? Garnier? Robert de Sablé? All of you are from the West who have only recently arrived and weren't born here – why is it up to you who this land belongs to?"

"So we should leave it up to Richard the Lionheart – or Saladin?" Maria demands. "A conqueror from the West and another from the East. Should we let them continue their massacre across the land that belongs to neither, when we can bring this land peace?"

"With force," Desmond comments.

"Yes, with force if we must!"

"Spoken like a true conqueror," Desmond says dryly. "Enter the slave trade, the torture and the brainwashing and exit freewill. I think that's about enough - take your hand off the ball, Maria."

"What?" Maria blinks and looks down. The crystal ball has turned milky white under her hand and there is a faint light shining between her fingers. With shock and alarm she pushes the orb away and off her lap, sending it flying. It falls to the floor and though she expects to see it shatter, it doesn't – it barely even makes a noise. It then rolls towards Desmond – who catches it with his foot.

"That's how she gets you, with righteous fervour," the man says and grinds the bottom of his shoe against the ball.

Maria swallows as the strange cloud over her mind fades. She hadn't even noticed it forming, and it leaves her feeling strangely hollow as it dissipates. For a moment, she's felt so sure, everything has been so clear and she'd been so sure she was right. Now…

"What is going on," she mutters. "What is this?"

"That wasn't very subtle. Getting desperate, are we?" Desmond says to the ball, rolling it under foot. "It's what she does. Makes you believe things that aren't your own thoughts, or even all that logical. I didn't think it was that strong, this being just a crystal ball, but… damn."

Maria shudders and leans back in the bench, further away from the ball.

Desmond looks at her. "I can tell you everything you want to know – things the Templars are keeping from you and things they aren't even aware of. Do you want to know?"

Maria hesitates, looking at him warily. He'd stolen from her, led her by the nose, he'd stolen from her Master and her order and he is obviously looking to stop them or hinder them. He is an enemy, conspiring against them.

And a crystal orb made her into a zealot for a moment, and under the Hospitalier fortress there are hundreds of slaves, waiting for a very forceful and painful indoctrination.

"What about Garnier?' she asks.

"What about him?" Desmond asks blandly.

Maria scowls at him and he just eyes her inquisitively, noncommittally. He knows exactly what she means, but won't say it. "Are you going to do anything about what he's doing or are you going to just sit back and let him continue?" she demands. "You obviously don't agree with his methods."

"I don't, but what do you think I could possibly do about it?" Desmond asks, blinking with what seems like rather exaggerated obliviousness at her, and just then someone starts shouting outside.

"Desmond?! Has anyone seen Doctor Desmond!"

The man himself sighs. "I keep telling them I'm not actually a doctor, but they never listen," he says and bends down to pick up the crystal orb from the floor, his hands covered in the sleeves of his robes as he does, careful to not make skin contact. Maria watches as he puts the thing in his bag again, and doesn't object, just shudders at the echoing feeling of righteousness.

Offering her a sympathetic smile, Desmond hides the orb away and goes to open the door she had closed. "I'm here, Jacques, what is it?"

Maria stands up as well, running a hand over her forehead, wondering if it can be called a treason, to have such thoughts about a member of her order. But Doctor Garnier…

"It's Doctor Garnier," a French man says, gasping for breath. "We just found him collapsed in the hall – he's dead. Doctor Garnier is dead."

Oh, Maria thinks.

"I – what?" Desmond says blankly. "Dead?"

"Dead," the French man says with a nod and offers something entirely inappropriate for the occasion – a grin. "Come, quickly," he then says and rushes off again.

Desmond doesn't follow immediately, glancing back at Maria. "Seems like it's out of our hands now," he says, smiling. "Gotta go. You know where to find me now, so… We can talk later, if you want."

And then he's gone, and the artefact she'd carried with him. Maria stares at where he'd been and then looks to the patient the man had tended to, still out cold with his legs wrapped in splints and bandages. Doctor Garnier had broken the man's legs and then died while Desmond was busy treating the man he'd so maimed.

"Impressive," Maria murmurs, and turns to follow. And here she'd though he was little more than a bumbling fool, a trickster. From thief to doctor to conspirator, a strange sort of sage... and now a murderer. "Very impressive."

Chapter Text

Never has Altaïr been so frustrated by a promise. He'd made it for a reason and he'd kept it too – but in the end, the plan of getting what he was after without killing a single guard prolonged his mission needlessly and turned it into a frustrating waiting game. If only he could just take care of those guards, he could have gotten in and gotten the damn thing hours ago, but no.

He promised Desmond he would not kill anyone and he had not. He hadn't even allowed himself to be seen. And as needlessly long as it had taken, as much of a slog the whole thing had become, he can't help but feel a most visceral sense of pride. The Teutonic Knights had never even seen him. It had taken a series of distractions and finally application of Desmond's smoke bombs to get them away from the treasure, but they had not seen him.

Finally, after almost eight hours of waiting and stalking, he had it – the Piece of Eden they'd been so carefully guarding.

It's a lot heavier than he expected it to be – and far less wieldy than the Apple. The Templars had secured their treasure in a chest reinforced with metal – it's small enough to carry in his arms, but far too big to be shoved into a satchel, sadly, which leaves Altaïr with no choice but to steal a carpet on his way to wrap the thing in so that he can carry it on his shoulder without causing suspicion.

He could, of course, lockpick the chest and get whatever is inside, in likelihood it would be lighter, but… He knows the power of these objects now, he'd experienced it first hand, and he isn't about to risk it again.

With night's work behind him – and before that, a day's travel too – he's tired but satisfied as he makes his way towards Desmond's house, to deliver his prize.

It's as he's approaching the poorer district that he spots Kadar, again. The young man is sitting crouched upon a platform above the streets, peering around himself, looking almost desperate. Altaïr had ignored the glimpses of him before, not wishing to either explain himself or be interrupted in his task – and in his darker robes, scarf and veil, Kadar had not recognized him, which was just as well. The task is done now, however.

He might as well face the consequences.

Altaïr tugs at the veil until it bunches under his chin and then reaches for his belt, drawing a knife. He only holds it long enough to reflect the sun's light into Kadar's eyes with the polished blade before putting it quickly away – waving knives in as well guarded city as Akka isn't the smartest thing to do.

Kadar, to his credit, comes to investigate immediately, despite likely not even recognising him at a distance. It is only once he gets closer that his expression of stressed confusion fades – and turns into incredulity. "Altaïr?" he mouths without sound and then drops down to the street with him, quickly sidling up to him. "Altaïr," he says, this time with voice. "What in heaven's name are you wearing?"

"Something that does not mark me an Assassin," Altaïr says. "You've been searching for me."

"Yes – Malik wants you at the Bureau. In fact he wanted you at the bureau three hours ago," Kadar says and pushes his hood back. There is sweat on his brow and his forehead is creased. "Where have you been? I've been searching everywhere for you!"

"The harbour," Altaïr answers simply and tugs his veil back up again, covering his face once more. "What does Malik want?"

"There was a letter," Kadar says, giving him a strange look. "From Masyaf. Malik did not show it to me – but he did not like the contents. He sent me to find you immediately after."

Altaïr presses his lips together. He can only imagine what it might be and he is not looking forward to dealing with it. Maybe he should've stayed his blade in this too, and remained hidden. "I see," he says. "Tell Malik I will be there as soon as I am done with this."

"This being what?" Kadar asks, giving him a look. "And I am not going back to my brother without you, Altaïr, I already did that twice this morning and he'll have my hide if I do it a third time."

Altaïr doesn't answer, just continues walking.

"Altaïr," Kadar says, imploring. "It must be important."

"This is more so," Altaïr says and glances at him. "A ship from Cyprys arrived."

"I know," Kadar says in frustration. "But the letter – "

"The ship was carrying something."

That makes Kadar quiet down, and glance at the rolled up carpet on Altaïr's shoulder. "Oh," he says and then frowns. "Is it – the thing?"

Altaïr nods grimly. The whole chest glows under the eyes of the Eagle like it was made from light. It can't be anything else. "It is what I was in process of getting this morning," he says. Process, which would have taken a lot less time if he had used his blades to clear the way, but – it's done now. "And whatever Malik has, it can't be more important than this. It can wait."

Kadar blows out a frustrated breath and then nods. "Yes, alright," he says and looks ahead. "Why a carpet?"

"The thing is too big to fit in a sack," Altaïr admits. It is also starting to feel a little heavy on his shoulder, so with a grunt he shifts the rolled up carpet to the other one. "You know nothing of the contents of the letter, then?"

The novice shakes his head. "Judging by the care Jabal paid it, it came from Al Mualim," Kadar says.

Obviously it came from Al Mualim, Altaïr thinks and says nothing more.

Together they make their way to Desmond's house, where the woman Hadia is at work in the alley just outside, with a ceramic vat full of steaming water and various clothing. She is stirring them in the vat with a wooden pole, occasionally pulling clothing away to check how they are coming along and then continuing to spin and stir them.

"The healer is not here right now," she says at the sight of them. "He is at the hospital – he'll be back this evening, probably."

"I know," Altaïr says and tugs the veil down to reveal his face. "Do you remember me?"

She blinks and then smiles. "Well, I am not likely to forget, with that face," she says, much more amiable now, and sets the wooden pole she's using on top of the vat. "That for him, then?" she asks, nodding to the carpet.

"Yes," Altaïr agrees and peers at the vat. He'd spotted her using hot water on clothing before, and had not thought much of it, thinking that she was perhaps dyeing it or some such – but now… "You boil the clothing Desmond leaves for you to wash?"

"On his orders, yes," Hadia agrees. "The hotter the water the better – it kills the impurities, he says. He pays me well for it, so I am not inclined to argue," she shrugs and then nods towards Desmond's door. "It's probably open, it usually is. You can just go right in."

"Thank you, Hadia."

She offers him a smile while Kadar in turn gives him a concerned glance, and ignoring them both Altaïr heads inside. It's dark in Desmond's house – even the embers have died in his fireplace. In that darkness, Altaïr drops his burden to the floor and while Kadar hesitates by the door, Altaïr rolls the carpet open.

He'd felt and heard things moving within the chest, there is more than one object there. The letters had spoken of singular item, so it is likely that the Templars had stored more than the Piece in the chest. Hopefully whatever else was there would be useful as well and he didn't spend the whole way here hauling something worthless.

"Are you going to open it?" Kadar asks hesitantly.

"No," Altaïr says and sits back with a sigh, rubbing at his shoulder. "You felt the Apple's power yourself. Do you want to risk it?"

Kadar hesitates. "Maybe not all of them are bad," he offers. "The cloth I saw healed a man."

Altaïr looks up at him, still lingering by the doorway uncertainly. "Either come inside and close the door or leave – and close the door," he says. "I have had a long night and it will likely be hours before Desmond arrives. I am going to try and catch some sleep."

Kadar hesitates. "You could do that at the Bureau, after reporting to Malik," he says then.

"And leave this without a guard?" Altaïr asks, motioning to the chest. "No. Close the door."

Blowing out a frustrated breath, Kadar steps inside and closes the door. Altaïr nods with satisfaction and then goes to get some of the cushions from by the fire, setting them by the chest, on top of the carpet he'd stolen. While Kadar watches on with helpless uneasiness, Altaïr lies down beside the chest and then, with one hand on top of it just in case, he closes his eyes.

It seems as if no time has passed at all when Altair feels the chest under his hand move and snaps his eyes open again. The light is different now, someone has lit a lamp – and Kadar is on his knees by the chest, trying to take it from under his arm.

"Kadar," Altaïr growls.

"Ah – I only wanted to take a look," Kadar says quickly and leans back, wincing. "It's been hours and – and I thought – just a look, just looking wouldn't hurt. I'm sorry."

Altaïr lifts his head from the cushion, pushing the scarf off his head and tugging the veil off as well. Kadar shuffles back in actual alarm now, his hand going uneasily to his sword and Altaïr glares at him, his hand tightly gripped on the edge of the chest, pulling it closer

"You are tempted," Altaïr says. "The Apple got to you."

Kadar opens his mouth, closes it, and then lets out a noise of aggravation. "I saw a healing device!" he says. "One that could heal my brother's arm, one that could remake it! If it was your brother, you too would want to…" he trails off. "I wasn't going to touch whatever is in the chest," he says wretchedly, looking at the chest. "I just wanted to take a look."

Altaïr eyes him suspiciously for a moment, watching how the younger man's shoulders hunch in shame. "Maybe you should head back to the Bureau, Kadar," Altaïr says quietly. "Tell Malik what happened and that I will be there as soon as Desmond comes back from the Hospital."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean – I didn't mean any harm by it," Kadar says, his voice small.

"It doesn't matter. The Apple has you in its thrall, obviously," Altaïr snaps and when Kadar recoils he sighs. "It is not safe for you. This is what Desmond tried to teach us, don't you see? If you cannot resist it, it is not safe for you."

Kadar makes a face and bows his head, his whole body shaking. For a moment he sits there, obviously struggling against something. Then, suddenly, he swings to his feet and like a new novice scolded for the very first time, he turns and runs towards the door, in obvious shamefaced escape.

It doesn't go far – Kadar stops by the door as if he'd walked into a sudden invisible wall.

"Kadar?" a surprised voice says – Desmond.

"Oh," Kadar says, wincing, and glances back at Altaïr and then out to the alley. "Hello, um. Altaïr is here also," he says dejectedly.

"I thought you said you weren't an Assassin," a new voice, a female voice, says, "What is this?"

"Well, they make for a lovely company," Desmond says and then, as Altaïr sits up, he's there, by the door. "Altaïr," he says, his voice warm and completely missing the look of wretched guilt on Kadar's face and the tension on Altaïr's shoulders. "I am so sorry," Desmond says. "Have you been waiting for long?"

"It was an opportunity to catch my sleep," Altaïr says and frowns. Desmond is not alone, there is a woman with him and it's not Hadia, it's none of the Akka's poor women who usually hang around the man. It's someone very different.

A tall, foreign woman, dark haired and pale skinned, who, judging by the glint of metal at her collar, is wearing chain mail. She's got a proud tilt to her chin and is eying Kadar with a scowl. Spotting Altaïr inside, she gives him a scowl as well, her hand resting on the hilt of a blade at her side – a knife only, but by the looks of its sheath, it's a well used one.

Desmond pats Kadar on the shoulder as he steps past him and inside, giving the novice a curious look as he winces. Then Desmond looks at Altaïr. "I'm sorry, I think I sent you off to do a fool's errand," he says, coming towards him. "I hope you didn't spend all day looking. Is… that a new carpet?" he asks then, confused as he looks down. Then he spots the chest and arches his brows.

"Fool's errand?" Altaïr asks, confused. "I got the item, just like I intended to. It's here," he pats the chest.

"No… I got the piece," Desmond says slowly, glancing at the woman who is stepping in now. Altaïr scowls between them, confused, and Desmond explains, "Maria was carrying it, I got it from her just before heading to the hospital," Desmond says, and pats the bag hanging from his shoulder. "I have it right here."

Altaïr opens his mouth and then snaps it shut and looks down on the chest. It shone with importance under the eyes of the Eagle and the Teutonic knights guarded it as if it was made of gold. It has to be important, but - he had not dared to open it and make sure.

"Hah," the woman says. "It must be the decoy."

"Decoy?" Desmond asks.

"We knew someone was after the orb," she says, resting a hand at her waist. "And that they might come for it, when the ship set anchor. Obviously, a trap was devised." She looks at Altaïr. "Seems like your brother fell for it."

Altaïr grimaces and looks at the chest. The eyes of the Eagle have never betrayed him before – there were many things the Teutonic Knights and other passengers brought from the ship and this one is the one they not only protected the tightest – but it shone the brightest. A decoy? His eyes have never fallen for a decoy.

Angry, Altaïr moves to crouch down to tear into the lock and see what he had wasted his time with, if not the Piece of Eden he had set off to claim. Desmond's hand on his shoulder stalls him. "Altaïr, it's alright. I'm sorry I wasted your time – please, don't worry about it," he says and then looks to the woman. "Altaïr, this is Maria Thorpe," he introduces her in a tone that makes Altaïr pause and look up immediately. "Maria, this is Altaïr Ibn-La'ahad."

Altaïr glares up at her suspiciously, while she scowls down at him. Desmond is looking between them with a strange sense of satisfaction and – ah. They must have known each other in the future Desmond had changed. This woman is important somehow. Somehow this meeting is meaningful.

And she's a Templar. Even if he didn't see the ring on her finger with the Templar cross, he can tell just by the importance Desmond places on her, the weight of his words.

The woman seems to realise the importance of the introduction too, because the look she gives is as thoughtful as it is suspicious, and she takes a moment inspecting his belt, his gear. Though the robe is not Altaïr's own, she does seem to recognize the symbols on his weapons. "Assassin," Maria says coolly, looking between Desmond and Altaïr thoughtfully.

"Templar," Altaïr answers and stands, eying her. She's tall, even for a man she would have been tall. And she wears her armour – chainmail, greaves and bracers – with sense of habit and confidence – an experienced fighter then and not merely a silly woman wearing chainmail for a laugh. A woman at arms – and she was the one carrying the Piece of Eden?

Altaïr casts a look at Desmond. "What are you plotting now?" he asks uneasily. The man had roped three Assassins into his conspiracy – is it Templars' turn now?

