References to AC games one through Black Flag. Any number of RA books should suffice. I have spliced the fandoms rather than doing a time-travel, parallel-world-jumping thing.

Disclaimers at bottom. Enjoy!

~Prologue~

Masyaf, Syria
1257

"Ah, the end of an era..."

Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad rested back on the bench, observing the orderly confusion of stragglers piling the last of their goods upon overladen carts, the brays of donkeys and stamps of hooves on turf punctuated by the commanding voices of men. They were all to be gone within the day, never to see the walls of Masyaf again. Already the houses and shacks lining arid streets looked forlorn and empty, watching with dark windows as their keepers sought a living elsewhere. The castle overlooking them all, waving in the heat, seemed even more forsaken.

The Assassin grand master sighed through his beard, conscious of the presence of his son nearby.

"When I was very young, I was foolish enough to believe that our creed would bring an end to all these conflicts. If only I possessed the humility to say to myself, I have seen enough for one life. That I have played my part." He placed his hand on Darim's, clasping it with old strength. "Then again, there is no greater glory than fighting to find the truth."

"We are ready."

Altaïr looked over to their Italian friend, reaching into his white, sweeping robes.

"A last favour, Niccolò." He stood, pulling out five disks engraved with markings not of this age. Each could sit comfortably in one's hand, and were warm to the touch. He held them out. "Take these with you and guard them well. Hide them if you must."

Niccolò accepted the disks, intrigued. "Artifacts?"

"Of a kind. They are keys, each one imbued with a message."

Now he looked puzzled. "A message for whom?"

Altaïr shook his head. "I wish I knew."

Niccolò turned away, sensing the exchange over and eager to take a closer look at those keys. He would study them as long as they were his to bear, Altaïr knew. He was glad to have met Niccolò Polo.

"I suppose it would be plausible to say I shall never learn what that message is nor what those keys unlock."

Altaïr turned with a sad smile to Darim, who looked sullen. Not from the duty bestowed on the Italian and not him, Altaïr knew, but from this entire matter collectively. He put a hand on his son's shoulder.

"I know how hard it is leaving a stone untouched, Darim. But sometimes it is better not to exhume another mystery when you are unsure if you have enough time to unravel it." Altaïr reached into his robes again. "But I do have something for you."

Some of the sullenness made way for curiosity, Altaïr was pleased to note. He pulled a cube from his robes. Larger than an apple, it was made up of smaller cubes, four wide, four high and four deep. It looked to be made of steel, but with a duller sheen and harder density. Each face could be rotated by a mechanism in the centre of the artifact, and every smaller cube had a part of a symbol engraved into it. Altaïr had only ever been able to complete one face, no matter how long he'd toyed with it. It was a puzzle to him now as it had been three decades ago.

He held it up to the sun. Shapes of light danced across their faces. "This was discovered in a land to the west, in an unmarked cairn. Malik gave it to me long ago, to keep it safe."

"Why? What is it?"

Altaïr placed the cube into Darim's hand. "It must be taken to the furthest reaches of the earth, Son. Where the wrong people would never dare to venture."

"The Polos are looking to the east. Why not give it to them as well?"

"I have burdened them with enough secrets," said Altaïr. "There are lands north of here, barely explored but by a few. Further north than Britain, further west than Africa. Send it there. The Polos will know of anyone sailing in that direction." He coughed, deep and rattling, pain stabbing through his chest.

"Father?" Darim supported him back to the bench, face etched with a concern deeper than his age lines.

"I'm alright." Altaïr coughed a few more times, lighter but no less gravelly. He was tired, oh so tired. The fit subsided and he sighed. "It is cruel, no? The world has so much to offer, to see, and yet it does not give a man years enough to witness it all."

"I think you have played your part, Father," said Darim, laying a hand on Altaïr's shoulder and squeezing gently. "You have done more in one lifetime than any man ever has and ever will again. You've earned your rest."

