Assassin's Creed: Denouement

by: Shadow Chaser

Author's Notes:

This is the sequel to Apotheosis. It is highly recommended you read that story first before starting on this one to familiarize yourself with the concepts and characters. This story draws from the canon that was established in Assassin's Creed and Assassin's Creed II. The rest of the series, games, comics, and other media elements will be drawn upon for some things in this story and the overall universe, but will not be considered canon in this story.

Story:

Prologue

He had expected an explosion, a flash of light, something to tell him that it was finally over. He had certainly seen the sheen of unnatural light, an aura that looked eerily like a twisted version of the Northern Lights wash over the skies on that fabled date of the solar flare, December 21st. But when it disappeared, he had expected the object in his hand to explode, to send him to the dark oblivion that he had longed for; but was too cowardly to take his own life once he had realized his time had past. Instead, nothing had happened except for the feeling deep in his bones, deep in his very soul that he knew it was over. That he could end his life any time he wanted. He had woken up on December 22nd with that feeling, that deep seeded knowledge that he could be free.

And yet, he did not do it. He did not embrace death.

He spent the next two weeks waking and staring at the object that had somehow kept him alive past his time. It was finally a few days into the new year that he sought out and contacted what he considered his only link in the modern-day world. It took three rings before the phone clicked on.

"Hello?" the voice was rough with exhaustion, tinged with the unmistakably familiar Italian accent. An unbidden frown graced his features.

"You sound like death," it had been a while since he had last talked with the person on the other side of the line, but he could not help the words that tumbled out of his mouth.

A warm chuckle issued across the line before the sounds of a faint grunt and something shifting echoed. "I was wondering when you were going to call Connor," Ezio Auditore heaved a quiet sigh that sounded more like an electronic burst of static than anything else, "you were in the long line of several who has been calling this number since the supposed end of the world two weeks ago."

"Call it a concern," the Assassin known as Connor Kenway, Ratonhnhaké:ton, replied dryly, his frown morphing into a small smile. A very small part of him was glad that he had called. It was good to hear Ezio's voice again after a long time.

"I think I know why you are calling," Ezio's voice still sounded rough with exhaustion, but his tone was all business, "and yes, you feel it as though we did too. This time, a bullet, a knife, nothing can stop the time that had stopped for many of us. The healing that some of us had is now gone. Everything is of the natural order, the way life and death should be."

"And of the others?" Connor asked. He had not been in contact with many of them, even though they had all sworn to stay completely neutral in the war between the Assassins and Templars in the modern day. He understood why Ezio did what he did, but he knew he could never understand what reason did Altaїr ibn la-Ahad had for doing what he did and for so long. He was a man nine-hundred years past his time and still played with the shadows of power. Maybe it was why Ezio stayed close to Altaїr, to keep an eye on him, maybe it was for other reasons.

"Of the others, only Qulan has spoken to me about wandering the deserts of his homeland to finally die in peace," Ezio sounded a little wistful over the phone, "but the others, they did not tell me their plans."

Connor nodded absently as he flipped the green-white stone necklace that was in his other hand, staring at it. He had expected Qulan Gal to take the opportunity to finally go to his eternal rest and see his long-dead family. The man was only almost as old as Altaїr himself; but unlike the master assassin, he had refused any and all part in what was happening as soon as he had realized he was immortal through a brief contact with the Apple of Eden on Altaїr himself.

"And yourself?" he asked.

"Eh, I got shot in the chest protecting the young pup," Ezio muttered something else in Italian that Connor did not know what it meant, but then continued in English, "but someone has to keep an eye on the idiota that got himself stabbed and poisoned by Iltani."

"Iltani?" Connor blinked; that was news. He also did not give his condolences or any sympathy towards the news that Ezio had been shot. It did explain why he sounded exhausted – chest wounds took a notoriously long time to heal from; he knew that from experience. It was not his custom to show sympathy towards any of his fellow...compatriots for the lack of a better word, for getting wounded. Especially since they were, or rather, had been immortal until two weeks ago. He had no doubt that at least the ones he knew had thought of once of dying or had even tried to commit suicide – only to be thwarted by others or by their own cursed objects.

"Amunet was not the oldest of all of us," Ezio's voice sounded heavy and he heard another brief electronic-sounding sigh over the phone, "but she was power hungry and insane. Iltani...she was perhaps also power hungry and insane, but she was also possessed by the spirit that lived within her Piece, one of the Precursors, Those That Came Before. We do not know when, but I suspect it had been a long, long time ago; perhaps even before Altaїr."