Desmond smiles a little smugly. "I am going to tell Maria everything," he says and pats Altaïr's shoulder compassionately. "Should be interesting. Right now I'm hungry, however – do you want to eat?'

"I wouldn't refuse it," Altaïr says slowly.

"No, Altaïr, we should be going," Kadar says from where he is standing beside Maria – who stands over him, quite a bit taller than him. Judging by his posture, it's not helping his pitiful state much. "Malik is expecting us."

"Malik is a patient man," Altaïr says, narrowing his eyes at Maria and Desmond. "He can wait."

Kadar makes an incredulous noise at that. Desmond just grins. "Excellent," he says. "Let's see what we can make to eat. Kadar, could you please start a fire?"

Kadar draws a breath and then slumps his shoulders. "Yes, Desmond," he says and then closes the door with a sigh.

"I didn't come here to socialise," Maria says, sounding annoyed and suspicious. "You promised to tell me what I want to know – do that, don't stall."

"You could use some patience too. Also I have had a busy day today, and I am famished, I am going to eat," Desmond says, ignoring the glare she sends at his back. "Altaïr, could you help me cook?"

Altaïr gives Maria a look. "Gladly," he says and she gives him cold look. Harrumphing at her, Altaïr casts a glance at the chest and then turns to aid Desmond. "Garnier?" he asks quietly.

Desmond glances at him. "He had an unfortunate attack at the hospital," he says and smiles faintly. "It looks like unfortunate case of apoplexy."

Altaïr arches his brow and behind them Maria makes a noise. Desmond could kill a man and make it look like an apoplexy? Impressive. "I hope it does not put your position at the hospital in jeopardy," Altaïr says. "Do you know who will inherit his position as the Grandmaster?"

"No idea yet, though so far no one seems to be keen on kicking me out, anyway," Desmond says, shaking his head and taking his cooking pot from where it's sitting, upside down, on a shelf. "The Hospitalises are in bit of a disarray right now. Turns out their chain of command isn't very secure."

Altaïr frowns and glances at him. Desmond looks back and then reads the confusion from his face, apparently. "Without Garnier, Hospitalier lieutenants and captains don't know what to do," he says. "He didn't leave much in way of orders for them to follow. Right now things are a bit chaotic in the house of the Hospitaliers."

"Hm," Altaïr says, wondering how many within Hospitaliers were Templars – how many fell under Robert de Sablé's rule. Would he try and re-assert his influence over the other knight order by installing another Templar at the helm?

"So are you or are you not an Assassin?" Maria asks, resting a hand on her dagger hilt and looking around in the room, taking in Desmond's strange medicine making devices and all the herbs hanging from the ceiling. "Do you make poisons here?"

"I'm a healer, I make medicine here," Desmond says.

"You poisoned Garnier," she says flatly, which makes Altaïr frown slightly. "There seems to be a thin line of what passes for healing and what for violence in that hospital you work in. Or do you deny that his death was at your hand?"

Desmond says nothing, starting to take down some of his vegetables and various herbs hanging from the ceiling, picking and choosing what to add into the cooking pot. "That pitcher – can you fill the pot, please? Halfway I think will do."

Altaïr nods and picks the aforementioned pitcher up, pouring water into the ceramic pot.

Maria blows out a breath behind them, pacing a few steps back and a few forward, like a caged animal. "It's something special," she mutters. "For me to be waiting for men to cook."

"It's an upside down life in here, yeah," Desmond says and looks back to her. "Or do you want to help?"

"Not particularly," she says, casting him a look.

"I didn't think so. Pull up a cushion, Maria, and sit down. This won't take long, and we can talk once it's simmering."

"Tch," she answers, but goes to pick up a cushion where Altaïr had placed them, by the chest. Altaïr glances back at her, then at the chest, and grimaces.

A damn decoy.

"I'm sorry," Desmond says quietly beside him. "I should have sent a runner to find you and tell you I had the item. I didn't think. Did you go through a lot of trouble for it?"

Altaïr blows out a breath. "I shall consider it good practice," he mutters a little bitterly and looks away from the accursed chest. "It's fine. What was the item, then? I assume nothing very heavy and unwieldy, since it fit into your bag."

Desmond winces guiltily at that, bowing his head a little. "It is a crystal orb – a communication device," he says. "And Juno is all over it," he adds and glances backwards at Maria, who visibly tenses. "It looks like it's how she kick-started everything – the crystal orbs and skulls are how the Isu communicated their thoughts, and Juno used this one to impress her wishes upon those who touched it. And it so happened that it was Templars who did."

Altaïr frowns.

"Touching the thing turns people into zealots, apparently," Desmond explains. "Maria got first hand experience with that."

She scowls at him but says nothing, folding her arms.

Desmond shrugs and glances at Altaïr. "Honestly, I'm glad you didn't find it," he says and looks away. "I'd hate to know what it might have done to you."

Altaïr frowns at him. "I wouldn't have touched it," he says flatly and casts a glance at the accursed chest. "That's why I didn't open and check that thing – you proved to me how dangerous it is."

By the now merrily crackling fire, Kadar positively writhes with guilt at that.

Desmond doesn't seem to notice, giving Altair a wincing, but glad smile. "That's good to know," he says and then lifts the cooking pot up. "Alright, let's put this on the fire and talk about history," he says and turns to take the pot to the fireplace. Altaïr follows, picking up cushions as he goes, and sets them down just as Desmond hangs the cooking pot over the fire, next to another pot that is perpetually in the fireplace. Desmond adjusts the pots in the fire and then sits down on the cushion Altaïr laid down for him.

"Alright," he says and glances at Maria, who is watching them warily from the side. "How much do you know about the world, Maria?"

She narrows her eyes. "How about you tell me what you know first and then we can compare," she says.

"You don't have to be suspicious. I am going to tell you everything," Desmond says. "I just want to know if there's parts I can skip. It's a long story to tell. Do you know about the Ones Who Came Before?"

She narrows her eyes, but though she tries to hide it, it's obvious she doesn't. Altaïr snorts at her – so, the Templars know even less than he feared, then. Maria casts a glare at him and then leans forward a little. "They are the ones who made these objects," she says. "These Pieces."

Desmond looks almost impressed. "Yes, they did," he agrees while Altaïr smothers a scowl. She was obviously guessing, but Desmond doesn't seem to either notice or care, because he nods almost approvingly. "And why did they do that?"

Maria's eyes narrow. "To enslave us," she says, another guess. "To control us."

"Very good, that's exactly right," Desmond smiles and Altaïr bows his chin slightly, angry in a way he doesn't quite understand. Suddenly, he misses his own robes very much – he misses his cowl. "There are a lot of Pieces of Eden, and they all have very similar underlying purposes – to control humans…"

Desmond launches into the story, obviously enjoying Maria's attention as she leans in, hanging by his every word. And she keeps guessing at things – Desmond keeps prodding at her like a proud teacher with his star pupil and it's… impressive, in a way, how well she keeps up and how quickly she understands. But Altaïr doesn't like it. She's a Templar and Desmond is telling her everything. Why is he telling her everything?

Probably for a very good reason. Desmond rarely does anything but for good reasons.

Eventually, Altaïr gets tired of listening to a story he's heard twice now and rises. Desmond halts there, in middle of explaining who Juno is, and looks up. "I'm going to change back into my own clothes," Altair explains.

"Ah," Desmond says, coughing. "Go right ahead."

Altaïr doesn't answer, stalking into the man's bedroom and wishing there was a door to close in between him and the main area of Desmond's little house. The bedroom is unlit, but his eyes have always been quick to adjust to darkness and he has no trouble undressing there, and then grabbing his robes from bed, where they've been laid out and… cleaned. Had Desmond brushed his robes? The hem feels cleaner when he touches it.

Pulling the robe on, Altaïr still listens in on what is going on in the other room.

"And it is she who is behind all of this – she who… did that, in the hospital?" Maria demands.

"All her," Desmond says.

"But you said they're all dead. All of Those That Came Before died."

"They are dead – the Isu as species died tens of thousands of years ago. But Juno lives on in spirit – her body died ages ago, but her mind lives on in a Temple and she can reach out of it through other Temples and Pieces of Eden."

Altaïr stops, lifting his head. He waits – but Desmond doesn't say it, moving onto explaining Juno's plot instead, her staring a war between Templars and Assassins that would last several lifetimes. It doesn't even come up and, now that Altaïr thinks of it… Desmond had not told Malik and Kadar either, had he? Altaïr hadn't even realised it until now, but Desmond had told no one but him.

Only they know that they are descendants of the Isu.

Frowning a little, Altaïr pulls on his cowl and covers his head with it, tugging the beak to its proper place. Better, he thinks with a slight sigh and then pulls his belt back on, adjusting his sword sheath until it sits properly at his side. Then he goes to join them.

Desmond pauses briefly in mid of talking, looking up at him. Maria looks up too and narrows her eyes – Desmond, however, smiles, holding out his hand. Feeling far less restless, Altaïr goes to sit back down beside him, adjusting his bracers as Desmond finishes his tale to Maria.

She remains suspicious and wary, but there is a shrewd thoughtfulness about her face as she considers what she's heard. When she's finally done thinking, she asks only one thing. "Why tell me?"

"You're one of the few Templars left who aren't corrupted by Juno," Desmond says with brutal honesty. "And you're closest to Robert de Sablé."

"You want me to kill him," she says coldly. "You think I will take these words, let them turn me into your loyal assassin, and kill the one man I respect the most?"

"I don't want you to kill Robert," Desmond says.

"Liar."

"Alright – let's rephrase: I don't need you to kill him," Desmond says flatly. "If I wanted Robert de Sablé dead, I would kill him myself."

Altaïr blinks at that while Maria goes silent, eyes narrowed. Desmond arches his brows at her and then nods. "You're a smart woman, Maria – all I want is for you to know the truth," he says. "Nothing else."

"Really," she says flatly. "No ulterior motives at all? I find that hard to believe."

"Well, I didn't say that," Desmond says and grins, turning to check up on the food. "But I think most of those are already accomplished," he says then and glances at her. "I mean… it is not as if you would willingly take a Piece of Eden to Robert now, is it?"

She scowls at that. Desmond arches his brows at that. "Robert de Sablé is already under Juno's thrall, as are most of the Templars," he says and reaches to stir the food with a wooden spatula. "But who knows – humanity freed themselves from the Isu once. And it only takes one to start a rebellion."

Maria draws a breath at that and looks away, thinking hard. "I see," she mutters.

Desmond nods. "I think the food is ready now," he says pleasantly. "Are you staying for dinner, Maria?"

"I think not," she says and stands up. "I have something to do."

Desmond nods while Altaïr eyes her suspiciously. "You know where to find me, if you have anything to ask," Desmond says, standing up to fetch bowls.

She hesitates. "What will you do with the orb?"

"I'm going to destroy it," Desmond says simply. "And scatter the pieces into the ocean."

Maria eyes him searchingly for moment and then nods. "Good," she says and turns to the door. She hesitates for a moment and looks back to Desmond.”I can't thank you for this," Maria says then. "You have destroyed the faith I had in the only thing I have ever loved. But I am grateful. Does that make any sense?"

"It makes perfect sense," Desmond assures her and smiles almost apologetically. "I wish you luck, Maria. I really do."

She nods and then she's through the door and gone. Altaïr scowls after her, and then looks at Desmond. "Who is she?" he asks. "Why is she important?"

Desmond smiles amusedly and shrugs. "Future will tell, I guess," he says and looks to Kadar, who is sitting by the wall, looking forlorn. "Do you want a share of the food, Kadar?"

"Yes," Kadar says, the first thing he's spoken since starting the fire. He'd been listening in on Desmond's stories, though, the same as Altaïr – and they'd probably meant more to him, this time around, and perhaps hit closer to home than he would have liked. "Thank you."

Altaïr accepts the bowl Desmond hands him, still thinking of Maria. Desmond had not fully sided with Assassins, that much is true, and he does not agree with Al Mualim – he's gotten Altaïr, Malik and Kadar to all but betray him. To see that same thing happen from the outside, to a Templar… it's strange. It's humbling, in a way that feels wrong. The way Desmond had looked at her, how he smiles now.

Maria is the same as Altaïr, isn't she? So what are they to Desmond? Tools in his war against Juno, like pieces on Malik's shatranj board?

Bowing his head, Altaïr thinks of the way Desmond reached for him the night before and then very firmly pushes the thought aside.

"Is it possible, to become free from the temptation?" Kadar asks quietly.

"I think so," Desmond says, sitting down again. "You just need to realise that whatever you hope to gain will never be greater than the things you'll lose, when you make deals with the Pieces of Eden. Road to hell is paved with good intentions, and all that."

Kadar bows his head and says nothing, frowning as he eats.

Altaïr looks away and stirs his food in the bowl. Desmond glances at him but doesn't say anything, eating his food in silence for a moment and then looking away from it, and to the carpet Altaïr had brought – to the chest. He chews on his food for a moment and then gets up, looking curious.

"What are you doing?" Altaïr asks, a little uncomfortable, as the man heads for the chest. The embarrassment rises, once more. "She said it's fake, a decoy they used to trick me. There's likely nothing in it."

"It's a locked chest, these things are meant to be opened." Desmond says, smiling. "And you went through all this trouble to bring it to me. Aren't you even a little curious?"

"I'm humiliated," Altaïr mutters and looks way.

Desmond chuckles. "Well, I still appreciate the effort you took," he says. "And I could use a nice reinforced chest with a lock, so it's not like it will go to waste. I can store my more expensive medicine in it"

"Well, you're welcome to it, then," Altaïr scoffs, staring at the fire. "It's all yours; my humble gift to you. I hope it will bring you much joy."

Desmond laughs and there is a sound of lock being triggered. Altaïr closes his eyes, expecting Desmond to find the chest full of rocks or something equally useless and not wanting to know – and then Desmond draws a sharp, shocked breath.

"Altaïr, holy shit," the man breaths. "Oh my fucking God."

Altaïr blinks, taken aback, and looks. Desmond has a hand on his mouth and he looks completely stunned.

The chest is not full of rocks – not by a long shot. The Templars must have thought that the chest would be opened by whoever tried to steal it, and had thus made effort to make it especially enticing – for within it, there are coins and amidst them there is a Piece of Eden.

Altaïr had just given Desmond an Isu Memory Disc imbedded in a small fortune of silver and gold.

Chapter Text

Malik is calm. He knows that missions, even ones you are forced to take up yourself without orders to follow, don't always go as one planned. He knows that Altaïr, despite all appearances, is actually a skilled assassin and capable man and not a complete idiot and even he does not waste people's time unnecessarily. He knows the matter of Desmond and the Pieces of Eden is not a simple one, or one to be brushed aside. He knows there is a very good chance that there is a damn good reason why Altaïr is running around doing the man's bidding. He knows all of these things and he is calm.

He is also completely furious, as he stalks through the streets of Akka and towards the district where Desmond's house lays nestled among the ramshackle, broken huts, hidden from view. His arm hurts, the willow tea has started to upset his stomach and the taste definitely has not gotten any better and he has not seen hide or hair of either Altaïr or Kadar in hours now. There are limits to his patience, and Altaïr is in shaky state as far as loyalties go anyway – for the man to be so fervently ignoring him in favour of another is not a good look, considering that the man was recently demoted.

And if they lost Altaïr, Malik is quite ready to say, good riddance. Skilled and unparalleled or not, the man is a menace.

No, that is unfair of him. Malik blows out a breath, draws another and he is calm. He will see what is going on, he will get all the information and then he would choose the appropriate emotion. He will not be angry for things that might not be. He knows at least that Garnier had died that day – the whole district is abuzz with the news – so other things might have happened as well. He will not jump to conclusions, he is going to be calm and reasonable.

He is also finally at the right alley. It is empty, bar from the drying racks and jars and vats set to the sides. There is light coming from under Desmond's door, so somebody is obviously home. Malik draws another breath – calm – and goes to knock.

It is Kadar who opens it – and he goes completely pale at the sight of him. Malik says nothing, looking past his brother. Desmond is there, pacing up and down the room by the looks of it – and of course, Altaïr there, looking his way – and he has the good sense of look wary at least.

"Brother," Malik says, calm.

"Malik," Kadar winces, and opens the door wider, letting him in.

Altaïr says nothing but Desmond looks up. He man looks, for the first time since Malik has met him, worried, even concerned. That's something at least. "Hello Malik," he says. "Sorry for stealing Altaïr from you for a bit – I promise you, it was for a good cause."

"Oh, of that I have no doubt," Malik says and his voice comes out not very calm. He clears his throat. "I would like to know what that cause is," he says and looks at Altaïr. "For I send Kadar to find you several hours ago."

"He did not find me until well past noon," Altaïr says. "No need to blame him."

How curious, almost charitable of Altaïr. It is also completely beyond the point. "Oh, I don't, not at all," Malik says and Kadar closes the door behind him. "Noon too was several hours ago. Explanation would be appreciated, Altaïr."

Altaïr presses his lips together and looks up at Desmond, who pauses in his pacing. Altaïr turns to Malik. "I retrieved a Piece of Eden from the Templars – specifically, from their Tower," Altaïr says finally. "It was well guarded and I wished not to be seen or leave a sign of my passing behind, so it took some time."

Malik narrows his eyes. Not be seen and leave no trace – the man had done it without killing anyone? "And what constituted this care and time you took?" he asks.