"Perhaps. It would be nice to let someone else take charge for a while." When he felt he could, the Master Assassin stood, every limb trembling with the burden of age. Darim got to his feet as well, offering an arm that Altaïr politely refused.

Squinting against the sun, he looked to the citadel, where he knew a barren library within lied in wait. "I think I have enough in me for one last journey..."

In much wisdom is much grief. And he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow...

~1~ Passing the Torch

Northampton, England
April, 1504

Crowley Meratyn turned the silver puzzle cube over and over in his hand, more or less looking through it rather than at it. What it was, where it originated, what purpose it served all eluded him. But it had been passed down through several generations of Ranger commandants, and now it was his turn to try and puzzle it out.

There was a knock on the door, firm and echoing with authority. There was only one man who knocked on the commandant's door so. Crowley tucked the cube away.

"Enter, Halt."

"Which is it?" called a voice from the other side. "Enter or halt?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "For God's sake, man, get in here. And wipe your feet."

Ranger Halt pushed open the door and stepped inside quickly, closing it before the heat of the fire escaped. His green-grey mottled cloak dripped rainwater all over but he dutifully dragged his feet over the mat and proceeded into the office.

"Coffee," said Crowley, jerking his chin at a side table bearing a pot and cups.

"You're too kind." Halt lowered his hood, exposing salt and pepper hair that had recently been hacked to a controllable length by his own saxe knife. He poured himself a cup of the brew, lacing it with a generous dollop of honey before joining his commandant at the table. He sat with a sigh. His short stature made it difficult for him to see much below Crowley's nose from all the paperwork piled upon the desk.

"So? To what do I owe the pleasure of a lovely hard day's ride through the rain and wind and muck?"

"Beans."

"...Beans?"

"Beans. Ranger Aaron was reported sick. Apparently he had some bad beans a few nights past. Hasn't been able to leave the privy. So I sent for you to come here rather than him to you. Saved a little time anyway."

Halt smiled cold enough to crack ice. "I'm flattered."

"Thought you might be. This aught to warm your old bones – a lead has been found on the White Liberator."

Halt sat up. "Aye?"

"He left for France two weeks ago."

Now he deflated. "I see. Gone to hide behind the Assassins' skirts, has he?"

"We've been through this, Halt. He's not an Assassin."

"No, he's their mess. Their screw-up."

"He's confused."

"He's a murderer. And he shall be charged as such."

Crowley gave him a look. "Since when have you charged anyone for anything? Setting you on shit-stirrers is often punishment enough."

"Stop it, Crowley, you're making me blush."

"I'm sending you and the Special Task Force after him," said the commandant, sitting back, hands behind his head. "Find him, bring him back crying like a little girl if you must. Just stop him. Put a few families at rest."

"And while we're at it keep our ears to the ground for anything that might be related to that cube."

Crowley stared. "...How do you know of the—?"

"You study it every chance you get, old friend. And I heard you speak to the archivists a few years ago. I have never laid eyes on it myself but I know it's real."

Crowley knew there was no hiding this. If Halt said he'd overheard, then he'd overheard, although Crowley didn't much appreciate the man spying on him. He was going to have to check the shadows more carefully.

He pulled the unusual cube from his pocket. "It's not like anything I have ever seen."

Halt held out his hand, and the commandant paused before passing it over. "It's been handed down for over two centuries. Came from the south somewhere. Spain, or perhaps further. I don't know why my predecessors kept it, so I continue to."

It was an unusual artifact. One could rotate six faces, and the smaller cubes needed to be aligned in order to form some kind of symbol on each face. Only one face had been solved, and the symbol was unfamiliar. It seemed to be too light for its size, yet there wasn't so much as a scratch on it from at least two hundred years of handling.

"You want me to take it." It wasn't a question.

"I want you to borrow it. It did not come from England, nor anywhere in Britain, I'm sure of it," said Crowley.

"How did it come to the hands of the Corps?"