"Which one?" Connor frowned inwardly. He remembered his own encounter with such a spirit. His people had believed it to guide them, benevolent in ways, but he had learned the truth about the 'spirit' and how it had used him and his people. To say that it had left him in shock was an understatement.

"Zeus, Uni, whatever it called itself before our time," Ezio replied, "good riddance it is dead."

"Your young pup?" he hazard a guess as he lifted the stone and watched the light from the sunlit window reflect off of it. It looked like an ordinary precious stone necklace to any other person.

Another chuckle issued from Ezio into the phone, "The true Desmond of prophecy if you want to be cynical about it."

"And we're not being cynical right now," he interjected and received a real laugh followed by a slight hiss of pain from Ezio. It must be a bad gunshot wound then, Connor surmised.

"No, Desmond was everything that we had hoped for and everything that we wanted to be. He was the better man than any of us, woman or man," the Italian master assassin mused quietly, but Connor caught the undercurrent of sorrow in his tone.

"Was?"

"Altaїr's plan, or as I am beginning to think, gamble, worked," Ezio sounded resigned, "but Desmond does not know who he is anymore. The Lance of Longinus took everything from him, leaving him with nothing."

"Did it take his life?" he countered.

"No," Ezio made a quiet humming noise, "I suppose that is the silver lining."

"The small things always are," Connor replied, before setting the jeweled object down on the end table of his bed as he shifted against his perch on the wide ledge of the window sill. The storm windows rattled against the gale that was blowing off of the coast, but they were strong and sturdy and would hold. Achilles had the homestead built to last, and it was still intact after so many years and probably would be after he finally passed on. Maybe he would bequeath it to the university that was next door to where he lived, Salve Regina. It would be much better than to give it to the affluently corrupted family line that was known as the Vanderbilts that owned the extravagant mansion known as the Breakers a little south of where the homestead was.

"...Connor," Ezio suddenly started after a few minutes of amicable silence, "I have a request."

"Yes?"

"Stay for a few years," the master assassin said quietly, "Desmond may need someone to help him regain himself."

Connor was too polite to ask why could Ezio not do that for Desmond, especially since he could clearly hear the warmth and affection in his voice when he talked briefly about him and his actions. Instead he asked, "He will not join the Brotherhood?"

"No," he could imagine the master assassin shaking his head, "too much politics, too much bad history. Lucy Stillman will be with him, and has suggested they travel the world, be away from the war-"

"And you think he needs a neutral site to keep his head down," Connor interrupted.

"Si," the Italian replied, "and perhaps somewhere-"

"Where you can find him easily if you wish to see him," he interrupted again before sighing and shaking his head, even though he knew Ezio could not see him. "Ezio-"

"I won't tell Altaїr," Ezio promised, "he knows on some level about this...network...but he does not know the full extent of it. I have kept my promise of keeping all of you out of the war you do not want to be a part of. I only ask for the consideration of a safe haven for Desmond and for Lucy."

"It is not as safe as you think," he muttered. Connor did not want any part of whatever Ezio was saying. It was more personal than the reason of the eternal war that was between the Templars and Assassins.

"And when was the last time you had seen him?" Ezio countered, instantly knowing who he was talking about. After so many years, it was still a little amazing that the six-hundred-something-year-old man was still very sharp and quick.

The lie was easy on his lips, but Connor had never told a lie since that fateful day and he was not about to break his own promise to himself. Not after so many others had been broken to him and by him. "Not since the early eighties," he replied, "but it does not mean he does not know about this place."

"Well, there is a good chance he has also felt what we've all felt and maybe-"

"He lives on spite," Connor shook his head, "and schemes."

"If he has, the homestead would have been obliterated when Daniel Cross purged the Brotherhood years ago," Ezio said and Connor knew that the other man was right. He sighed and shook his head.

"Fine. Send him here," he resigned himself to a visitor to his mostly silent house.

"Perhaps in a few years, or through another contact," Ezio replied, "I am subtly suggesting Shao Jun's place to get them out of the country for a while."

"Do what you wish," he shook his head again before pushing all negative thoughts out of his head, "thank you, Ezio, for letting me know."