Altaïr looks down, to a chest at Desmond's feet – the man is pacing around it. The chest is open – and it is full of coin and on top of the coin there is a strange plate. Malik narrows his eyes. In his first report from Akka, Altaïr had mentioned Desmond being in possession of a Piece of Eden, a circular flat piece of metal, which he had shown to Altaïr – judging by the looks Desmond and Altaïr both give it, this one is not the same one. "You stole this, Altaïr?" Malik asks.

The man nods and folds his arms.

"What is it?" Malik asks, narrowing his eyes. Altaïr had for a while suspected that similar thing might have addled his mind, for there to be another one now… "What does it do?"

"It's a memory storage device," Desmond says. "The Isu stored their knowledge and memories in Discs like these – and once stored, other people can view them too. I don't think the Templars know what it is, though, maybe they couldn't activate it – they probably used it as a decoy because it looks like Piece of Eden, though it isn't, really."

"It isn't?" Malik asks and Altaïr looks up sharply.

"The things we call Pieces of Eden are designed for specific purpose – subjugation of humanity. The memory discs are just general Isu technology, they don't have other powers but to store memories," Desmond says, shaking his head. "Technically, the other thing I retrieved isn't a Piece of Eden either, it's just a communication device – it's probably older technology, compared to the Apple and the like."

Malik looks at him and then at the disc and scowls. "The other thing?" he asks with forced patience. Just how much had happened since the last he'd seen this man?

"I got the item the Templars used to find the Apple from a Templar carrying it," Desmond says and waves a dismissive hand. "I'm not going to show it to you because Juno is using it, it's a bit more dangerous. Never mind that," he says, shaking his head, and casts a look at the chest. "I should view that," he says, rubbing a hand over his neck.

"Why don't you?" Kadar asks quietly.

"For one, it sends you into a sort of sleep for a while," Desmond says, uncomfortable. "And those things aren't used for everyday thing, but world changing stuff. The last time I viewed a disc like that, it changed everything and I kind of like how things are going right now."

Malik narrows his eyes while Altaïr shifts where he is sitting. Judging by the looks of it, it isn't the disc alone that has Desmond uneasy – Altaïr has apparently handed to him a considerable sum of gold, the sort of gold used to fund armies and bribe their way into cities. Desmond, for all of his knowledge and wisdom, lives very humbly – adding such a sum to such a simple life might very well upturn the man's life.

Malik considers the situation and then – he is calm. "It is better to know than to entertain ignorance," he says gruffly and goes to sit with Altaïr. "Whatever is on the device, if it has any chance of aiding you, you have the obligation to learn it," he says. As a leader, of sorts, Desmond would be a fool to favour ignorance.

The man blows out a breath and casts him a look. "I guess you don't follow Al Mualim's edict," he comments. Malik frowns and the man clarifies. "For in wisdom is much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow."

"Tch," Malik answers. "Nonsense. Ignorance is privilege of those who have to make no decisions. And you've made quite a few, haven't you, Desmond?"

The man inclines his head in rueful agreement. Still he hesitates, considering the disc sitting in bed of riches.

"If it is the security you worry about, we will remain here and watch over," Malik says, which makes both Kadar and Altaïr look over to him in surprise. "We will ensure that nothing will occur." Desmond looks up as well. "You trust Altaïr at least, I assume," Malik says, a little irritated.

Desmond arches his brows a little. "You sound impatient, Malik. Are you in a hurry?" he asks.

"Yes, I actually am," Malik says, casting a glare at Altaïr. Altaïr narrows his eyes a little. "And it doesn't seem like Altaïr is about to leave, so I am forced to see this through, so please, make up your mind sometime before the next day, if you will."

Desmond grins at him and crouches by the chest, considering it. "I don't know how long this might take," he says then apologetically and looks at Altaïr. "It might be minutes, it might be hours. If it looks like it's going to be days, just take the Disc from my hands and slap me awake, can you do that for me?"

"I'm sure it will be no trouble," Malik says wryly.

Altaïr sends him a glare. "I'll watch over you," he says to Desmond and nods. "I'll wake you if it looks like it will take too long."

Desmond smiles a little and then picks up the Disc, turning it in his hand. A gleam of golden light runs through the patterns on its surface, the angular ring of symbols running around it. "Alright. Here goes nothing," he mutters, settling down to sit with his legs crossed and his back straight and his chin level with the floor. He closes his eyes and stops moving. In his hands, the Disc begins to glow.

Altaïr, Kadar and Malik stare at him in silence for a few minutes, Malik half expecting him to topple over, but he doesn't move. After a while Malik isn't sure Desmond is even breathing anymore – but slowly his chest expands and contracts with even slower breaths.

"Is he… asleep?" Kadar asks warily, coming to sit with them.

"Desmond showed me what is on one of those Discs," Altaïr says quietly. "It is as if it takes your mind and places it… elsewhere, in another time. He isn't in his body anymore – he is in the Disc, for as long as the memories take."

For all the danger these Pieces seem to be mired in, Desmond just let Altaïr use one. Of course he did. Why should Malik even be surprised at this point? "Is he aware, can he hear us?" he asks tightly.

"I could not," Altaïr admits. "When I woke from the visions, several hours had passed and I have no memory of them at all."

Malik nods slowly. "Good. Al Mualim has ordered us to kill him."

Altaïr turns his eyes to him with a nearly audible snap and Kadar draws a breath. "You told Al Mualim?!" Altaïr demands, shifting where his sits, rising to his knees. "Malik, you told him?!"

Malik arches his brows at him, unimpressed. "When you sent your first report, yes, I reported back to Al Mualim as ordered," he says wryly. "You told me a man named Desmond had stolen the treasure, Altaïr – why wouldn't I report it? I knew nothing of this back then, you told me very little. It has been many days now and Al Mualim's patience with our continued lack of process grows thin."

"And he ordered us to kill Desmond?" Kadar asks faintly.

Malik nods. "If we cannot extract more information from the man, and if we cannot capture him and take him to Masyaf… we are to kill him so that our enemies cannot learn more, either," he says.

Altaïr rises to his feet. "Have you reported to Al Mualim since I arrived at Jerusalem?" he demands to know.

Malik rubs at his aching shoulder and shakes his head. "Things got complicated," he says with a harrumph. "I wished to see the full picture before sketching it out to the Old Man. But no doubt the word of our departure from Jerusalem has reached him, and he has grown wary. Perhaps he even fears what we might learn in process of this investigation," he adds and casts a look at Desmond. "And not without cause."

Altaïr, like Desmond before, begins to pace, scowling as he stalks around the small room.

"Surely we can't kill him," Kadar whispers. "He's…" he trails off, looking at Desmond. "He's done nothing wrong."

"He has killed a man," Malik points out, watching Altair. "The word has gone all around the city now – Garnier is dead it was at Desmond's hand he died, did he not? The man is a murderer now, no?"

Altaïr snarls and says nothing.

Malik gives him a look and simply waits. Altaïr glares at him and then continues to pace. Malik scoffs and looks down at Desmond, lost to whatever the thing in his hands is doing, whatever it is giving him. More knowledge, more mysteries, more secrets. More ancient technology and techniques.

Killing him now would be easy. Even Malik could do it, and he is far from his best right now. A knife to the neck and the man would never even know it, he would be dead before he could draw another breath. A single stroke and perhaps even Altaïr might get back to Al Mualim's good graces. All this treachery they have indulged would be undone and all would be well again.

Isn't that a lovely thought?

"Malik," Altaïr says. "You cannot seriously be considering it."

Malik scoffs at him. "Of course not. But consider the consequences of failure here. An assassination order has been given, failure to even attempt to comply is treachery, is it not?" he says. "We fail this and we become traitors to our Brotherhood."

Kadar draws a sharp breath and Altaïr looks away, baring his teeth. "Then traitors we will be," Altaïr says determinedly and while Kadar lets out an alarmed noise, Malik's brother doesn't actually put his objections into words. Both of them look at him.

Malik looks from one to the other and sighs, rubbing his lone hand over his face. Someone spare him. "And that is the only alternative?" he asks, and forget being angry – he's weary of the man. "We either comply and kill this man, or we don't and become traitors? Really, Altaïr."

Altaïr casts a look at him and then frowns. Malik looks up through his fingers and watches with an annoyed sort of satisfaction as the man begins to think, finally. Perhaps he will do it in other than absolutes too, as single monumental choices. Stranger things have happened.

Malik smothers a snort, watching the man turn his eyes away as he thinks, hiding his expression in his hood. Really for all of his skill, Altaïr is still so inexperienced, isn't he? Al Mualim had sheltered him from the tough choices and so he settles forever in absolutes. Kill or spare, follow or betray. As if the world can be so simple.

"We know Desmond killed Garnier," Altaïr says finally and turns to him. "Only we know. As far as anyone else is concerned, Garnier de Naplouse had an apoplexy and died perfectly naturally of a sudden attack."

Malik arches his brows and says nothing.

"As far as anyone knows…" Altaïr says and narrows his eyes. "Al Mualim has just ordered the death of an innocent man."

"And at Al Mualim's word he becomes guilty of any number of crimes," Malik says wryly. "It is hardly beyond the Old Man's abilities to lie about such things."

"Ah, but Desmond is proven a good man," Altaïr says, turning to him. "The whole city knows of him and he has reputation in Jerusalem as well. He's a healer, a good and charitable man and loved by many. Al Mualim can lie, but the evidence contradicts him."

Very good, finally. "When has Al Mualim ever required evidence?" Malik asks regardless, giving him a look. Go on, he urges silently, keep going.

Altaïr narrows his eyes and looks away. "You sound as if you think we have no choice," he mutters.

"Then your study of people's behaviour and understanding over the tone of speaker's voices is lacking and you need further training," Malik says flatly. "I am testing you, Altaïr. Al Mualim might have made me your mentor to humiliate you, but obviously you need one at this point. So try and learn what I am trying to teach you."

Altaïr looks almost taken aback for a moment. He scowls. "Which is?"

"Think."

Altaïr looks affronted at first and then thoughtful, realising it's not an order but an answer. Malik releases a breath and leans back and turns to look at Kadar – his other student. Malik is not much older than either of them, Kadar is only five years younger than him, but Malik knows he has spoiled his brother and kept him from the trouble of choice and decision. Altaïr is similarly sheltered by Al Mualim's favouritism, and Al Mualim had made his worldview stark and simple.

It would be easy to lay out the conclusion before the pair of them and have them agree – but this is not a choice they can make on his word. They are in all likelihood going to step beyond mere consideration of treachery here. Malik might know what he would do, here, but that is his choice and he'd rather not make it alone and for all of them all at once.

He has no intention of leading this rebellion.

"What say you, Kadar?" Malik says, trying for patience which the hours of waiting and worrying wore so thin. "What do you think we ought to do?"

Kadar hesitates, looking between him and Altaïr. "I…" he trails away and hesitates.

"Yes?" Malik prods.

"Al Mualim should need proof," Kadar says and looks away. "That is how Desmond choose to kill Garnier, isn't it? He accumulated proof, first, and did the act himself, even though Altaïr offered to do it without asking for explanation or evidence of Garnier's guilt. I think… that is how it should be."

Malik nods but carefully does not react beyond that and looks at Altaïr instead, gauging his reaction. The man looks thoughtful and agitated, his hands squeezed into fists. "Tell me, Malik," Altaïr says quietly. "How many in our order hate Al Mualim?"

"Hate is a strong word, Altaïr," Malik says, noncommittal.

"How many dislike him, question his orders, doubt them?" Altaïr asks, looking at him. "All my life I have been ridiculed for his favouritism, but it wasn't only I who was mocked for it – few are the words of respect Al Mualim gets. How many in our Brotherhood, Malik?"

Most of them, easily. "Respect or lack of it does not mean his orders are not followed," Malik says.

"We are not following them," Altaïr says, pointing a finger at him. "Is it respect that keeps our brothers loyal and obedient – or is it fear? Or perhaps, lack of choice or better option? Dissent is hardly rewarded in the Brotherhood. Perhaps no one dares to act in opposition because they think they are alone."

No, they didn't dare because their best Assassin was forever at Al Mualim's beck and call and should a traitor pop up, who would be sent to hunt them down but Eagle of Masyaf, Al Mualim's loyal, lethal pet? And with Altaïr acting so arrogant, so aloof, no one had doubted his capacity to slay a brother at their Master's orders. There are other reasons, of course, there are many reasons and Al Mualim has maintained a careful balance that keeps people on his side, but… Altaïr is one of the more pressing reasons.

Malik considers the man himself and marvels how the tables have turned. Altaïr had so long ignored the whispers around him, perhaps thinking they were about him – not realising how many lowered their voices not in mockery or derision… but in fear of him.

"So what do you suggest we do?" Malik asks. Altaïr is thinking now, but his obvious lack of experience with people hinders him still – Malik must be patient and not expect things obvious to others to be so for the man. Altaïr, it's clear now, is actually a rather awkward man, all told.

Altaïr considers him and then looks away, continuing his pacing. "Assassins gossip with the best of them," he says. "If we give them cause, the word will spread. Al Mualim ordering the death of an innocent would turn heads."

If it was Altaïr starting the rumour, it would twist heads completely backwards, really. "And then what?" Malik asks, not giving the thought away. "We spread the news that Al Mualim is now betraying our tenets in turn, perhaps turn some brothers within the order to our thinking and out cause – and then what?" It's obvious, of course… but it has to be said.

Altaïr looks at him and perhaps he's not so ignorant after all, for the look he gives Malik is grim with dark, unpleasant purpose.

"You mean to depose Al Mualim?" Kadar whispers in alarm.

"The Old Man sided with Templars, planned to manipulate the war, conspired with slavers and the likes of Garnier," Altaïr says, looking down, at Desmond. "And he is likely in some way in Juno's thrall. Either way, he cannot be allowed to continue as the head of the Brotherhood, not when he is steering us in this direction."

Malik hums, noncommittal. Altaïr gives him a look, searching but not hesitant, not unsure. He's confident in his answer but he's still checking on Malik and not instantly assuming he's right.

The man is learning.

"Which brings us to the question, who will replace Al Mualim?" Malik says.

"Isn't it a little early thinking that?" Kadar asks a little plaintively, looking horrified.

"It is the best time to think it. If Al Mualim is deposed, he has to be replaced," Malik says sharply. "Our order needs a clear leader or it will fall apart like so many before it, falling victim to the arrogance of men trying grab for power with no plan on what to do with it once they have it. Successor has to be chosen now and made clear – and he needs to know what he is doing. Altaïr, don't even think it."

Altaïr is looking at Desmond, sitting still with the Disc in hand.

"I was not," Altaïr says. "I'm not a fool, Malik, Desmond is not of our order, he is not known to our brothers. He would not be trusted."

But Altaïr obviously thinks the man would make a good mentor. Malik isn't so sure. As lovely as it would be to follow a leader and always be able to trust in his good intentions, their brotherhood is not something a good man can lead. They are, after all, an order of killers – under a man like Desmond, they would become something completely different. And that, Malik thinks, would be a complete waste of their abilities.

"It should be you."

Kadar is the one who says it but Altaïr nods, and both of them look at him. Malik glares at them and Altaïr offers him a wry look in turn. "It should be you, Malik," Altaïr says. "You are obviously capable."

Malik breathes in and out. Oh, give him strength. "You think a crippled man would be respected in order such as ours?" he asks sarcastically and waves his useless stump of an arm pointedly, carefully smothering the wince of pain. "You think anyone would follow my orders?"

"I would," Altaïr says and he doesn't sound so much sincere as he sounds affronted.

Malik gives in an incredulous look. "You almost never do as I say!" he snaps and motions around them. "Just look at where we are, what you are doing!"

"It was for a reason," Altaïr says.

"And can you say that there won't be reasons in future?" Malik demands and throws his single hand up on air. "You constantly make your own decisions, asking forgiveness far too late after forgoing permission! Could you now obey me, after so many times choosing to trust your own judgement instead of waiting for mine?"

Altaïr hesitates and Malik scoffs. The idea is ludicrous. And unlike Altaïr and Kadar, he has no illusions about himself. He is neither charismatic not a commanding personality; even when people agree that he might be right, they think he's a nag and a nuisance. He makes people feel their faults and points out their mistakes, and no one likes it. It's what he's good at and he has no intention of changing now.

Under him, the Assassin Brotherhood would flourish – and become completely mired in resentment.

"No," Malik says. "Not I. I have neither the influence nor the reputation required. It would never work and no one would respect my authority, not even with the previous Master's praised Eagle are my side. There would be those who would see others to be more fitting for the position, and the Brotherhood would tear itself apart eventually. It has to be someone who will leave no doubt in the hearts of our brothers."

"And who precisely is that?" Altaïr asks. Malik looks at him flatly and Altaïr, for the first time in Malik's hearing, laughs. It's not a pleasant sound. "Malik, you yourself pointed out how much our brothers hate me," he says.

"Hate and respect aren't mutually exclusive, and Altaïr? You have changed," Malik says slowly. "You are the most skilled among our Brotherhood. In that your pride was not entirely misplaced – and now you aren't the same arrogant man you were mere weeks ago." And most of the resentment pointed at Altaïr boiled down to jealousy, fear and disappointment. All things which might change once Altaïr stops caring only about himself – which he has – and starts caring for his brothers – yet to happen, but he might be getting there now.