Crowley reached over and opened a drawer in his desk, pulling out a small leather-bound journal, impressed with an oak leaf. He tossed it over the mound of paper to Halt. "According to this, there was a skirmish off the coast of Portugal in 1258. A Ranger was updating a map there and witnessed a fight between a Spanish galleon and pirates. A small boat from the galleon escaped, and the Ranger, thinking him a deserter, stopped him as he came ashore. The man was fatally wounded, and he only gave the cube to the Ranger before dying." Crowley shrugged. "And here it is."

"So it could be a mere tinker toy with the sole purpose of frustrating people," said Halt, eyebrow arched.

"It may very well be. All the same, I want you to keep your eyes peeled for more than serial-killing shit-stirrers. There are all kinds of strange artifacts in Europe, hidden away but occasionally being found." And by strange he meant magical. Supernatural. Crowley could not believe the reports he'd received from Italy over the past few years. A gold ball that glowed without fire, supposedly granting the bearer uncanny foresight and control over others' minds and bodies. The Apple of Eden, they called it. Pah. Just another relic from some long-dead saint or Apostle, no doubt. No more magical than Crowley's horse.

Halt was turning the cube over and over in his hand, studying the face with the completed symbol. A symbol which was unfamiliar to every historian, linguist and semiotic he'd shown it to.

"Maybe the metal it's made of could be fashioned into other things," said Crowley. "Armour, weapons. A recipe that should not fall into our enemies' hands."

"And with both Templars and Assassins sniffing about, there will be pleasant reunions all around," said Halt. "I think I'll bring sherry."

"I knew you wouldn't let me down." Crowley stood, offering his hand. "Godspeed."

Halt slipped the cube and journal into his pocket and clasped Crowley's forearm firmly. "You too, my friend."

"For what?" asked the commandant curiously. Halt gestured to the heaps of paper on the desk, all needed to be read, organized, categorized, signed, and sent off to some distant reach of the country.

"For this."

Crowley snorted, sour. "Sometimes I wish I could lower the minimum years of service required for a golden oak leaf."

"Ha! You wouldn't have to lower it far, old man." He went to leave but turned back. "You don't need to request an arrest warrant from the mayor. I have one."

"You asked him?"

"No, but I have one."

"...You stole his ring, didn't you?"

"I didn't steal it. I borrowed it without permission and then gave it back."

"Halt, all warrants must be documented."

"I left him a note."

"A note? You left the mayor a note?"

"He's a politician, I'm sure he knows his letters. Now I'm leaving before this rain gets any better."

Halt pulled the door open, pulling up the hood of his mottled cloak as he stepped outside. He closed the door behind him and Crowley sat back down, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair.

Halt may have little use for propriety but he got things done and done well. Crowley just hoped it would never conclude with a noose around his neck.

~ Ʌ ~

Rome, Italy
June, 1504

Crash!

"Dammit!" Ezio Auditore scowled, snatching up the spilled ink pot and dabbing at the black flower from a recruit appraisal with a cloth. One little scare, and the whole paper was spoiled. But he was never one to give up easily.

After he admitted defeat – and he had to eventually – his chair scrapped across the floor as he stood and tossed the balled parchment into the fire. He glared at the wall, behind which had come the sound that had startled him. If he didn't know better, he would have thought the den was under attack.

"You can drive as much discipline as you want into those two, but you can never drive their rambunctiousness out."

Ezio turned to see the bureau's leader, Mariella, who was leaning against the door frame to the office. She was a petite woman, excellent with horses and infallible in moving around unseen in crowds. Her chestnut hair, streaked with premature grey, was tied back and her robes were muddy from her ride to the den. Lines around her mouth and eyes suggested countless long days spent outdoors, rather than hiding inside where it was cool and safe. She wouldn't have been the only den leader to do so.

Aged as she might seem, there was a time when Ezio would have shown interest in seeing...more of her, so to speak. But he'd long since suppressed the need to act on his adoration – or, as he preferred to call it, respect – for women, whether within or outside of the Brotherhood. To nourish affections within meant distractions. To do so for anyone else meant bringing them into a war they should never have to face.

