I've had this idea in my head for months and it hasn't left me since. I've been compelled to write it out, so here you have it. The first section of a multi-chapter story, which is shocking because I haven't written anything remotely like this in a long time. Arno will eventually show up, I promise. I wanted to do his character some justice because Unity messed it up and I know, if given the chance, he could have been a great character. So please, if you hate Arno, stick around, because I plan on making him far more three-dimensional and fleshed out than he was in Unity. Give me a chance!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Assassin's Creed, but I wish I could. As a writer, the idea behind it is phenomenal, especially for someone who loves history and writing as much as I do.

* Future chapters contain M-Rated content only suitable for mature adults. May contain explicit language and adult themes. Read at your own discretion.

"Pulvis et umbra sumus." ― Horace, The Odes of Horace: Bilingual Edition

Étaín often wondered whether her father had been right in saying that death, despite its obvious misgivings, could be poetic. She thought that there'd be an underwhelming sense of ambiguousness about it, loosing yourself until nothing remained but a phantom, an echo that would permeate the space you had occupied in life like a pungent, yet ethereal smoke. Of course, she wasn't naive enough to believe in such things, not after enduring her father's blasphemous ideals for the majority of her young life, but she had grown out of his ramblings like a wild and uncontrollable weed. Conán O'Shea had believed death to be life's greatest adventure when Étaín had been in his care, even when he had only ever known how to deliver it.

She was on all accounts her father's daughter, but she wouldn't ever admit it, not even to herself. Étaín had his eyes, eyes like sunlight shining through whiskey, devoid of the cloudiness that shrouded most men's sight. Her face was stern, even a little melancholy in repose, which seemed to transfigure into something far more satisfactory when she smiled. Here was the same long-boned face, tapering to a pointed chin, the same wide eyes suspended beneath a smooth, uncreased brow. Only her hair was different, unkempt and brown beneath the hood she had pulled over her head, a nuisance she withstood because her mother had insisted upon it.

Étaín had loved her father but had hated his demeanour. He had thought himself above the tribulations of lords and kings, as if he had been erected upon a platform of his own making, but had understood his profession as something far from selfish to begin with.

And this brought her back to her previous state of scepticism.

Étaín wondered why her father had looked so fondly towards death when he had devoted himself to it, and considered for the first time in a long time why she had decided to follow in his footsteps. She didn't want to become a replica of her father, an arrogant fool who had considered dissolution evadible because he was what many people had called an angel of death, or in some remote social circles, the hand of God. It was hard to admit that the Brotherhood had faced what her father had thought impossible centuries beforehand, but the Templars had grown all encompassing and their Creed, as immovable as it might have been long ago, had become a dying breed in its own right. The Brotherhood's strongholds in Europe had collapsed under the pressure of trying to maintain a static authority. Paris, more recently, had reacted poorly in response to what many were calling the people's revolution. Étaín had been left to face its aftermath without her father's guidance, even when its reach could be felt in Ireland.

It was at times like these where she missed her father's unorthodox mannerisms, even though she knew that he had made a lousy Assassin.

Nothing is true, everything is permitted. Did that sentence justify his death? Étaín didn't know and didn't care anymore. Like all Assassins, she wasn't free of burden, for something always seemed to stain her conscience like a cloth that has been soiled with wine. It was this concept that allowed her to relax somewhat, to grab another pint from the barman, to lean back in her seat because she had every right to do so. But even the rum tasted bitter on her lips, a reminder of why she was there at the Eagle Tavern in the first place, and ironically it had quite a lot to do with the Brotherhood itself.

The year was 1796 and Ireland was on the verge of another rebellion. She had been left with a name, one Theobald Wolfe Tone, a man who had become the leading revolutionary figure and one of the founding members of the United Irishmen, a society that had denounced the continuing interference of the British establishment in Irish transactions. He had recently travelled to Belfast under mysterious circumstances and had appeared in Dublin shortly thereafter to put an end to some affairs. She had tracked him thus far and was currently waiting for him to mess up, to do something stupid so she'd know what she was supposed to do under such strange circumstances.

Conán hadn't been a very astute man when he had been living and had neglected to tell Étaín his true intentions involving Theobald Wolfe Tone. She wasn't used to such decorum, not where he was involved anyway, but he had made her job all the more confusing and she wasn't going to forgive him for it. Was she supposed to kill him? She wanted to believe that Tone had Ireland's best interests in mind, but she had seen so much violence these past years that even her standards had been lowered. Again, she wondered rather cynically why her father had uttered his name as if he were passing a note in secrecy, but she had grown tired of waiting for an answer. She took one last swig of her pint and slipped from her chair, unnoticed by most of the people in the room save for Wolfe Tone himself, exiting the tavern.

He stepped outside as if to follow her, perturbed to have been interrupted from his whiskey, but had taken to the air as confidently as if he had been wrought for it. It wasn't an unnatural characteristic to possess as a proprietor of the elite, the way he seemed to hold his head higher than his own sense of dignity, but a man such as himself, handsome enough to have evaded political turmoil, had something unnatural burning deep within his soul that even Étaín couldn't name. She knew that this man had known her father even if his gait hadn't been indicative of that fact, but he had an air about his person that demanded obedience. Nevertheless, Tone tarried near the tavern's entrance like a wary infidel—an obvious attempt to evade her reach—and said her father's name out loud.

"I don't presume to know your business," Étaín called out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "but I'd like to."

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, realizing that he had mistaken her for someone else.

"I've been meaning to speak to you for some time, but I've been unable to make your acquaintance."

"A pleasure to be sure," said Tone, reaching for his pistol, "but who in the blazes are you supposed to be?"