Kadar clears this throat and looks between them while Altaïr looks away, uncertain. "What do we do about the assassination order?" Kadar asks and looks at Desmond, still frozen, holding the Disc – vulnerable. "We must do something, even if we cannot carry it out – else Al Mualim might give it to someone else, who will follow through."

"Well, Altaïr?" Malik asks, arching his brows. "What say you?"

Altaïr says nothing for a moment. Then he looks at Malik. "What do you suggest?" he asks. Malik arches his brows and Altaïr makes an impatient noise. "I cannot ask for you advice now, my mentor? I know you have ideas, Malik, you always do. Share them."

Yes, Malik thinks with satisfaction. Altaïr is learning indeed.

Chapter Text

When Desmond comes to, only Altaïr's still there, sitting by the fireplace silently, his head slightly bowed. There's no sign of Malik and Kadar, and though there's no windows Desmond can tell by how much cooler the air is that it's gotten late, very late. Probably past midnight – they must've left for the Bureau, leaving Altaïr to guard him.

Desmond looks down to the Disc in his hand, pretty innocent looking all things considered. It's still warm with his own touch, humming with internal power. It's one of the Six Masyaf keys, the first one Altaïr had found and the last one Ezio had viewed, the one Altaïr had died holding.

There were six Isu Discs in total, six Discs which Altaïr had sought out and, one by one at the Apple's guidance, erased and overwritten. How damn clever of her, using Altaïr to prevent Desmond from ever getting his hands on those messages. In the grand scheme of things, Altaïr's story as it was written on the Discs had nothing to do with saving the world. Of course not.

"You're back," Altaïr says.

"Yeah," Desmond says, lifting his head and putting the disc down to the chest where it had been sitting before, amidst the gold. "Kadar and Malik?" he asks.

"They have left for Jerusalem."

Desmond turns to look at the other man. "Oh?" He asks with surprise. "Did something happen?"

Altaïr looks at him from under the beak of his hood. "Al Mualim had ordered your death," he says and Desmond blinks, slow, his mind still in the Disc and slow on the uptake. Altaïr continues before he can catch up, "We are moving to discredit his authority."

"That's… good?" Desmond offers. "I mean, I don't want to die, obviously, so I'm grateful your didn't kill me in my sleep or something –"

"You think I would?" Altaïr asks.

Desmond laughs, shaking his head. "No, I don't. Sorry. Of course I don't think you would," he says and stands up. "So you're going to start discrediting Al Mualim. I'm guessing the end goal is removing him as the head of Assassins' Brotherhood?"

Altaïr nods slowly, watching him. "You knew, didn't you?" he asks then, his voice quiet and low. "You planned it would come to that."

"I… hoped," Desmond admits slowly and stretches, sighing as his back cracks a little. Sitting still for hours on end is not good for your anything – even with the way Isu tech had fucked up his physiology to the point where he could basically hibernate for days on end without being hungry or weak. He really should go for a walk, shouldn't he? "I didn't even get to take a look at Malik's arm," he murmurs. "Was it getting better at all, do you know?"

"It seemed to pain him less and he wasn't so weak," Altaïr says, still watching him. "I don't think he would have risked travel if the infection had not subsided."

"That's good to know," Desmond says and looks down at him. "What?' he asks. "What's the look for?"

"You hoped," Altaïr says, "that we would turn against our Master. It is an outcome you planned for."

Desmond says nothing for a moment, trying to tell if he's insulted the man. Altaïr doesn't seem angry, or offended – mostly he sounds just thoughtful.

"I'm sorry," Desmond offers. "But yeah, I did. Under Al Mualim the Brotherhood is always going to be under the risk of manipulation by Juno, and his motivations are a bit suspect just on a personal level. I would rather see the order under someone else's control, someone little less likely to fall under her thrall."

"Is that why you told me everything, was it always with this goal in mind?" Altaïr asks quietly.

Desmond hesitates and then goes to sit beside him. His knees pop as he sits down and he rubs at them awkwardly. "It was a factor," he says honestly. The sooner the Assassins brotherhood ended up with another Mentor the better, and Altaïr was one of the better ones they had. "I won't deny that I hoped for certain… developments."

"Hm. And now you're favouring Maria Thorpe for similar reason," Altaïr says. "You have sowed the seeds of dissent among the Assassins and now you are aiming to do the same among Templars, using her as you used me."

"… used is a strong word," Desmond says uncomfortably. "I just wanted you to know the truth. Besides, you were demanding answers so I gave them to you. Sure, the outcome is kind of what I was after, but… it wasn't the only reason."

Altaïr looks away.

"You guys must've talked some pretty heavy stuff while I was out," Desmond says and gives him a look. "Um. I'm sorry if I made you feel like I used you, I didn't mean to?" he offers, not sure what else to say, really. It's not like he can deny it.

Altaïr snorts at that and bows his head, hiding his face under the hood. "I wouldn't have minded," he says in the weirdest tone. "But I can't afford being your tool anymore."

"You're… not my tool?" Desmond says, a little confused.

"Am I not?" Altaïr shifts where he's sitting and turns his head slightly to his direction. "If Al Mualim is to be deposed, someone has to take his place," he says.

Oh, that explains it. "And as the Mentor, you can't afford conflicting loyalties," Desmond says and nods, relaxing a little. "I get it."

Altaïr's hood shifts. "You knew?"

Desmond shrugs. "In the future I changed, the one where you killed Al Mualim, you became the Mentor after him," he explains. "So I knew it was very much possible."

Altaïr's eye glints in the firelight under the edge of his hood and then he looks away and to the fire again, silent for a moment. "All has gone according to your plans, then," he says.

Desmond sighs, leaning his chin to his knuckles. He isn't sure what to say. Altaïr isn't wrong, really. It's a bit of a stretch to say that Desmond had a plan, but if things now pan out how he hopes, then yes… it's gone pretty well, hasn't it? Loads better than he dared to hope at the start, certainly. Things are well on their way now.

Altaïr is silently waiting, so Desmond clears his throat. "When I came back there, the only plan I had was to get the Apple before anyone else could and remove it from the picture," he admits quietly. "The rest has been an unexpected but pleasant surprise, really. The hospital stuff, that was completely unplanned."

Altaïr says nothing, as Desmond reaches to check if there is water in the still. The air between them is tense in a way he doesn't like, it has a feel to it he doesn't know how to alleviate… but he can understand if Altaïr resents him. It's never nice to feel as though you've been used. And it was always bound to come to this, wasn't it?

"What are you going to do now?" Desmond asks, trying to hold off the inevitable.

"I will begin discrediting Al Mualim here," Altaïr says. "Namely his order to kill you. He demoted me for killing an innocent man and has now ordered me to seemingly repeat the act, it should raise some eyebrows among my brothers. I will instigate an investigation, send local novices to watch and follow you… and then I will question the necessity of your death."

Desmond nods slowly. "I suppose I should be on my best behaviour," he guesses.

"It wouldn't hurt, no," Altaïr says and falls quiet again, the thread of conversation apparently used up. Again, the silence is awkward.

Desmond waits until he just can't anymore. "If you're mad at me, I'd prefer if you just said it," he says a little plaintively. Altaïr just looks at him. "You're obviously unhappy with me," Desmond says, sighing. "Because I manipulated you. You can just say it." Get it out in the open and maybe even out of the way.

"No, I understand why you did it and I know your motivations behind it, I care not," Altaïr says and considers him with narrowed eyes. "Malik pointed out certain truths of what might follow and what my connection with you might mean in light of them."

"Right," Desmond says with a sinking feeling in the pit of his belly and looks down. So this really is it, huh? This is as much as he gets.

"We are related, aren't we?" Altaïr says. "How closely?"

Desmond clears his throat against the sudden tightness there and then shrugs. "You're one of my probably hundreds of thousands of ancestors," he says.

Altaïr doesn't say anything for a moment. "You are my descendant," he says with a strange voice.

"The connection is pretty much paper thin, doesn't mean much, really. There's so many generations in between," Desmond says and sighs. "Chances are, I will never be born again in this timeline anyway, at least not the same way. I've changed too many things already. It's several centuries until I'm supposed to be born – anything can happen."

Hell, if he manages to get vaccinations going in this time, the conquest of the New World might go very differently. Chances are, United States might not even become a thing at all. Wouldn't that be wild.

Altaïr nods slowly. "We look so alike people mistake us for brothers," he says. "But you don't consider it significant, do you?"

Desmond sighs, scratching at his scar. "It's… significant in it's own way. I figure it's the Isu inheritance," he says. "Their bloodlines come across pretty strong. I have another ancestor who looks a lot like us, but I know he's not descended from you. I think it's just something that happens, that once upon a time there was an Isu who looked like us who had kids with a human and sometimes that inheritance pushes to the surface and you get people like us – we look the same and we have the Eagle Vision."

And if he starts thinking that all his ancestors from Altaïr's time are close enough related to count, he'd have to start calling thousands of people his grandmothers and grandfathers – including Maria, Malik and probably half of everyone in Masyaf. If he goes down that road, he'll never get rest from it. Altaïr's case hits a bit closer to home because he knows the man and, yeah, they look the same – but Desmond had never considered him family. Just a guy whose life he got to live for a while.

Desmond shakes his head and stands up. "Anyway, no need to start worrying about family obligations," he says with a faint smile and turns, intending to go get some tea, get a pot going – just do something other than sit there in awkward silence. Altaïr's hand on his wrist stops him. "Um," Desmond says and then stops, sitting back down.

Altaïr pushes his hood back, glaring at him. "What am I to you?" he asks.

Desmond opens his mouth to answer and then closes it slowly, hesitant. He thought – he's not sure what he thought. He's not sure what Altaïr is after. Despite the fact that they have the same face, Altaïr can be impossible to read. The man wants to hear something but Desmond doesn't know what. And if he says the wrong thing…

"What do you want me to say?" he asks uncertainly.

"The truth."

Unhelpful in the extreme. Desmond looks down to his hand, Altaïr's four fingered left hand still gripping around it, making the bracer's plates grind underneath his sleeve. It doesn't hurt but it is very firm. "You're Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad," Desmond says, a little helpless.

"And?" Altaïr demands.

"And I don't know what you want me to say," Desmond says, shaking his head. "You're Altaïr. You're… you're Altaïr."

It's obviously not enough. Altaïr releases his wrist, almost throwing it away. Desmond frowns confusedly and then looks up as Altaïr stands up, tucking his hood back up. "I wouldn't have minded being your tool," the man says, his eyes hidden once more. "You would have been a gentle master. But I can't be a tool if I am to be the Mentor of my Brotherhood, and so my utility to you is expended."

"Your utility?" Desmond asks and stands up quickly. "Altaïr, I don't – that's not what –" he has no idea how to explain it, especially in light of what they'd just been talking about. "I don't care about utility."

"No?" Altaïr asks. "You can't even put into words what I am to you. If I no longer have purpose in your war against Juno, then what am I?"

"You're…" Desmond starts and makes a face and looks around. His house is still small and humble, but it's been furnished better. His work desk is full of crap, there's herbs and bags and vegetables and fruits hanging from the ceiling – the floor is covered in carpets and kind of nice to walk around now. It's nice, almost homey now. It's definitely nicer to spend time there now.

If Altaïr leaves now, thought, it will be a miserable lonely hole in the wall again, and Desmond isn't sure he can stomach that again. "I don't – I don't know how to put it into words. I don't want you around just because I think you'll be of use to me," he says awkwardly. "I just… want you around."

Altaïr scowls at that, looking away with a near violent turn of his head. For a moment it looks like he's going to stalk out of the door, Desmond can almost see it happening. But he's hesitating and he looks kind of confused, if side of a hood can have an expression – and with Assassins, it can.

"You know," Desmond says warily. "Human relationships usually aren't about how much use you can be to someone. Your value to people," he stops and rethinks – it is Altaïr he is speaking of, and considering the man's history… "Your value to me isn't hinged on how much use I can get out of you. I like your company, Altaïr. Sometimes people just like each other's company, you know."

Altaïr throws him a mildly perturbed look and Desmond tilts his head a little. The man looks so confused – and a little bit flushed, actually. Desmond waits for him to say something but the man only sort of scowls at him, expectant and wary.

It would probably be really rude to ask if the man has never had friends, huh? Hell… Desmond isn't sure he's ever had any with no strings attached. Shaun and Rebecca came the closest, and there were definitely strings attached there.

Fuck it. "Just having you around is nice, okay?" Desmond says and shrugs. "Yeah, I'm glad things turned out pretty good, as far as the whole…" he makes a all-expanding motion around them, towards the Disc, at the world at large, "thing goes. But if it had came down to it, I could've done something else about Assassins – or nothing at all. Without the Apple in play, things don't necessarily even have to change there," he shrugs. "You wanna know the real reason I told you?"

"Yes," Altaïr says, low.

"I'm just really fucking lonely. Having you around makes me less so."

Altaïr looks away at that, hiding his eyes. Desmond waits for his verdict, but nothing comes.

Silent, Altaïr stalks out of the door.

Eventually, Desmond goes to work. The hospital is in disarray, patients and guards standing around looking confused while the knights patrol the area, nervously tense and anxious. Garnier, Desmond knows, will be at the chapel, where his body had been taken after Desmond and all the doctors of the hospital had announced that the man had died of apoplexy.

No one had paid any mind to the small puncture mark on the man's arm, where Desmond had injected air into his veins.

"Good morning, Jacques. Any word?" Desmond asks when he spots Jacques, who is hanging around the entrance hall to the hospital, trying to keep some sort of order among the confused, quiet chaos.

"Nothing yet," Jacques says, hushed. "They're calling in all the lieutenants and captains, to name a temporary successor, I think – and word has been sent to the Vatican, of course, but who knows when we will get a reply. But so far… no one is in charge."

"And what are we supposed to do in the meantime?" Desmond asks, looking around, wondering. Amidst the idle guards there's a lot of patients, all of them just milling about with nothing to do and nowhere to go. And these are just the guards and patients who are up and about – and free. Beneath their feet, in the dungeons… there are hundreds more.

Jacques shakes his head, looking nervous. "No one dares to give orders, concerning the…" he clears his throat and shakes his head again. "We've been doing as we have before, so far. Treating the ill as well as we can. What else can we do?" he asks carefully, looking at Desmond.

Desmond looks at him and then around the entrance hall. The place is still so goddamn filthy. And he's feeling just… helplessly angry, and filled with furious sort of energy. It has nothing to do with the hospital, what he's feeling, but it's a damn good target for it.

"I'll tell you what we're going to do. We're going to do everything we couldn't, before," he says. It's partially the helpless anger and partially the long hours of working in this damn squalor that gives him the balls to step up to the guards and catch their attention.

They look at him, confused and expectant.

"If you're not on guard or on duty," Desmond says. "Go find a bucket, a brush and a bar of soap."

"Excuse me?" one of the guards asks, blinking.

"You heard me," Desmond says and looks around. "Everyone not on duty, go find a bucket, a brush, and a bar of soap!" he calls over the hall. "We're going to clean this place up."

And then, ignoring the looks he is being given, he goes to put word into action himself, grabbing one of the buckets he has rather ineffectually been bringing in as he tried to clean before. Determined, he goes to fill it from the well sitting right in middle of the entrance hall – and how damn ironic is that, that in a hospital with a well right in middle of its entrance hall, no one fucking cleans.

Desmond fills the bucket, and then, with a grim look, gets to work.

It takes a moment before Jacques nervously follows in suit, grabbing a bucket by the wall and going to fill it. It's a moment longer before others follow – it's one of the victims of Garnier's treatments who goes next, a guard who looks half mad with anxiety. After that, a hesitant queue of confused guards forms and eventually someone says, awkwardly, "I – I'm going to go find some buckets," and, "I'll go see about brushes," and, "D-does anyone know where we can find more soap?"

It starts slow, but now that it's started, Desmond doesn't let it halt. There's patients to be taken care of, and he and Jacques should probably doing rounds – but for God's sake, after working in this place for so long, it's cathartic to pour soapy water all over all the goddamn gunk on the floors, and start scrubbing away at it. He's going to need a full body bath after this, but – worth it.

There's some complaints from those who are following his orders and a lot of confusion, but the cleaning spreads like a wave over the hospital. It's something to do, and from what it looks like, it's the first proper set of orders these people have been given since Garnier's death. And for a military order, it's probably better to be doing something menial and beneath their notice than it is to be standing around idle. Those who don't complain about the work actually look a little glad of it.

They start with the entrance hall and then work their way through the gunk and grime covered halls and corridors, spreading soapy water into puddles of filth and scrubbing their way into all the crooks and crannies of the hospital.

"Carry those tables and chairs out and wash them there, thoroughly," Desmond orders, "Someone, bundle up those beddings and take them to be washed – make sure they're washed with boiling water," and "For God's sake, open those windows. All of them!"

It's filthy work, but bit by bit things start brightening up – they actually discover rather light coloured grey stone under the black, brackish muck. It's many hours of hard, wet work to get it all clean, and Desmond leaves not a single stone unturned. Garnier isn't there to sneer at him and the hospital staff is made of terrified, obedient people who don't dare to stand up to him, and he takes furiously advantage of it. Everything soon starts smelling strongly of soap. At some point, even some of the patients start cleaning, grabbing rags and mopping away at the soap water covered floor – not terribly beneficial for their recovery, but Desmond lets them do it. The sooner the place is clean, the faster they can begin actually working properly here and treating the people instead of probably making them sicker.