Besides, Ezio had had his heart broken one too many times.

"You're the grand master, you should put them in line," Mariella said, nodding towards the noise.

"You're the bureau leader, you should put them in muzzles."

"I'd sooner clip a bird's wings. You need their childish antics and you know it, old man."

Ezio's brow furrowed. "Are you here for a reason or are you just going to stand there and insult me?"

She reached into her robes and approached him. "I have my report, mentor." She passed to him a scroll, which he accepted, eyes on her. He preferred listening to reading.

"Well?"

"It is as we feared. The so-called Libérateur Blanc is still active and on the move again."

Ezio felt anger uncoil in his gut, and turned away to pace. "So we didn't stop him. It must have been a copycat in Ravenna."

Mariella's hazel eyes followed him. "The man we apprehended was identified as a Roberto Nobelli of San Gimignano. A stonemason who was tired of being a stonemason, evidently."

"But no innocent," Ezio growled, still pacing. "Two murders at least. And it would have been three had we not arrived when we did."

More crashing from the main room. Ezio glared at the wall again, as though he could see through it to the culprits on the other side.

"Mentor, we fear this might be the start of a new movement." Mariella approached the map on the desk. "Declarations of freedom against the Borgias and Templars have been reported here, here, and here." She circled parts of Northern Italy with her finger. "No deaths, but pro-Assassin gangs are making noise under our banner, in our name. And they're being non-too-subtle about it."

"You believe the White Liberator is their Little Peter?" Ezio studied the spots she had indicated, unconsciously stroking the scar that lacerated the right side of his upper lip, which left a gap in his goatee. Mariella shrugged one shoulder.

"It is possible. These people don't seem to understand what the Templars really are, and therefore, what we are. The Liberator's actions encourage them."

"Has anything been done about these gangs?"

"We haven't intervened, hoping that they would lose interest and disperse from lack of attention. It's been a month since the first outbreak in Milan, and has since spread to smaller cities around it. Fortunately, the upheaval caused by the French and Spanish have made their progress slow."

"Good. This is not their war. Send word that these gangs are not to be touched. Any intervention shall be in utmost discretion and only to protect the innocent. We don't need anymore White Liberators."

Mariella bowed slightly. "Yes, mentor."

Ezio let out a breath, brushing back a stray strand of black hair. The rest was tied back behind his head, and not for the first time he thought about getting it cut. He was, after all, in his forties, with silver streaking at his temples. His hairstyle suggested desperate efforts to retain lost years.

He pushed off from leaning on the desk. "Where is he now?"

"I left a party to hold the trail while I reported back to you, mentor. By the looks of it, he's been all over Europe, but has returned to France."

Ezio cursed inwardly. He didn't have time to leave his home country to hound the rat down himself. Cesare Borgia might be imprisoned but Italy was far from restful. He nearly crunched the report in his fist. Culling his anger, he set it on the desk instead.

Countless times over the past few years this "Liberator" had slipped through the Brotherhood's fingers. Countless times he had gotten away with kills of unverified Templars. He moved like one of the Brotherhood, yet his deeds spoke otherwise. Should this ruse or personal crusade expose the fraud he was, the Assassins' name would be smeared in black.

"I will go north. He will not escape us this time. Once he sets foot in Italy..."

"But what of your own investigation?" asked Mariella, blinking. "That...Reliquary you spoke of last month?"

Ezio hesitated. The Reliquary. He'd forgotten about that. An enigma he'd been looking into for months, ever since the discovery of a stash of manuscripts unearthed in Jerusalem. Upon close inspection, they were declared the works of an Assassin who had been a close companion, and right hand man, to the great Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. Unfortunately, Malik Al-Sayf liked to write in riddles and obscure phrases. The last manuscripts were still being translated, but one thing was clear. Malik suspected the Reliquary was related in some way to the Ones Who Came Before, or at the very least, the Apple of Eden. And in such matters, it was vital the Assassins learned all they can, and claim the prize before the Templars even catch a whiff of the scent.