Étaín didn't think that Tone would remember anything after such a prolonged period of absence, especially when the majority of her father's words had been pointless, but she was fairly certain that he had mentioned her name at least once. It had become a habit, something Conán had grown into after drinking a couple of pints, when thoughts of her trundled through his brain like a train with no intention of stopping. It's tail lights would wink in the distance, leaving his neurons, recreating her face, her nose, and even her eyes, eyes he had known as well as the lines on his hands. If there was one thing Étaín had learned, it was that Conán had a knack for saying things he wasn't supposed to mention in public, and when he grew nostalgic, he would often say too much.

"You're O'Shea's daughter," Tone said after a moment, but it was more of a statement than an accusation.

"Aye, that I am. You must have known him well."

"I knew him as well as one knows a ghost. He was a strange man and you're no better."

"Thank you," she said, bowing before him, mocking his own words of incredulity, "but as much as I'd like to talk about my discrepancies, I'd rather speak of my father's."

He seemed interested now, more than she wanted to give him credit for, but he answered in kind. "He was a friend."

"A friend indeed! You were a pawn in my father's eyes."

"You speak highly of your father."

"If fools can be regarded in such light, then yes, I speak of him as highly as one ought to," she hissed, patience growing thin, "I require your assistance, sir, but it is reluctantly given."

Tone reached for her arm, a movement that would have heralded his death if she had been so inclined, but as much as she disliked her father's personal vendettas and their relative stupidity, Wolfe Tone played a pivotal role in this one and she was determined to find out what it meant without resorting to murder.

"You're just as resourceful as your father," he said, gauging her reaction, "I may entreat the same of you, but alas, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."

Étaín ignored his brash comment and forced herself to speak, clenching her fists in a display of contained rage. "And what, pray tell, is it that you require?"

"I am to board a ship come February and I would appreciate your company. I cannot divulge the reasoning behind my journey but urge you to come along anyway."

"I must warn you that I am not my father."

"Ah yes, but you are his daughter. I suppose that's what makes my offer valid," said Tone, turning towards the tavern, back where his whiskey had been warmed by the heat of its hearth, "I knew your father as O'Shea, but he wasn't a very agreeable fellow and neglected to mention your given name when he spoke of you."

"I am O'Shea as he once was."

"Like father like daughter as they say. You'll make a nice addition to my collective, although you could use an attitude adjustment."

Étaín looked away from Tone for a moment, trying to gather her wits about her, but they remained scattered on the ground where he had so easily thrown them minutes before. How was she supposed to endure this man? In the end, she realized that these qualities were what had made him so compelling to the masses, even when he had faced opponents more eloquently versed than he. Wolfe Tone was a quick-tongued, clever revolutionist who had yet to understand the repercussions of France's call to political transformation, but instead saw its original purpose where many could not. It was strange when she thought about it, for he seemed to be the only man in Europe who believed that liberty could be achieved through his own methods and in his own time. Those methods, of course, would be just as gruesome as the gore that had come before it, but she honestly didn't know what she was supposed to do. The Brotherhood was divided and the line between Assassin and Templar had grown too transparent. Her Brotherhood could have easily been jeopardized, but she believed that her father had been right even though his interpretation of the Creed had been perverted at most.

"I chose nothing. I was born and this is what I am, but I suppose you'll interpret those words as you see fit," said Étaín, taking a step backwards into the shadows, evading his cold stare, "enjoy your visit. I think you'll find the whiskey a little lacking."

Tone looked as if he were about to speak, but she had already vanished before he had a chance to open his mouth. She had decided right then that she'd take up his offer because she had no other choice, not when her father's work remained somewhat relevant. That was where she stood, on unstable soil, wondering whether she'd be greeted with more death, or in this instance, poetic irony.

Death had never been more kind.

Historical Notes:

The Society of United Irishmen: was founded as a liberal political organization in 18th century Ireland that initially sought Parliamentary reform. However, it evolved into a revolutionary republican organization, inspired by the American Revolution and allied with Revolutionary France. It launched the Irish Rebellion of 1798 with the objective of ending British monarchical rule over Ireland and founding a sovereign, independent Irish republic.

Theobald Wolfe Tone: was a leading Irish revolutionary figure and a founding member of the United Irishmen. He is regarded as the father of Irish republicanism. I tried to set We Are But Dust and Shadow during 1796, before Tone sailed to France to persuade the French government to send an expedition overseas to invade Ireland. To avoid "spoilers" (can history really be spoiled?), I'm going to avoid reciting the conclusion of that tale.

The Eagle Tavern: is ironically a real place that has nothing to do with Assassin's Creed. On November 9, 1791, the Dublin Society of United Irishmen was formed at the Eagle Tavern, an area, I can only assume, that became a meeting-place of sorts. I thought that it would be interesting to add that into my story, even if I diverge from history a little and place Tone in its vicinity when he's not supposed to be there. He travelled to Belfast, Ireland, in 1795 before emigrating to the United States, promising to never to desist in his efforts to subvert the authority of England over Ireland. That proclamation was made during the summit of Cavehill, but I'm not going to delve into that. Let's just say that it was a good point in history to start my story.

Étaín: is pronounced AY-deen if anyone is having any difficulty with it. Around this time, Irish names were discouraged, so some families adopted English surnames. Many Irish families strove to improve their economic standing in their localities. This process continued into the 1800s as Irish society became socially conservative. In this case, Étaín's last name would have originally been O'Sé, but I researched the Anglicized version and it became O'Shea. Her family was relatively privileged in life, which corresponds with history and what not. That's also why she has such a refined way of speaking.

I've tried to be competent with my research, but if I'm incorrect in anyway, I'd like to apologize. I'm unfamiliar with Irish history but absolutely love learning new things, so bare with me! I looking forward to embarking on this journey with you guys!

Valēte,

TeaAndWarmSocks