"Desmond," Jacques says finally, another doctor, Olivier, at his side. "What will we do about the dungeons?"

Desmond pauses in middle of mopping up the dirty, soapy water and then gets up. "Any word about them from above?" he asks, meaning the castle itself, where Garnier had held office and issued orders.

Jacques shakes his head and Olivier says, "No one's dared to go down there. What if someone sees? What if they escape?"

Desmond wipes at his dirty hands and then looks around for clean pail of water. He goes to wash his hands, thinking. "What if they escape," he repeats. "Let's go have a look, then."

The dungeon has been left in the dark and, judging by the looks of it, the prisoners haven't been fed. They all recoil at the light of the oil lamp Desmond carries in, wincing back in their cells and cages. The wretched and poor of Jerusalem.

Jacques and Olivier can't even look at them, eying the floor and the walls instead of facing the terrified human faces behind bars. There's more of them than the last time there had been and Desmond is just… tired of all of this misery, tired of not having been able to do anything about it – tired of being forced to sit around and comply.

Altaïr walked away from him, and Desmond might never see him again.

He's done playing this safe.

"Garnier de Naplouse is dead," Desmond tells the slaves and then, even though it's not his to promise, he says, "His treatments will die with him. I can't promise you a good life or gentle treatment and I can't promise that you will be taken back to where you were taken from. But I can promise you freedom here, treatment for whatever ails you eventually and paid work, if you comply peacefully."

No answer, though the prisoners exchange worried looks. Desmond activates his Eagle Vision and looks over the crowd. There's a lot of white, some blue – not a single shred of red. No criminals. Not one.

"Desmond, what are you doing?" Jacques asks quietly.

"The right thing," Desmond says firmly and blinks his eyes back to their normal state. "Go tell the guards that if they see someone running, let them go through and let them go. These people aren't criminals. This ends now."

Jacques and Olivier hesitate and Desmond gives them a look. "Or do you want to continue Garnier's work?" he asks them, cold. "Do you, really?"

Jacques swallows and bows his head. "I am – going to tell the guards," he says and turns to go. After a moment of hesitation, Olivier runs after him, awkward and wide eyed as he goes.

Desmond breathes in and out and turns to the prisoners again. "If you want to work and be paid for it, go above, grab a rag or a brush, and start cleaning," he says. "I'll pay you fair wages for it, and everyone will be fed. If you choose to go, you're free to do so."

"A-and treatment?" one of the men behind bars asks. "There will be no more soul stealing?"

"No, there will be no more soul stealing – but if you're hurt or sick, there will be healing," Desmond says and lets one of his hidden blades shriek out. "Now, let's get those cells open."

Whole day they clean. They wash every piece of furniture, take every piece of linen to be boiled, and once they've washed the floors and most of the walls once, Desmond makes them do it again. The hospital gutters run thick with indescribable filth which slowly turns into brownish sludge and the into viscous liquid. Soap covers everything thickly and is then rinsed off. Bit by bit, the waters run cleaner.

Outside, the maids and staff of the entire castle have been roped into the act of washing the hospital linens. Desmond goes to see them once to make sure everyone is washing their hands thoroughly after touching the bedding, but the maids are smarter than the hospital staff, it turns out – they know to keep their hands clean.

"If you know any girls in need of a livelihood," Desmond tells them. "Let it be know that I will hire several to do washing for the hospital – it needs to be done every day from now on. There must always be clean linens. I need people to boil water as well."

"Are you the new Grandmaster, then?" they ask, eying him curiously.

"No, but for as long as no one is here telling me to stop, I'm going to clean this place up," Desmond says. "Also, I could use some capable washers who could teach some men the act of washing floors properly. I'll pay for it."

"My, things are changing around here," they say. "I'm sure we can spare a moment to come and show how it's done. I expect you need clean linens now, that everything is drying? We should have some clean ones in the fortress above."

"We wouldn't say no to them," Desmond agrees. "Thank you, ladies."

The third time Desmond orders the floors washed, the workforce going at it consists mostly of former prisoners and the fortress maids and staff, the water runs finally clean and the permeating smell of human misery is finally gone. They leave the windows open to air everything out and dry the wet floors, but for now – everything is clean.

At least here, Desmond thinks, he's done good.

"Now," he says to Jacques and Olivier, who are giving him rather anxious looks. "Let's see about setting up some sanitation stations. I'm going to teach you how to make disinfectants and from here on out, everyone washes their damn hands."

Though the few Hospitalier lieutenants present had came to give Desmond's cleaning project some wide-eyed looks, no one in the end told him to stop. He is paying people from his own pocket, as it is – or rather, from the Templars' pockets, thanks to Altaïr's gift for him. Therefore no one can even say he's squandering Hospitalier funds, as he has no access to them – and so the hospital is mercilessly cleaned, aired, and improved upon without arguments.

It leaves only few hours of light to actually treat the patients, but that treatment now happens in much cleaner environment and Desmond even has a place to send the patients off to wash themselves now, which is especially wonderful. If he can, he will make it compulsory – full body washing at least once a week for every patient, preferably several times a week.

"Tomorrow, we can finally start working," Desmond says, washing his hands with soap and scrubbing his nails clean. The hospital is still far from perfect – really, what he wants the most is to pour some of the money from the chest into getting the whole place tiled in the Arabic style. It would be million times more sanitary, and easier to keep clean that way – but wholesale building repairs is probably going bit too far. But for now, "Tomorrow we can finally start healing people."

"Aye," Jacques says, frowning. "It will certainly be something."

"Once you get home, wash your clothes and yourself," Desmond tells him. "Be thorough about it. Better nor take any chances with what we've come into contact today."

Jacques nods. "I would have even without ordering," he says wryly. "Some of us have not turned deaf ear to your sermons."

Desmond looks at him and then smiles. It's a start.

He follows his own order the moment he gets home, roping Hadia into helping him boil water for it. She's used to it by now, she only rolls her eyes and gets buckets to begin ferrying the water in, Desmond doing the same. It takes nearly half an hour to get all the water – ah, the joys of medieval life – but by the time Hadia brings him a vat of steaming hot water, it's more than worth it.

"As much as I enjoy watching, it is late, healer," she says. "Enjoy and good night."

"Good night, Hadia, and thank you."

Desmond mixes the water into something he can actually work with, then starts stripping. All of his clothes would need to be washed too. Hadia could do it tomorrow, he thinks and then looks around himself. It's nearly pitch black out and guards don't bother patrolling this part of the district at night anymore, so after a moment of consideration he foregoes all decency and just strips down completely.

It's quiet, one could even say it's a nice night out. The sky is cloudless and full of stars above him, and without any light pollution to block it, it seems to go on forever. Having an actual bath tub to use for washing would make it so much better – and how lovely would that be, to soak in hot water under the stars? Maybe one day. If he can't use the money on the hospital, perhaps he uses it on himself, gets himself a rich man's house, with an outdoor tub.

Yeah, right.

Desmond washes his ears, his face, and then pours the last of the water all over himself, trying to rinse all of the soap off. When the water runs dry, he shakes his head and looks up – and of course there's Altaïr, sitting on the corner of the rooftop with the moon and the stars behind him, watching him.

Desmond puts the vat down and runs his hands over his wet hair, eying the man warily. "Altaïr," he says.

"I thought you were going to be on your best behaviour," Altaïr says wryly. His face is completely in shadow.

"What's little bit of public indecency here and there," Desmond says carefully. "I, uh… wasn't sure you were going to come back. It's… good to see you?"

Altaïr drops down into the alley, a silent white shadow in the night. "You really," he says, his tone low, stalking towards him, "really have no sense of shame, do you?"

Desmond swallows and offers him an awkward smile, nervously wondering if he should cover himself. Probably. Welp, too late, Altaïr has already seen pretty much all of him. Twice now. "Well, public bathing is really not that big of a deal in –"

Altaïr hauls him in by his bare, wet waist, and Desmond has the most ridiculous moment of thinking, he's going to get his robes wet.

And then he's being kissed.

Chapter Text

Altaïr doesn't have much experience when it comes to… companionships, certainly not as much as some of his brothers do. He's never particularly enjoyed the fruits of Masyaf's garden, and where others claimed they found respite and solace there, in the arms of the women eager to please them and help them shed the burdens of their missions... Altaïr only found the place uncomfortable, the act a different type of struggle. The relaxed satiation the others found eluded him – the few times he attempted to reach it only left him that much more tense and wound up.

Kissing Desmond, though something of a physical challenge because of the man's blasted height, isn't a struggle. It feels more like an achievement, a triumph. Like climbing a ledge and preparing to take a Leap of Faith, he stands outstretched on the precipice and feels victorious.

And the risk of a fall only makes it sweeter. Like on a ledge, there are two ways down from here. Either into the welcoming arms of safety – or into the hard unforgiving grip of death. And Altaïr isn't sure he even cares right now which one it is. He's made the climb – he's achieved that much at least, and it feels good.

Desmond feels good. He's bare and vulnerable under Altaïr's hands, and he runs them greedily over his wet skin, feeling it shivering and firm as Altaïr explores it. Desmond is so untouched, so unblemished, his skin so smooth and fine. If this is what obsessive bathing does to a man, then it is a pity more don't indulge in it.

The man's mouth is clean too, his lips soft, un-chapped. They yield under Altaïr's sweetly, parting, and then there is a sound rising from Desmond chest, confused. "Altaïr?" he breathes and it tastes sweet and dangerous.

Altaïr has kissed a man only once, and it ended in blood spilled, some of it his own. It was nothing like this, he'd been young and stupid and trusted far too easily… but some of that same risk and danger is there. Desmond has no weapons, no armour, he is completely bare, but he is also trained as an Assassin, and Altaïr knows the man can fight with his fists alone. This too might very well end in blood.

So Altaïr takes what he can, what he dares, from Desmond's unresponsive lips and then pulls away, readying himself to run. With his heels once more touching the ground and his arms ready to block a blow he suspects might already be coming, he looks up and meets Desmond eyes.

They're wide, astonished, and there is a dusting of red on the man's droplet adorned checks, but no revulsion. He only looks shocked. He is also not pulling back.

Altaïr waits and then, impatient, speaks, "Do something." Hit him, push him away, anything. Only stop staring at him like that.

Desmond blinks, swallows, licks at his lips where they too are wet, only not from his bathing. Altaïr feels a shiver run down his own spine. There is confusion on Desmond's face, hesitation, but no anger, no hate, not even a hint of disgust. It's better than Altaïr had dared to hope, though far from the reaction be truly wished. This blank faced confusion he doesn't know what to do with.

Then Desmond lifts a hand, bubbles of soap on his knuckles, and touches Altaïr's face. Altaïr is frozen – another hand at his neck and Desmond could try and break, it but Altaïr can't stop him. Desmond cups his jaw, traces his thumb over the scar cutting across his lips and Altaïr can barely breathe. If this is how he dies, it's cruel – Desmond is touching him so gently.

"Talk about narcissism," Desmond mumbles and Altaïr has a moment where he feels almost hurt – and then Desmond tugs at his hood, leans over, and kisses him.

Altaïr isn't prepared for it, not at all. To take is one thing – to receive is something entirely different. That foolish fumbling as ignorant boy did not prepare him for the feeling Desmond invokes in him, just by being a man. He's tall and lean in body, every plane of him hard and flat and strong – and so very bare. There is no mistaking him for anything else, and for once Altaïr doesn't have to force himself to want, because just by leaning over him Desmond makes his knees buckle.

It drains him of all strength. Desmond kisses him with purpose, with experience – obviously he has more skill in this and less reservations. If he feels any fear, any shame, Altaïr can't feel it. He feels his own, though, and hears himself make a noise, helpless to stop it. Then Altaïr reaches to touch again, suddenly urgent.

They are two men, embracing each other out in the open and Desmond has not a shred of clothing on him, this is stupid, but he wants, he wants. Desmond's teeth gnaw on his lower lip and Altaïr feels a shudder of powerful arousal flush through him. He moves forward and feels Desmond's body pressed against him, unyielding and welcoming all at once, with only Altaïr's own clothing and gear between them. Against him, Desmond feels so exposed, defenceless – and yet, so strong.

All of Altaïr's own reservations all but evaporate and his fingers dig into the soft flesh of Desmond's hip, drawing him closer, needing him closer. Desmond makes a noise, a groan which Altaïr realises only after a beat had a tone of objection to it. "Ow," the man mumbles against Altaïr's lips and Altaïr blinks bleary, releasing his grip a little. Had he gripped too strong – had he -

Desmond pulls back and rubs at his abdomen – where Altaïr's throwing knife had pressed against him. Fascinated, Altaïr reaches to touch the reddish welt left behind, brushing his thumb over it – Desmond's skin there is so soft, thin and vulnerable over his muscles. A line of hair runs downward, dark and enticing, and as Altaïr's eyes are drawn further down, Desmond takes a sharp breath.

Altaïr looks up and Desmond meets his eyes. He looks stunned, conflicted and aroused all at once and many other things no doubt, but Altaïr only cares for one of those expressions – and even now, Desmond is not pulling back.

Altaïr could reach lower and Desmond would not stop him, would not hate him.

"We're outside," Altaïr remind himself more than Desmond and lifts his hand, resting it on Desmond's hip instead,.

Desmond sways a little and looks away, at the open door leading to his house, and all at once his whole body seems to flush with realisation, his shoulders, neck, ears all going red. He clears his throat and looks at Altaïr. "I – I just," Desmond says and shudders, lifting his hand to Altaïr's at his waist – not to pull it away, but to grip at it, press it against his skin harder. "Where did this come from?" he asks, sounding bewildered and amazed. "Just – what?"

Altaïr glares at him, frustrated and aroused. He wants – he wants more than he knows how to put it words. Explaining this is the last thing he wants to bother with. He isn't sure he know how and Desmond's skin under his hand, his fingers over Altaïr's, they're distracting. "You said company," he says, almost nonsensical.

Desmond blinks at him. "And that means sexy assault to you?" he asks, sounding baffled.

"Last time you said you could use my company, you were looking to take my belt off," Altaïr says, impatient and lets out a snarl when Desmond opens his mouth obviously to object. "Why does everything have to be so complicated – do you want or not?"

Desmond licks his lips, shaking his head, though not in rejection. "I'm sorry, is just – not something I honestly realised was on the table," he says and draws a breath and his fingers flex on Altaïr's hand and he again shudders. Where his skin is dry, his body hair is standing on end. Altaïr wants to stroke all of him and so glares at him, urging him to make up his mind – the man just kissed the breath out it him, so surely...

Desmond swallows. "Oh, fuck it," he says then, still sounding stunned, and reaches for him. "Come here."

Yes. Altaïr leans in – and then catches himself, and instead of reaching for the man's lips, begins pushing him towards the door. Desmond stumbles a little but goes, staring at him with increasingly wide eyes until Altaïr gets them both inside, gets the door shut. There's a breath, hesitant and excited – and then they're kissing again, tentative and slow, Desmond feeling almost hesitant but Altaïr wants more, so much more.

He grabs Desmond by the sides of his neck and pulls him in, into as deep a kiss as he can possibly do. Desmond groans against him and then presses in and they sway, the height difference throwing them both off. Altaïr ends up pressed against the closed door for balance, his head tilted up as Desmond looms over him, and kisses him.

Never has anyone kissed him like that. Perhaps no one kisses like Desmond does, perhaps they do – in Altair's experience kisses are awkward and uncomfortable affairs, not so much intimate as deeply intrusive. Desmond's is all that and more, and Altaïr wants, wants, wants more of it, throwing all of his meagre skill at it and still wanting more.

Desmond moans, pushing against him, and Altaïr touches him and hates the leather of his gauntlet glove in between. Blindly, he unbuckles the straps of his bracers, tugging at them and at the glove until he has both of his hands bare. Wasting no time, Altaïr grips at Desmond, sliding his hands over his bare waist. Up to his ribs, to his back. It's the most he has touched anyone in years without causing pain and it's incredible.

Desmond mumbles something against his lips and then his body arches into Altaïr hands, shuddering. Greedy for another such reaction, Altaïr let's his hands wander, one tracing a route up Desmond's spine, the other down. He's still so wet all over that Altaïr's hands glide over him, almost too easy. He's never gotten to touch a man like this and now that he is, he can't get a proper grip of him. It's glorious and frustrating, all at once.

Desmond shudders and pushes closer – and then winces away again, bare skin having come in contact with cold, unyielding metal once more. Altaïr doesn't even get the chance of contemplating releasing Desmond in order to take his belt off – Desmond is already tearing into his clothes, kissing him again as he begins tug and pull until a buckle gives away and Altaïr's belt and sash begin slipping down his hips.

Altaïr catches it before it can fall on Desmond's bare feet – something he knows from experience is far from pleasant – and quickly tosses it aside. His cowl follows soon after it as Desmond starts at the hem of his robe eagerly. Altaïr pushes away from the door and shudders as Desmond's hand touches on his bare skin, pushing the bunched up cloth of his robe up, his palms hot on Altaïr's skin, on his sides, his shoulders, pushing the robe up and out of the way.

Altaïr gets tangled in the sleeves as Desmond's hands halt at his elbows, gripping at him and keeping him momentarily bound. There's a moment of reflexive alarm, surprisingly heady, and Altaïr stops moving, looking at Desmond. The man looms over him, sweetly threatening in the darkness and Altaïr's heart skips a beat.