Ezio scowled. Defend the Brotherhood, and stay two steps ahead of the Templars. Two tasks crowning his list of duties, both threatened at the same time.

"If that interpreter worked any slower, he'll be reading the translations over my grave." He sat heavily and ran a hand down his face. Then he began to riffle through the stacks of parchment on his desk. "Lauro should have already delivered the next—"

Raised voices, then a loud bump as something – or someone – hit the wall on the other side.

"That's it." Ezio stood and strode past Mariella into the corridor, before turning to the main room, pinning two young disciples with a look to kill. "How many times do I have to tell you—!?"

"Forgive us, mentor." The pair was in a tangle on the floor. Pedro figured it all out first, grabbing Lauro in a headlock. The smaller man squirmed and thrashed ineffectively. "We were just fooling around."

"Is that so? Because it looks like you're ransacking."

Tables and chairs not occupied by other Assassins had been knocked over in the playful scuffle, books strewn about with scrolls and loose papers. Rugs had been kicked to the side and meditation pillows were scattered all over the floor. More than one potted plant had met its doom in the chaos.

Pedro smiled sheepishly, still half-strangling his friend. He had the look of a dog that had just stolen his master's dinner but still thought it worth the punishment. "He needed a little pick-me-up."

"And he literally picked me up!" Lauro gasped, his crimson cheeks a stark contrast to Pedro's sleeve. "Make him stop."

Ezio's face creased in a frown. Sometimes he thought he'd recruited monkeys instead of Italy's trampled and forgotten people. They needed discipline and experience. Which, of course, wasn't always difficult to acquire...

Pedro drove his knuckles into Lauro's skull, making the younger cry out in protest. "I was just teasing him. See, he's never been with a woman!"

"Get off!" Lauro squirmed, blushing a deeper scarlet.

"Innocent dove."

"Come, come now, play nice," said Ezio at last.

"Aw, must I, mentor?" Pedro stopped, looking up at him imploringly.

The plea was returned with a level stare. "I'm afraid so. Or you'll have me to deal with."

Pedro sighed, then rubbed Lauro's head once more before shoving him away. The smaller youth rolled backwards from the force but quickly got to his feet, standing at attention. Ezio assessed them both, a line between his eyebrows. The two disciples were a mess, hair tussled and robes ruffled.

"I suppose if you've got time to bring this place to ruin, you've already completed your report, Pedro, and set it on my desk," he said.

He saw the tall disciple's eyes flicker.

"Erm...yes, of course," said Pedro. "Signed and sanded."

"Is that so? Because I've been at my desk all morning, and I have seen no such report." Ezio regarded him critically, crossing his arms.

Pedro swallowed. "Oh. Oh, that desk. I thought you meant the other desk."

"What other desk?"

"The one...in the other room..." He shifted, unable to hold his mentor's gaze.

"You have a novice writing it for you again, don't you?"

"How...? Of course not!" said Pedro, trying to sound outraged. "I'd never do such a thing, mentor. I...I..."

He fell silent at Ezio's look, then swallowed.

"Well...maybe there's someone editing it...And writing the conclusion...And—"

"Enough." Ezio refrained from sighing or rubbing his eyes, as much as his exasperation wanted to. "And you!"

Lauro, who was trying not to smirk at his friend's discomfort, flinched and stood straighter.

"You were supposed to go and fetch a certain something. Remember what that was?"

"Yes, mentor!"

"Excellent. Do you remember what you were supposed to do with it?"

Lauro deflated with dread. "Yes, mentor."

"...Did you remember to do what you were supposed to do with it?"

The disciple slowly reached into his robes, bringing out a rumpled, crunched envelope. "No, mentor. Um..." He very stiffly held it out, and Ezio accepted it with exaggerated grace.

"Very good, Assassin. I smell promotion in the air."

Lauro blushed brilliantly, and Ezio could hear chuckles and snickers from all around.

"Forgive me, mentor."

The grand master shook his head, then beckoned them both to his office. "In."

They obeyed, ready to be flogged raw by their mentor's vocal cords. Standing at attention once more, they watched Ezio close the door. Mariella had taken her leave.

Ignoring the men for now, Ezio sat at his desk, broke the seal of the envelope and eased out the wrinkled paper inside. He smoothed it out with obvious care, knowing it would make Lauro uncomfortable, before reading.

Minutes drew on. The disciples held their stillness and silence admirably, for they knew that, even if they had at least started their tasks, partial completion was punishable by humiliation, dealt by their fellow apprentices. Only their mentor could save them now.

Ezio was impassive as he read the latest translation of Malik Al-Sayf's work, slowly and carefully, digesting each word and rooting out any ambiguity. There was, as usual, enough to set him grinding his teeth, but he got the gist of what Malik was trying to say. The old dai believed the Reliquary to be somewhere "many days and nights across the sea of pirates, in the land of the Raśna." Ezio had no idea who the Raśna were, but that was easy enough to find out.

He sat up straighter, the only indication of mounting excitement. At last, a location! After pages and pages of translated notes, abandoned theories and irrelevant ramblings (which included Malik's tolerated annoyance to a certain "novice," whom he did not name), Ezio had a clue he could work with.

But that wasn't all. Malik's irritation came through his use of words, his own slow translations of even older texts costing him precious time. But it was time well spent, for he also discovered the existence of some kind of key required to access the Reliquary. Or perhaps it was activate. Ezio's translator wasn't sure.

So where is the key?

He skimmed the last paragraph, his excitement curdling. "Found at last... A puzzle that requires two hands... I have passed it on to Altaïr, may he have better luck... My search has come to an end... Trouble at Masyaf, I must go..."

Ezio turned the paper over, then read the paragraph again, slower, filling in the holes.

"Is this it?" he demanded.

Lauro jumped at the sudden sound of his voice. "Yes, mentor. Ahmed said there were a few more unrelated pages, concerning Malik Al-Sayf's guardianship of the Brotherhood in Altaïr Ibn... Ibn-La... um, the grand master's absence. The last date was..." He pondered a few seconds. "1226, I believe. Mentor, what was he talking about?"

Ezio ignored him, running his hands over his hair and releasing a breath. So a dead end after all. Whenever something headed Altaïr's way, it always became frustratingly elusive, because he had a habit of making information difficult to find. His Codex, for one, which had taken Ezio years to compile...

There's nothing for it, then. The Reliquary will have to wait. I shall focus my energy on the Liberator...but perhaps I should bring the Apple...

Ezio sat up, inhaled deeply, then relaxed and pulled a fresh, crisp sheet of parchment towards himself. "You two will join me in heading north tomorrow."

He could almost feel their excitement. A mission with the grand master? If this wasn't a way to prove themselves, nothing was.

He hid a smile as he dipped the quill into the ink pot, to start the recruit appraisal anew. "Of course, I can't really allow you to come unless that report is finished—"

"Consider it done, mentor!" said Pedro, back ramrod straight, right fist over his heart. Lauro copied the action, barely containing a grin.

"Very well." Ezio began the appraisal. "...You may go now."

The disciples hastily made the gesture of respect once more before walking out, trying to be quick without looking it.

Disclaimers: I do not own anything to do with Assassin's Apprentice or Ranger's Creed. Or...oh, you know what I mean. The prologue scene and dialogue, up to and including the point where Altaïr says, "I wish I knew," as well as the quote at the end of the prologue, belongs to Ubisoft, from Assassin's Creed: Revelations. I also do not own the Rubik's Cube, which is what the artifact Halt now possesses is related to.

Thank you to Dragonflame247 and whentheresawill for expressing their interest and giving me spurring I needed to get this story started! Although that was...almost three years ago... *pulls bag of shame over head*