With slightly shaking hands, Desmond traces his skin down from his elbows, over his shoulders, down his ribs, to his waist. He looks almost reverent. "Jesus Christ, Altaïr," he murmurs, thumbing along an old scar at Altaïr's hip. "God," Desmond breathes, palming him at the waist and for a moment just holding him, staring at him.

Altaïr stays still, breathing shallowly as Desmond stares at him and so obviously desires him. There have been those who have looked at him with desire before, but… nothing compares. Desmond strokes his skin, licks his lips and if Altaïr's need wasn't becoming so urgent, he would have gladly stayed there, an object of Desmond's admiration.

"Kiss me," Altaïr demands.

Desmond lets out an almost wounded noise and leans down and kisses him again, more urgent than before, bordering on desperate. It's overwhelming and deep, and arcing into it eagerly, Altaïr loses his balance, falling forward this time.

Together they stumble to the floor, Altaïr on top with Desmond capturing his weight and hauling him in. Altaïr shakes his robe off impatiently and catches Desmond's face between his hands and his body between his knees. Desmond leans up breathlessly, and they keep on falling and falling.

Altaïr watches silently from the floor as Desmond adds bits of wood into the fire. It's the only source of light in the room, and it casts the man's bare form more into shadow than light, hiding more than it reveals. It makes him seem like a mystery, a thing to be discovered.

Altaïr wants to go over and touch him again, but at the same time he feels too sated and lethargic to move. This, he thinks, is what everyone always talked of when they bragged about their nights in Masyaf's gardens. This was the feeling they chased. Not the shame and tense discomfort he'd always been left with, but this quiet, lovely exhaustion. For once in his life he does not wish to move at all, and it's unexpectedly enjoyable.

Desmond adjusts the fire and doesn't look at him. Altaïr follows the line of his spine with his eyes and then props himself up on one elbow. Desmond back is tense. "Are you ashamed?" Altaïr asks.

The man's head jerks up slightly and he looks at him. "Ashamed?" Desmond repeats. "What, of you?"

Altaïr arches a brow and waits. Desmond shakes his head and laughs, leaving the fire and coming to him instead, crawling on his hands and knees without shame until he reaches Altaïr on the pillows. "Can't be ashamed of you, Altaïr. You're amazing," Desmond says and leans down Altaïr meets him with a sigh – it's not urgent, but it is nice, and yet another thing he didn't expect.

His experience with this is limited, but from the shameful tales he'd heard and secret stories shared by novices looking to astound their brethren, men such as they did not look for affection, only pleasure, raw and crude and often cruel. A punishable act such as this could only be base and unkind – inhuman even, after all.

There is nothing cruel or hurtful about Desmond, though – and he's all warmth and kindness, and even now his kiss is full of affection and entirely enjoyable, if brief.

"Then why are you frowning?" Altaïr asks, reaching one hand to run down Desmond shoulder, to keep him from leaving too soon.

"A bit guilty, I guess," Desmond murmurs, considering him a moment and lying down with him again, throwing one leg over Altaïr hips. It's such an openly intimate motion that Altaïr can feel himself twitch at it – but he's reached his peak twice already, and third time would take some rest.

That doesn't stop him from running his hand over Desmond's hip and pulling him closer, enjoying the sensation of it, the trust. He could pin Desmond to the floor and have his way with the man again, and he'd let him.

"Guilty," Altaïr repeats, wrapping his arm around the man's body and tracing his spine, counting the knobs of it beneath his skin. "For what?"

Desmond sighs, closing his eyes and pressing closer. "Guess it doesn't matter anymore," he says and then frowns. "Well, maybe one day… who knows."

Altaïr gives him a look and then pinches his side, enjoying how it makes Desmond's whole body twitch. "You are talking of Maria Thorpe," he says. "Aren't you?"

"Er," Desmond answers and coughs. "Maybe?"

"In the future you changed, I had children with her, didn't I?" Altaïr says and Desmond looks away, awkward. "I had to have some, for you to ever be my descendant. And you placed great importance on our meeting, obviously for a reason. And you were proud of her. She too is your ancestor, isn't she? She's the woman I had children with."

"Well," Desmond says. "Also the woman you married," he agrees then, awkward. "And from what I know, you two had a very happy life together."

Altaïr scoffs and looks away. He can't imagine it, not as he is, but… Malik is right in that he is changing his ways. This night alone is a testament to that, and in future he will be changing himself intentionally, to fit himself into the role he must take. Give it a year, give it few more… perhaps it could happen. He had become Master of their order in that future, and it might be that the duties of that post had eventually decided for him. Perhaps he'd begun to see the necessity of a heir.

And if he had to marry a woman, it could very well be that only woman of Maria Thorpe's kind would do for the likes of him. Tall, obviously powerful – mannish. Certainly he could not stomach doing what so many Assassins had done – what his father had done. He would not be able to marry a woman from Masyaf's garden, the very idea turns his stomach.

Maria Thorpe might be easier to stomach – but he still can't imagine himself desiring her, not the way he desires Desmond.

"What?" Desmond asks.

"I imagine it was a marriage of necessity," Altaïr says. "To produce the Mentor of Masyaf heirs."

Desmond frowns. "No," he says and shakes his head. "You loved her. I've read your writings about her – you loved no one as much as you loved her."

Altaïr shakes his head. "I could not," he says and looks down, at Desmond's chest and not at his face. "She's a woman."

Desmond frowns a little at that, shifting closer. "Oh," he says then, and nothing more, running his hand over Altaïr's arm and down to his waist, slow and warm. "Well, maybe it was more complicated that I could tell, seeing from the future. I think you did love her, though," he says and draws a breath. "But maybe it was as a friend, rather than as a lover. I don't know. You seemed happy together, though."

Altaïr says nothing, closing his eyes. Desmond is painting an image in his head he isn't sure he likes or hates. Maybe he could be happy that way, pretending, maybe not. Maybe in that life he had never… Now that he has, though, he cannot imagine settling for anything other.

"I don't want to talk about it," Altaïr mutters.

"You brought it up," Desmond says, guilty and amused at the same time.

"You kept frowning – you may stop now. You have nothing to be guilty of," Altaïr says and looks up. "I have lost nothing here – and the woman obviously dislikes me. I assure you, it's quite mutual."

Desmond smiles faintly and lifts a hand to his cheek. "Give it a few years."

"Shut up," Altaïr grumbles and kisses him. Desmond chuckles against his lips, and Altaïr pushes at him angrily, until the man rolls over to his back and Altaïr can pin him down and silence him properly. He doesn't stop until Desmond's breathing starts hitching and he mumbles an objection against his mouth.

"God, Altaïr, stop," Desmond groans, even as his leg winds around Altaïr's, his heel digging into the back of his thigh, urging him on. "I can't yet, you damn – oh, fuck –"

"Indeed," Altaïr murmurs, smiling, but slows a little, resting his weight on the man. Desmond draws for shaky breaths under him, and Altaïr enjoys the feel of his chest heaving, the flush of his cheeks. No, he doesn't think he can settle for anything less than this man, after this.

Desmond calms down beneath him and gives him a half hearted glare. "Menace," the man mutters, and runs his hands over Altaïr's back. "Don't you have someplace to be?"

"It's the middle of the night," Altaïr says, arching his brows. "Where would I need to be?"

"I don't know, doing Assassin things?" Desmond grumbles and clasps his hands loosely over the small of his back. "Seriously speaking though… what happens next?"

"You're asking me?" Altaïr asks, amused.

"Yes, o future Mentor of the Assassins Brotherhood, I am asking you," Desmond says and gives him a look. "If you're not my tool and I am not your master. The future isn't entirely up to me anymore, is it?" he says and his fingers idly rub against Altaïr's back, inching lower, lower. "The playing field is a bit more level now."

Altaïr likes the sound of that. He hums, and leans his cheek to his palm. "What happens will happen," he says. "We try our best to change our Brotherhood, you will do what you feel is necessary, court Maria Thorpe into treason as you courted me, no doubt – though I hope you won't court her into your bed as well –"

"I didn't court you into my bed either," Desmond mutters. "We're not even in a bed – "

Altaïr harrumphs and grinds his hips down, slow and precise. Desmond lets out a startled groan and throws his head back a little, his whole body straining. Very nice, Altaïr thinks. "We move forward with our various plans," he continues. "And change whatever way we can. Isn't that your mission here?"

"Uh," Desmond answers, swallowing. "Yeah – "

Altaïr eyes his throat and then leans in to put his tongue on his Adam's Apple – and delightfully, it bobs again under his tongue. "You will heal," he murmurs hotly against the skin, wet once more. "And I will kill. And in time –"

"Altaïr – " Desmond groans, his thighs spreading apart. "Fuck –"

Altaïr smiles and finishes with, "… the future will change."

And nothing more needs be said, really.

Chapter Text

Kadar drops down to the street and slides into the crowd, finding himself a white hooded monk and blending into the man's shadow. Steadily, the crowd streams up the street and towards the impressive staircase at the end of it – staircase leading to to the Hospitalier hospital. They are calling it St. Mary's Hospital Of Care and Learning, now – it's becoming more permanent.

He's never been to the place, though he has heard many stories, and knows many things. It is the place where Desmond works, where he heals and from where his reputation spreads – and the man has quite the reputation now, doesn't he? The Healer of Akka, the Sage, the Doctor. He is loved by many for his charity and kindness as well as his effective methods – never mind the enormous amount of power he had grabbed among the Hospitalier when their Grandmaster had died. Most everyone in Akka knows of the man.

There are rumours that he is doomed for death.

It had been a while since Kadar has seen Desmond, but in that time he hasn't been able to stop thinking about him – or rather the things and knowledge he possesses.

Slowly, the crowd Kadar is in parts ways and some continue to the left, others  to the right – most are heading up the stairs. Above them, Kadar can hear some commotion – looking to his left, he can see number of horses by the fortress’ stables. A company of knights is in present.

As he makes his way up the stairs, keeping his head down and his ears perked, he can hear taking, shouting. A very public argument is taking place, and judging by the sound of the rumblings, it has quite the audience.

Kadar walks faster and then he sees it – the scene playing out.

Desmond in his pale robes and cowl, looking a little like an Assassin but not quite, facing against a man in armour – it must be Geoffrey de Donjon, the rumoured new Grandmaster, sent and appointed by Robert de Sablé. The man does not look happy.

"... An order of God!" the man is saying. "And by the sound of it, you've made quite a few changes that smack of not only godlessness heathenism, preaching of uncleanliness as if men and women of God could be impure! We are properly ordained by the church, and you, heathen, make mockery of our ways, of our religion and the power of our faith!"

Desmond says nothing, standing there with his hands clasped and calm.

"You have no excuse, have you?" Geoffrey de Donjon demands and waves his arms around. "Listen to his silence, it is as good as confession! He denies none of these accusations, accepting their charge with pride and contempt! Slowly, he would have turned all of you to his heathen way, preaching the word of Allah in the house of God! And he feels no shame, no remorse!"

Again Desmond says nothing, merely watching the man in silence.

"You," Geoffrey de Donjon says, "Have committed your last crime in the presence of the Hospitaliers. No longer will your heretic ways strain the halls of our great order. You have committed crimes, stolen from us and made mockery of us. You will answer for your crimes. Men, take him away!"

Kadar moves quickly forward. He must stop this, get Desmond away, give him the time to escape. If only he can stall the knights for a moment…

The Knights Hospitalier hesitate, and finally Desmond speaks. "I'm not going to answer your charges, because it will not matter what I say, you will order my death either way," he says. "Might I instead choose my way to die?"

Geoffrey de Donjon hesitates and the crowd murmurs. "Unlike you, we aren't so cowardly as to rely on poisons and trickery," the man says. "You will die by a noose or a blade, and no other way."

"Blade then," Desmond says, and Kadar's heart skips a beat. "I served the Knights Hospitalier, poorly according to you, but I did it to the best of my ability. I would die as one, if I may."

"What nonsense are you spouting?" Geoffrey de Donjon demands.

"A duel – duel to the death," Desmond says. "If God is on your side, which I'm sure He is, then the duel will be brief and I will claim my punishment with respect it is owed. Either way, I would face it with honour and with sword in my hand."

Kadar stares at him in dismay, even as the words appeal to the audience of knights, healers and patients, making them murmur approvingly. Geoffrey hesitates, but even he seems a little impressed by the appeal and the grave way with which it was made. Knights and those around them, Kadar decides, are all mad.

"Very well," Geoffrey de Donjon says. "I will give you a duel and you will die like man, with respect and bravery. I am glad to see you have at least that much. Someone get this man a sword!"

Desmond inclines his head. "You expect me to duel in my robes, without armour against you in full plate?" he asks mildly. "Your God truly piles favours on you, I see."

Geoffrey de Donjon flushes at that and snarls. "And get him armour!"

Desmond lifts his hand. "I would rather choose my armour myself, if I might," he says. "And face my fate prepared to it best of my ability. All duels take preparation, don't they? You have had the time to choose your armour and weaponry, won't you give me the time to do the same?"

"Ha, and give you also the time to escape, heathen?" Geoffrey demands. "You must think me a simpleton!"

"Never, sir," Desmond says, not a hint of humour on his face. "Only dishonourable."

It's the last straw. Geoffrey snarls at him and waves an arm. "You have an hour, heathen!" he says. "Hour and we shall duel here and you will meet your fate and may no man claim that Geoffrey de Donjon is without honour! Men, I want guards on him at all times, do not let him escape! If he does, I will hold each and every one of you responsible!"

With that said, the man spins on his hell with an impressive flare of his cape and walks away, leaving the crowd and Desmond looking after him. Hesitant, two Knights Hospitalier move to flank Desmond who bows his head a little. There is no way to reach him.

As they move away, Desmond leading his grim honour guard with him, Kadar moves to follow, chewing on his doubts as he goes.

Desmond is trained in ways of Assassins, he's seen the man in action… but that has been when he was delirious with fever and long ago. Since then, Desmond had been working Healer, staying indoors, doing very little to keep up his skills. Could he, a healer and a gentle soul, face against an armoured, trained knight in full plate, and win?

Kadar can't lose the man now. He has too many questions that still need answers.

He follows, looking for an opportunity that does not come. Desmond makes no move to escape as he leads his honour guard through the streets to his humble house, where the men wait uncomfortably as the healer prepares. Kadar can't get in, can't even get close enough to talk to Desmond, there is little he can do but wait on the roof and watch as the Knights guard the alley.

Kadar can only hope Desmond might have something up his sleeve, even something as unsightly as poison. Something to give him an edge against a man wrapped in metal with lifelong training behind him. Even most skilled Assassins have difficulty against proper knights, and Geoffrey de Donjon is indeed a proper knight – even Altaïr would have trouble.

Oh, if only there was a chance to escape. Perhaps if he jumped down, if he could take one knight with his weight and the other with his blade…

And then Desmond steps out, wearing plate. It's nothing like any armour Kadar had ever seen. It sits close and firm against the man's body with heavy spaulders and a cape, slanted over one arm. The robes under the armour are black and white and have slanted hems, familiar and yet not. Over his head, he wears a black hood – under it he no doubt has chainmail.

He doesn't look like a knight, he looks more like an Assassin, but only if Assassins were an order ordained by Christian church with all the grandiose symbolism there in. The robes look ceremonial, almost – but the armour, Kadar can tell, is very real.

Desmond sheathes a sword to his side as he steps out and looks up as the knights suddenly stand to attention. "I'm ready to go now," Desmond says and glances up from beneath the black, beaked hood. He looks straight at Kadar and says nothing, turning and leading the knights back and towards the Hospitalier fortress, towards the duel.

Kadar follows and watches, his head spinning with mysteries and questions. Desmond wears the armoured robes as if he was born to them, his whole body language changing as he stalks forward, silent and confident, no sight of the mild Healer in sight. He looks and, even at the distance, feels dangerous.

His opponent must feel it too, for the man is obviously taken aback to find the healer armoured in such fashion.

"Are you ready to face your fate, then?" Geoffrey de Donjon asks, trying to cover his nervousness in impatience.

Desmond takes out his sword, holding it at the ready. "I am ready," he says.

Geoffrey scowls and looks at the audience – and there is quite the audience now, even more people having arrived to witness the duel in front of the hospital. "As God is our witness," Geoffrey calls. "May the man with the Lord's favour win and let there be no question about that man's worth! Knights Hospitalier, once misled by heretic doctors and medicine men, will be led only by one chosen by God!"

The speech garners some excited rumbling from the crowd of Christian spectators and the knights around Geoffrey exchange glances, though it's hard to say if they're approving or not.

So, Kadar thinks, it's true. Geoffrey de Donjon isn't a doctor at all – the man might very well be aiming to shut down the hospital completely at Robert de Sablé's orders, and turn the Knights Hospitalier into a strictly military order. It would bolster the Templar forces in the Holy Land, not having to divide Hospitalier forces between the front lines and the hospitals and medical stations.

And Desmond with all the success he's had and the respect he's earned is obviously in the way of that. Does Desmond know? Probably, the man seems to know everything.

Kadar tries to get closer. He doesn't think he can interfere with the duel with this many people, but perhaps a throwing knife…

The duel begins with Geoffrey de Donjon drawing his sword and facing Desmond. One of the knights stands up to ask if they're ready and then to should, "May the duel commence!" and commence it does.

Geoffrey launches into a harsh, aggressive assault immediately and is rebuked by Desmond's blade, which comes to block the blows. Geoffrey attacks even harder in return, wailing away at Desmond defence and looking for an opening the man isn't giving him – and when he does, it is only to scrape against his armour. Geoffrey's blade does nothing to even dent Desmond's platemail.

When Desmond finally goes to attack himself, it is unexpectedly brutal. He has the advantage of height on Geoffrey de Donjon, and it looks like his is much lighter armour despite all the robes under it – he moves swiftly and without mercy, knocking Geoffrey's sword aside and swinging hard at him, metal clanking against metal once, twice, three times before Geoffrey stumbles back, escaping when he can't block. Desmond halts his assault there, waiting, sword at the ready.

As soon as he catches his breath, Geoffrey de Donjon attacks again, looking incensed.

They go back and forth a few times, and it becomes soon clear that Desmond is the better skilled swordsman and his armour, though strange, offers him better protection. Unless Geoffrey de Donjon gets lucky, he is going to lose the duel.

The man seems to realise it too, eventually, for his eyes start getting wider where they show through the eye slits of his helmet, wider and soon wild with fear. "Men!" he shouts. "Men, seize him –"

Desmond seems to sigh – and then puts his sword through a narrow opening in the man's armour, stabbing him precisely and mercilessly through the shoulder. The screech of metal followed by the cry of pain are both ear-piercing, as the would-be-grandmaster of Knights Hospitalier falls to the ground, clawing at his shoulder.

Desmond puts his sword to the man's neck. "Do you yield?" he asks.

"Seize him, kill him!" Geoffrey de Donjon snaps at the knights and men at arms around them. "I am your Grandmaster, do what I say! Kill this heathen!"

The knights hesitate.

"God was not on your side," Desmond says calmly and almost apologetically. "Do you yield?"

Geoffrey de Donjon grits his teeth, tries to muster the strength to get up – but when he attempts it, he falls over instead and doesn't move.

Desmond waits a beat and then then lowers his sword. "Guess I have to patch him up now," he mutters. "Someone get me a stretcher and bring linens!" he shouts while taking out a cloth to wipe his sword with. "You, men, help me get him out of that armour."

There is only a moment of hesitation before they follow the order. Desmond puts his sword away and then kneels down to treat the man he'd just finished maiming, right there, under the view of dozens of spectators. It's a different type of blood sport, to watch a doctor tend to his bleeding patient and the fact that he'd been the one to make him bleed makes it all the more morbid.

A woman brings Desmond a bowl and soap to wash his hands with, a man brings him a kit of strange tools, blades, needles and catgut, and under the eyes of God and everybody, Desmond, still in full armour, sews the man up.

There is no question about who becomes the Grandmaster of Knights Hospitalier after that.

It isn't until many hours later, while Knights Hospitalier settle into their new reality of working under Desmond de Acre, that Kadar gets a chance of taking to the man himself. Desmond is still in the strange, black robed armor, and judging by the looks of him, he's not going to be taking them off any time soon. Kadar catches him taking a break outside – the man looks like he needs it too.

"Hope you liked the show."

Kadar swallows. "It was very impressive," he admits. "I didn't know you were so skilled in armoured combat."

"It isn't something I exactly advertise," Desmond says and looks down to the orange he is peeling. "I thought you'd be still in Jerusalem, or in Masyaf. I hear there's some action going on there."

"Malik didn't want me there while Al Mualim is being accused and charged," Kadar admits. "I was meant to stay in Jerusalem, minding the Bureau for him, but we received a report that Robert de Sablé was looking to replace Garnier finally and that you would be forcibly removed from your post."

Desmond peers at him from under the black hood and he looks startlingly like Altaïr. "So you rode all the way here? You could have sent a bird."

"Jabal is loyal to Al Mualim and Al Mualim ordered your death," Kadar says and frowns. "Though I suppose I ought to be calling him Rashid ad-Din Sinan, now."

It feels odd, though, disrespectful.

Desmond hums, noncommittal, and sets the orange peels aside, cleaning his blade meticulously before resheathing it. "Well, thank you for the warning," he says. "I was already aware – Maria told me about it."

"If you knew about it, why didn't you run?" Kadar asks.

"Can't work at the hospital if I run," Desmond says with a shrug and separates a section of the orange. "So, is it about the Apple? The actual reason you're here, I mean."

Kadar is confused for a moment – the man isn't eating an apple – and then he catches himself. Awkward, he sits down beside the man and sighs. "I get no rest from it, the vision keeps haunting me," he admits. "I can barely think past it."

"Tell me about it."

Kadar draws a breath and does, describing the scene he had seen. A man with golden fractals on his skin with a burned shoulder, his arm gone. A woman, beautiful and nearly naked, draping the golden cloth over the man's shoulders, holding him as he whimpered and wept in pain. How they waited, how the cloth glowed – how under it, the man's most arm was restored.

Kadar's words fade into silence and Desmond finished the orange. "Is it real?" Kadar asks. "Is there cloth real?"

"Probably, though I haven't seen it," Desmond admits. "The Apple of Eden doesn't lie, but I doubt it showed you everything. Something like that must have consequences – the man's lifespan was probably shortened."

"... What?" Kadar asks. "His lifespan? But he was healed –"

"Even the Pieces of Eden can't create something out of nothing," Desmond says. "If the man's arm grew back without nothing being added in, then it was grown out of his body, using the materials present. That sort of thing would have a huge strain on his body. Something had to be sacrificed. It's much more complicated than that, but the parts that make humans have a limited time, and healing, big or small, eats on that time."

Kadar blinks and looks down. "How much time?" he asks. It's not as if Assassins normally die of old age anyway, so…

Desmond sighs. "If it was used on Malik, Juno would take over his mind, enslave him. That would be unprecedented access to a person, you realise – growing a whole body part. Malik would not stand a chance."

Kadar bows his head.

Desmond looks at him. "Does Malik want his arm back?" He asks.

"If he still had it, he could be an Assassin." Could have become the Mentor.

"Yes, but does he want it back, and at this sort of risk?" Desmond says and stands up. "You can't heal people against their will," he says and looks down at Kadar. "But there are other things you can do, if you really must do something."

"Other things?" Kadar asks and stands up. "What other things?"

Desmond arches his brows. "There is a practice of replacing lost body parts with mechanical alternatives," he says. "It's called prosthetics."

Kadar tries to contain his disappointment. "You mean, like a hook?"

"No, I don't,", Desmond says and sighs, looking at the disposal behind then. "It's not something I have the time to teach to an Assassin in secret though, not anymore. Not if I'm actually going to do this," he mutters and sighs. "God, I'm going to have to get baptised now, don't i? And probably ordained somehow too, damn it..."

Kadar hesitates, looking at him. "But I – I want to learn. I want to give my brother his arm back," be says, quiet and helpless. "Please, I have to."

Desmond gives him a sympathetic look. "That's an urge Juno installed in you," he says. "I'm sorry."

"Yes but – maybe it will go away if I succeed in another way," Kadar says urgently. "Please, teach me."

Desmond sighs and hangs his head. "Your brother is going to kill me," he mutters. "Alright. Not right now though, I have to go now, but tomorrow – be here first thing in the morning," he says. "And Kadar?"

"Yes?" Kadar asks eagerly.

"Have a bath."

Kadar blinks. "What – why?"

Desmond looks at him flatly. "You're fresh off the road, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but –"

"Bathe."

Kadar bathes, he bathes with vigour, leaving not an inch of himself unscrubbed. He feels a little raw all over after he's done, but he's also damn sure no one can call him unwashed or dirty.

Jabal gives him some suspicious looks as he finishes, cleaning his clothes too as well as he can. He hasn't cleaned himself this well even for a visit to Masyaf's gardens, it makes him feel a little silly.

When Desmond sees him that morning though, he leaves Kadar doubting how thorough he'd been. Desmond inspects his hands, his hair and then makes a face at his clothes. "It'll have to do," he says. "If you have a second set of robes, though, leave them here and I will have someone wash them for you. Now follow me, and I'll show you around."

It's nothing like Kadar had expected. He'd hoped that Desmond would take him to a secret room and reveal to him the secrets of these mechanical limb replacements, but instead Desmond takes him around the hospital and shows how things are run, telling him to, "Wash your hands if you touch anything, even if you don't feel like you got them dirty, you will wash your hands. Use the copper or brass bowls to do it – not the buckets. And make sure the water at least looks clean before."

"Aren't you being a little too strict about this?" Kadar asks dubiously

"There's the door if it's too much for you," Desmond says.

So Kadar washes his hands.

Then he meets patients and realises what he's thrown himself in.

"Have you ever heard of humours?" Desmond asks while checking s woman's neck with his fingers. "Great – forget everything about them, they don't exist. Human body is much more complicated than that, and if you need to know anything about the liquids of human body, know that blood belongs on the inside."

"Er," Kadar answers. "Alright."

"Fever is a warning sign, not an illness in of itself – it always has an underlying cause. Unless it's dangerously high, we don't treat the fever – we treat the cause," Desmond continues and looks at the woman. "Have you been sick lately, have you thrown up – is your excrement solid or fluid?"

"I – no, I just have this blasted fever and my head aches something fierce," she says with wince.

"Hm. Do you feel dizzy? I see – can you open your mouth for me?"

The woman does as ordered, and Desmond fetches a oil lamp to peer inside. He hums. "Ma-am, you're dehydrated and you have the beginnings of a cold. Go home, drink plenty of water, no alcohol. If the headache persists, go to the souk south west from here and find woman named Hadia, she runs an apothecary stall – she can sell you something for the headache."

"Wait, that's it?" the woman asks. "Don't I have to stay here?"

"Your fever is mild and you have no other symptoms," Desmond says without mercy. "Come back if you get worse."

Kadar blinks as Desmond ushers the woman out. "I know it seems cruel, but we have people in much worse condition and no beds to spare," Desmond says. "Now come on, in the next room there's a man with a sword wound that needs cleaning and the sooner you learn how to do it, the better."

"Wait – why are you teaching me this? This has nothing to do with what I actually want to learn," Kadar says.

Desmond stops. "This is the basics, Kadar. Actually, this is barely even the introduction to the basics, and I can't teach you more advanced stuff it you don't understand the basics. If you want to learn how to fix a human body, you need to know how it works and why it breaks down."

"I know why my brother lost an arm – he was hit with an arrow," Kadar says, frustrated. "I don't need to know how to heal, do I?" He demands.

Desmond gives him a look. "An arrow. Did it rip his arm clean off? That's one hell of an arrow."

Kadar blows or a breath. "The wound got infected and they had to amputate, is the same thing –"

"So it wasn't the arrow, it was the infection," Desmond says. "Do you know why you didn't die, Kadar, when your stomach was injured?"

Kadar hesitates. "You healed me," he says warily.

"You didn't die because first, I kept you from bleeding out, second, I patched you up, and third, I kept you from getting infected," Desmond says, dry. "Malik's physician failed in at least one of those things. Arguably two."

Kadar blinks. "You could've saved Malik's arm?"

"I don't know, I didn't get the chance to try," Desmond says. "But I sure as hell am not going to let you do something more advanced with something like that before you know at least why infections happen and how to stop them. So either you will learn the basics first – or the door is right here."

With that said, Desmond shrugs and continues onto the second room. Kadar hesitates and then sighs and follows.

And that's pretty much how he ends up being stolen from Assassin Brotherhood.

That first day at the hospital is confusing, mostly. Kadar follows and tries to keep up, while Desmond moves from patient to patient as if he is incapable of stopping. He advises the other healers and stops to talk to guards and women busy in the act of cleaning and mutters occasionally about hiring an architect – an Arabic architect in particular – to redo the floors and walls.

"Tile floors," he mutters. "Tile floors and drains. There should be space for a pipe system. Hmm…"

Most of what he says goes beyond Kadar's understanding that first day. The second day isn't much better. The third, Desmond revives a dead man by pounding on his chest and blowing air into his mouth and at many people's demand takes just enough of a break to sit down and draw them a rough sketch of a human form and all of its intricacies.

Kadar had seen human guts spilled enough times to know that they are complicated – but Desmond draws the whole thing from memory. "Heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, stomach, intestines," he says. "There's some other stuff but let's go with basics. Let's start with the heart, lungs and the blood circulatory system, and then I can explain why what I just did worked…"

Kadar does his best to keep up, but it's all so confusing and he's obviously not the only one having a hard time.  Desmond is teaching all the doctors in the hospital as well as the many recently hired men and women – Desmond doesn't seem to care who is listening to his impromptu sessions so as long as someone is. A lot of them are staring at him in complete confusion.

Well, at least Kadar is not the only one.

And that's long before they get to the whole matter of infections – and bacteria.

"Tiny creatures?" Kadar asked helplessly.

"I'm afraid so," Desmond says and pats his shoulder compassionately. "One of these days I will find a glass blower who can make lenses and put together a microscope and show you, but right now you're just going to have to take my word for it. That's why you have to wash your hands. Bacteria is literally everywhere and in everything."

And meanwhile there is a coup in Masyaf. Kadar only hears how it goes later, from Jabal who is in part furious and in part resigned. Jabal is one of the older Assassins in the order, he's served under Rashid ad-Din Sinan for many decades and he isn't happy about the way youngsters had gone about the coup.

It had ended in blood.

"It was long time coming," another novice stationed in Akka says in hushed whisper. "And can you imagine, it was Altaïr who led it? The Master's favourite. The old man must have done something very wrong to make Altaïr turn his back on him. So you think the demotion was it?"

"No," Kadar says honestly. "It was when Al Mualim ordered the death of Desmond de Acre."

"The new Hospitalier Grandmaster?" the other novice asks, wondering. "I gathered information on him. Tell me – have you ever seen the man? Up close, I mean?"

"Er, yes," Kadar says. The man had given him a gruesome lecture about excrement that morning, and why it is important to keep water away from it and why everyone should filter and boil the water they drink.

"The man looks quite a deal like Altaïr, doesn't he."

"It's… a marked likeness, yes," Kadar agrees.

"Yes it is. I wonder…"

What he wonders Kadar doesn't find out, because that's when Jabal approaches them with a freshly delivered letter – Malik, it seems, had found that he hasn't stayed in Jerusalem like he was supposed to, and Kadar has some explaining to do.

Kadar sees Maria Thorpe in the Hospital once in passing, coming out of the Grandmaster's office. She gives him a narrow look as she passes by but doesn't stop, walking with her head held high and with determined look on her face, like a woman preparing for a war. Later on, Kadar finds out it's not so different from what she was about to do – she leaves Acre that day and isn't seen there in weeks. Desmond says nothing about it, and in the end Kadar decides not to ask. He should, probably, but…

One of Altaïr's first orders as the new Mentor had been to let the crusaders fight it out, as if he knew something was coming. And something probably is. Desmond is part of it. Maria Thorpe is part of it. Kadar… isn't sure where he fits in between anymore. It started so simply, he'd only wanted to learn one thing, but Desmond insisted on teaching him everything. It's gotten to the point where he's seen as the Grandmaster's official apprentice, and no one questions it, because… at this point no one questions Desmond. And Kadar…

He starts to understand what Desmond teaches him. He sees the effectiveness of Desmond's methods, sees them spread through the hospital, sees people write them down and send them out. They are writing texts, and one day Kadar comes to the hospital to find Desmond teaching a young artist human anatomy – the artist, according to Jacques, another doctor of the hospital, would be painting and drawing detailed graphics on the matter, to be kept in the hospital and to be sent out.

Desmond's knowledge is in an odd way relentless – and though a calm man ordinarily, Desmond is ruthless about spreading it. It gets to the point that a letter comes from Baghdad, carried by an important looking courier and bearing an important looking seal. People in the hospital whisper that Desmond's been invited to the Baghdad House of Wisdom by the Head of the of the House of Wisdom – and by Salah Ad-Din himself, and Kadar knows Desmond read the missive.

He doesn't go, though. Desmond instead finally hires an architect, and starts the operation of having the hospital's floors, walls and even the ceiling redone. It would be made by Arabic architects and artists, the tiling would be very eastern in design – the only concession to Christianity would be the Hospitalier crosses, emblazoned in the tile work.

"It will be easier to keep clean that way," Desmond explains to those few knights who question the choice. "We will have pipework running under the tile, and whatever water is poured on the floors will have way to run off and not linger. This place will never be the gutter it was when I came here."

And in the meanwhile, Desmond gains more students. While Kadar learns to feel for a pulse and listen for someone's breathing through a metal cup Desmond had designed for the task, somewhere in the Hospitalier fortress someone starts a sisterhood. The Sisterhood of the Hospitalier forms out of the washer ladies that Desmond had employed, dons on robes and cowls and under the guise of nun's calling, they learn to become doctors at Desmond's feet. Many poor men do the same, joining Hospitalier as Men at Arms or just as Doctors-to-be. Together, at Desmond's behest, they begin planning a herbal garden for growing of the medicine that Desmond is teaching them.

Sometimes, Kadar wonders what visions the Apple gave Desmond. Then Desmond starts teaching him about the musculature and how sinews and veins and nerves work, and he decides that the knowledge probably couldn't have found a more welcoming receptacle.

Eventually, the urge to find the golden cloth fades. Kadar still wishes to give his brother an arm, that urge goes nowhere, but he now knows he doesn't need magic of the ancients to do it. He can do it with healing. And it will be without cost for his brother, none at all.

"Are you sure about this?" Malik asks, a month after the coup in Masyaf, with Altaïr firmly on the seat of power now and Malik on the way to his, back in Jerusalem. "We lost many in Masyaf, you could very easily earn your promotion now, become a full Assassin. You would be a good one, brother."

Kadar hesitates at that, looking over the front of the St. Mary's Hospital of Care and Learning. Outwardly it hasn't changed, it's still a fairly impressive stone fortress, inhabited by western knights. Most of Desmond's students are darker skinned locals, though, turned to Christianity only as much as necessary to allow them the place in the hospital. Much like Desmond, who had been baptised hastily and almost in secret.

Perhaps one day St. Mary's will rival the Houses of Wisdom in the great cities, who knows. It is certainly on its way of being a beacon of medical learning.

"As an assassin I do what I'm told, and learn what I had to be a better killer," Kadar says. "I think I would be a good one, but…"

He shakes his head and looks at Malik. "Do you remember, before we went into Solomon's temple. You told me nothing of our mission there, only that I should feel honoured to have been invited." Malik had said it sarcastically, perhaps, but he'd meant it.

"And I still regret it," Malik says with a scowl. "We should have questioned more."

Kadar nods and looks down to his hands. Like all Assassins who made it to novices, he has nine fingers. His left ring finger was ceremoniously removed to make way for the Hidden Blade. Desmond, Kadar thinks, would be disgusted with the practice – he has two blades, and all of his ten fingers.

"I think I am honoured to be here," Kadar admits and clenches his hands into fists. No dirt under his fingernails, not ever again, probably. "More so than I was to be trusted with Al Mualim's mission. More so than if Altaïr now trusted me with another."

Malik sighs. "That man has the charisma of a devil," he mutters with disgust. "First Altaïr and now my own brother. Who else has he swayed to his side? We teach our Assassins to be loyal, how does he keep turning them to his own cause?"

Kadar shrugs. "He saved my life," he says. "It leaves a certain impression. And I think I like the idea of healing better than killing," he admits quietly and glances at Malik. "If you… if you tell me to stop, I will," he adds then. And he would too – now that the Apple's thrall isn't so powerful, he could do it.

Malik bows his head and then shakes it. "No," he says and looks at Kadar. He looks sad and lonely and then he smiles and reaches out his lone hand to ruffle his hair. "You've always been a gentle, kind soul, Kadar. if this suits you better, I will not stop you."

Kadar's lips quiver a little and he leans in a bit, pressing his forehead on Malik's shoulder like he used to, when they were children and alone. Malik always gives in to him so easily, he always had. Kadar had never known want because of him, and even now he gives Kadar what he wants.

"I am going to make you a new arm," Kadar says. "It won't be of flesh and blood, I'm sorry, the price of that is too high, but I will make you one with fingers and bones that you can move. I swear I will."

"Heaven's sake, what is that man putting into your head?" Malik mutters. "I don't need a new arm. Honestly, I am getting used to the lack."

"Still going to try," Kadar swears. "It might take me months, maybe years, but I have to try."

Malik sighs and pats his back. "If you have to," he says gruffly, pretending he isn't moved, and that's that.

No one is entirely sure what happens to Robert de Sablé – his own knights won't tell – but in the aftermath they follow a new leader. Lady Maria Thorpe is not the Grandmaster, not quite, but Kadar can tell that while she is there, there will be no other Grandmaster. The Knights Templar follow her, and they are loyal. Just like the Knights Hospitalier are loyal to Desmond. Just like the Assassin Brotherhood is loyal to Altaïr.

There is a sense of symmetry to it that Kadar doesn't quite understand, but it feels right. Some of the frantic energy about Desmond eases, and he seems more relaxed. Lady Maria is seen smiling in public, and she is obviously adored by her Knights. Altaïr, Kadar hears, turns out to be an attentive Mentor, quick to learn and quick to master the management of his Brotherhood. There is a sense of permanence to all of them, which makes them stand like pillars among their peers.

Somehow, amidst all the confusion, things begin to look up.

And eventually the Crusade of Kings ends.

Chapter Text

(I think I wrote this one before writing the actual ending chapter for the main story, deciding to go for a more open, less sad-ish ending. Anyway, this is several decades down the line, and not necessarily canon for how the story goes)

Maria walks up the steps of the St. Mary's with a sigh, rubbing at her neck as she goes. It's a unbearably hot morning and she's not sure if she's looking forward to the rest of the day or not. Traveling would be either pain or a pleasure at this point – outside the reach of Acre's  ocean breeze the heat shouldn't be so humid, but on the other hand, the breeze offers at least the illusion of coolness…

Is a relief, getting out of the sunlight and indoors where is cooler. St. Mary's embraces her with the scent of lemons and tangerines, and welcomes her with a girl in a nun's cowl, hurrying to her side. "Ma'am, welcome to St. Maria – please, remove your shoes here and take slippers instead."

"Yes, yes, I have been here before," Maria says and gives her a look. She must be new, to not recognise her at all. "You're young one to be a Sister," Maria comments, as she walks to the shelves at the side of the hall to take off her traveling boots and wash her feet before changing into slippers instead.

"I have only just been ordained, ma'am," the young nun says and bows her head. "I am honoured to have been accepted into the Sisterhood. My name is Ayna – is there anything else I can help you with, ma'am?"

"I know my way, thank you," Maria says. "You have a lot of hard work ahead of you, child. I hope you are prepared."

"I am ready and willing to face all the challenges ahead of me, ma'am," the girl says, bows again, and then heads back to work – which involves a bucket, a mop and several rags. Maria considers her a little wistfully – Ayna can't be older than thirteen, and already she knows what and who she will become. Would that she could have been do sure at such a young age.

Maria gets up and sets out to find the Grandmaster.

Walking the halls of St. Mary's is a little like walking into a mosque – if things were different, perhaps the place would be a mosque. It certainly would pass for one, with its extensive tiling and open spaces, everything gleaming clean and polished. It never fails to make her amazed, how the floors reflect everything – it makes everything here feel so grand and limitless.

It's especially striking, knowing how it all had begun, what this place had looked like in the beginning. Maria can't say she misses the smell of it.

"Excuse me," she says, spotting a man in a white cassock and cowl. "Might you know where I can find the Grandmaster?"

"Lady Maria!" the man says. "Lord, I almost didn't recognise you, out of armour. He will be in his office I expect, he had no sessions or lessons today, if I recall right…"

He damn well better not, Maria thinks and nods her head. "Thank you," she says and looks around. "It seems quiet here today," she comments.

"It's meal time, everyone should be busy eating," the man says. "And the garden is in bloom, and many patients prefer to spend time outdoors if they can."

"I see. Thank you, brother," Mary's nods and continues on her way, heading for the stairs. The impressive tilework continues up and to the upper floors, growing no less beautiful or well polished as she goes. The scent of lemons gives way, however, to other smells, more noxious ones.

They must be mixing medicine today.

She reaches the door to the Grandmaster's office in short order and knocks on it lightly. "Come in," comes from inside, and she turns the polished brass knob, peeking in. She can tell there's more than one person inside – and there is. Across the Grandmaster sits a man in an Assassin's cowl.

Altaïr, she thinks, but no, of course it isn't.

"Maria," Desmond says and rises from his chair.  "Your timing is perfect – we were just waiting for you."

The Assassin turns, and Maria's heart skips a beat. It is not Altaïr, it is even better. "Darim," she breathes and holds out her hands.

"Mother," the young man says, quickly rising as well and coming to her. It's been months since she's seen him – and last time he'd still worn the novice's grey. His sleeves are now white, his robe has tails. He is also, by the looks of it, forgetting how to shave.

"Show me your hand," Maria says quickly and reaches for his left hand. Darim has all of his fingers intact, but sacrificial fourth finger had still felt the brunt of Assassin's traditions – the order's symbol had been branded upon it. It is still healing – it couldn't have been long. "Oh, my son. A full Assassin already," Maria says.

Darim tries to stay solemn, but he has a giddy, proud grin bubbling to the surface. "I am honored to have been deemed worthy," he says, with poor humility.

"He's on his first mission as an Assassins too," Desmond says, coming around the desk. "He's here to escort us to Masyaf – I don't think Altaïr trusts us to behave ourselves."

"Oh tosh," Maria says, still looking at Darim. "Oh, but look at you," she says, reaching to run her hands over his shoulders. "You could have been a knight. You would have looked so handsome in knight's armour, you know."

Darim gives her a look. "Which begs the question, why aren't you wearing any, mother?"

"I wouldn't be able to get out of the castle is I was," Maria says wryly. "Not without full company of men following me. I thought we should be more discreet than that." Saying this she casts a look at Desmond – who is in armour, for once, wearing the set he'd challenged the rule of the Hospitalier in.

One can't deny that the man looks handsome in it, the hint of gray at his temples only makes him more so, adding a tinge of dignity the man usually avoids like the plague. Still, the armour is so darned strange to look at, shaped and designed so uniquely. Maria had seen many experiential armours in her time, every armour smith tries to invent the wheel every now and then, but Desmond's armour is just so odd. Especially knowing how effective the thing is. It's so thin.

"What?" the man asks defensively. "We're going to travel, and unlike you, I hardly ever get the chance to wear armour."

"Altaïr ordered it, didn't he?" Maria asks Darim.

"He worries," Darim shrugs. "He still talks about how often Father leaves his door open. He told me not to let him on the road without proper armour on."

Maria chuckles. "I have men at arms stationed near his house, you know. If something happens, he will be defended."

"Oh, I know. We have Novices doing the same."

Desmond blows out a breath. "Alright, alright," he says irritably. "Shall we get going then?" he asks. "Or should I get some tea going so you can mock me at length?"

Maria smiles. "By all means, Grandmaster – after you. Someone has to lock to door behind you, after all."

-

The road from Acre to Masyaf is an old and familiar one by now, one she's travelled more times than she can count. The landmarks make her heart soar with anticipation – three days until Masyaf from here, two days, one… travelling with Desmond and Darim is lovely of course, it is especially nice to see her soon, she didn't get the chance to as often as she'd like, but she's not as young as she used to be, and riding isn't such a joyous pleasure anymore. Nor is sleeping on the road, no matter how many blankets one brings.

Old age and palace life is making her a little lazy, it turns out. She already longs for the comfort of a proper bed and bath, and looks forward to the comforts Masyaf castle might offer.

… not that she is that old yet, and damn anyone who says she is.

"Oh, it's been a while," Desmond grunts, sitting down beside her with a sigh. "Forgot what it feels like to get saddle sore."

"That's what you get, my friend, for staying indoors all the time," Maria says, cheering up immensely. Riding doesn't agree with her as much as it used to, maybe, but at least she's not saddle sore. "You need to get out and about more, Desmond."

"Would that I had the time for that sort of thing," Desmond sighs and looks up as Darim brings in a lapful of wood, to start a fire. "Also, why get out when the young ones can do it for you? You're such a good son, Darim. So active and handy to have around."

The young Assassin rolls his eyes. "Unless you want me to make the food as well, you might want to get off your ass and help," he says. 

Desmond seems to seriously consider it for a moment. Then he sighs and gets up, and with a laugh, Maria rises to help him. Together they set up a cooking pot and Desmond fixes them lentil soup, mixing in dry herbs and vegetables with a heavy hand as he usually does. The food is, as it always is, excellent.

Desmond, Maria thinks not for the first time, would have made a splendid wife for Altaïr, if only he wasn't a man.

(And that's where I decided this was a bad ending, and tried something else instead. I think Maria and Desmond travelling to Masyaf was about them all retiring, or finishing the Library together, or something like that. I forgot. Idea there was that Desmond and Altair ended up in sorta open relationship with Maria, hence kids, yadda yadda, let's not go there. 

Let's go instead into even sadder version, where the ending could've taken several centuries down the line :D)

Ezio peers into the darkness, wary even though it is quiet. All of Masyaf is quiet, but it is also full of ghosts of old, shades of past deeds and events, of history and memory. Everywhere he looks, he glimpses faded shadows of times gone by, and one of them has been leading him on for so long, through snow and light and shadows, and finally, here. This, he knows, this is the final destination. This far and no further – here his search would come to an end.

Beneath the castle where Assassin's Brotherhood was reborn, there is a chamber that is supposed to be full of wisdom and knowledge, and it feels safe in a way that Ezio does not know. It is also empty. Waving his torch around, Ezio looks up the empty walls, not a shelf in sight, not a single book. The stories called it a library, but there is nothing here, nothing but shadows and metal. And yet, he feels welcome. Awaited.

Ezio steps forward, through a cloud of ancient dust, and sets his torch to another on a wall, lighting it up. It does little to chase the shadows away, and so he lights all the unlit torches along the way, trying to chase away the ancient darkness that lingers in the place, but it does little. The walls eat the light cast upon them – and gleam with metallic flickers. Like veins on a man's skin, gold runs through the walls, sunken into the darker metal and shining through it. Strange, but so are all things left behind by the ancients.

And finally, a chamber, large and tall – the heart of this library with no books. In the middle of it there is a coffin, a great stone affair with no markings, and no name. Beside it there is a chair, and on that chair a body, flesh worn away by age, leaving behind nothing but a hooded skeleton.

Ezio approaches him slowly and sighs. "No books, no wisdom," he says. "Just you, brother mine."

Altaïr is resting with his hand on the stone coffin beside him, his fingers only bones, but still holding on. This, Ezio muses, must be the burial place of the Healer, the Sage of Akka.

Ezio looks between the coffin and its guardian and then reaches a hand to touch the coffin. Under his fingers, it hums, not an unexpected reaction. This place is much like the Vault under Vatican, like the one he found through the tunnels under the Coliseum. Like those places, this Library too lives and breathes – and as Ezio runs his hand over the stone, golden beams run across it, and around him the Library awakens.

Light blooms in the room – in front of Altaïr in his chair. Ezio squints against it until he can see – it is neither Minerva, nor is it Juno. It is a man in simple robes, his head bare and short haired, his face shaven. He does not look like one of Those Who Came Before.

He is not looking at Ezio – he only has eyes for Altaïr.

"I went before you," the golden ghost murmurs and kneels down, reaching for the skeleton. "I went before you, after all."

"Desmond?" Ezio says, and the aged ghost looks up.

He is not real, but somehow he's crying. "I didn't think it would be like this. That I'd still… feel this much," the man says and bows his head. "I see you – you know my name. That's – that's good," he shudders, and his voice fractures into echoes. "I'm sorry. Give me a moment, please."

Ezio frowns, walking warily around the ghost as he bows his forehead to Altaïr's knees, stroking his hands over the faded, paper thin robes. He mourns, and it makes the walls around them ripple with power. There is no sound though, no movement, just light.

Then the ghost lifts his head and stands, reaching to press a kiss on the ancient skeleton's head, murmuring something. His touch has no effect on the man.

"I couldn't know what changes we'd made," the spectre says and steps back from Altaïr. "I tried to change so much so fast, too fast – we lived so long, and it went by so fast. I had to stay and see, just in case it wasn't enough..."

Ezio steps around him, until he can see the ghost's face. "You are Desmond," he says. "The Sage of Akka?"

"And other things besides," the ghost agrees and looks at him. "Tell me – did you go to the Vatican, did Minerva speak to you?"

Ezio narrows his eyes. "You know of it?"

"I saw it, through you – I thought I might have changed it," Desmond says. "Tell me, what did she say?"

Ezio shakes his head, confused, and sets the torch he is holding down. This is not what he expected, but perhaps… perhaps he can finally get answers. "She spoke of the sun," he says. "Of the end of the Earth and how they failed to stop it, how they died. She spoke to you, as if you were there." He hesitates and then continues. "I thought you were someone far away, scrying us, not someone… so long dead."

"I am neither," Desmond says and looks away from him, searching for something not here. "I might be here twice. Are you here, Desmond? Hah. Wouldn't that be something. Sorry, you won't be meeting Tinia, today. I changed that much at least," he murmurs and shakes his head, lowering his gaze back to Ezio.

"I don't understand," Ezio admits, confused. "What is this?"

"Time, mostly," Desmond says and chuckles. "I'm sorry, it's… hard to explain. I heard your warning in the future, distant, distant future, and I was too late to do much more than die for it. So I went back, to change history, and became Desmond the Healer instead. I am dead, yes, and I might yet to be born."

Ezio shakes his head. "I don't –"

The ghost smiles. "I'll be happy to explain it," he says and looks at Altaïr. "If you tell me a story in turn."

"What kind of story could I possibly tell you?" Ezio asks, puzzled. What would interest a ghost?

"The story of how I changed the world, I hope," Desmond says. "You are an Assassin, and here, so that much is the same. You're younger than you should be, though. What year is this?"

"It is fourteen eighty-four," Ezio says, slow.

Desmond looks at him. "You are… almost thirty years early," he says, astonished.

"I… wasn't aware I was on a schedule," Ezio admits and frowns. "Is this planned, is this another thing that was planned?"

Desmond holds up his hand to stall him. "When did you see Minerva's message, how?" he asks, confused. "That only happens in… that shouldn't have happened yet."

"I saw the message when my father took me to the Vatican," Ezio says, confused. "I was but a boy. The message is shown to all Assassins and Templars, we all see it."

The golden ghost stares at him, wide-eyed. Then, confused, he turns to Altaïr's skeleton. "You silly old man, what on Earth did you do?" he asks, bewildered.