"It was good to hear from you again too, mi fratello," Ezio replied before a quiet double beep told him the line had been disconnected.

Connor pulled the cell phone from his ear and stared at the blinking numbers that told him how long his call was. He knew why Ezio had specifically requested he become a potential safe house for Desmond Miles. For some odd reason the Italian assassin had got it in his head that he was able to help those who had been severely traumatized by the Pieces of Eden, or by events that had spiraled out of their control. He supposed it was his quiet way of questioning people, or maybe just letting them work themselves out of their shell, telling them of his own philosophy and whatnot. Maybe it was something to do with this damned house that Achilles had built, maybe not.

He did not know. But what he knew was that the last time he had housed someone it had been the Italian assassin himself along with his apprentice Stephen Miles and Altaїr's ex-apprentice Arden Allen. He did not believe in fate or coincidence, especially in light of the Pieces of Eden and their horrifying truth, but something was at work here to bring the descendant of Arden Allen and Stephen Miles to his house.

He took one more glance at the jeweled stonework that was a shard of a Piece of Eden. He would honor Ezio's request, no more, no less. Connor Kenway was done being immortal.

The legendary artifacts, the Pieces of Eden that had driven so much of the conflict had all, but been destroyed not even a fortnight ago. The solar flare that had been the doom of the First Civilization had judged and passed their former slave race, the humans, as worthy of continuing on. Instead, it took away and destroyed the Pieces of Eden, the fabled artifacts that had long held the First Civilization's power as well as the ghosts of long forgotten precursors.

It was the end of the year 2012 and the war between the Templars and Assassins had paused, suddenly and unexpectedly. It was as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting, wondering what would happen now.

3 Years Later

The house's drink he had ordered was surprisingly good as he sipped, enjoying the smoothness of the alcohol washing down his throat. There was a pleasant aroma and just the right bite that almost made him nostalgic for years lost so long ago. However, he knew that if he closed his eyes and just listened, he would be instantly transported back two, three hundred years previous, to a time when things were much...simpler. Simpler as in a relative term which he had a purpose, had mission, just before all of his convictions were shattered. Now...there was only... He pushed aside the thought – the mere mention of nothing wasn't so much as it was nothing, but rather an aimlessness to his life now.

Of course there were contracts, assignments, the occasional order if it was at that, but he knew that orders were meaningless, especially if it came from that certain someone. He had so much leeway, so much freedom that sometimes it tempted him to either take his own life and be done with it, or run begging back to the Order to give him something, anything to do. But he also knew that the second option was no more tempting than the first.

For starters, he could give less than two shits about who was in charge in this day and age. It was time past his own and the politics and mission had changed. He had not explicitly left the Order per se, but he had become somewhat of an independent agent. He occasionally took contracts and orders from that certain someone who was still working in the Order – albeit a heavily shadowed capacity – but he was generally left alone to do whatever he pleased.

And it annoyed him; had been annoying him for the last two-hundred years or so. But back then, he knew he could not take his life, not until he was absolutely sure that he would die. He had tried – the faint scars on his wrists, even ones on his neck covered by the dark duster he wore with its collar popped up, told the story of his numerous attempts. So many times, so many failed times. Until now. Three years since that fateful day and he knew he could easily end up now, the feeling in his bones, in his soul telling him that it was finally over.

So why the hell was he sitting in a bar drinking his drink?

He sighed and ran a hand over the rough stubble of his three-day growth, discreetly glancing around the rest of the patrons in the small hole-in-a-wall bar that was surprisingly very popular in the city of Newport, Rhode Island. He would have thought Providence would have been the more popular destination, being a proper New England city and all with its urban density and local colleges and universities in the area, but he supposed that only those who lived in the area truly knew where the best places for drinks were. That was usually the case and it only served to tell him that he was in the right place.

But then again, he had been somewhat of a regular presence in the bar for the last month or so; his excuse was that his whaling ship out of the Cape was delayed for repairs. His mission was at the bar.

As he glanced up and considered getting another one of the house's weekly micro-brew on tap, he pursed his lips a little. His mission was not at the bar, drinking himself into a stupor, but was rather behind it bartending. There was an easygoing smile on his target's face, seemingly carefree and lifted from the burdens he had been carrying three months before the sky exploded in a myriad of colors three years ago. He surveyed his target with a critical eye even though he had long recognized him the day he walked into the hole-in-a-wall in Newport.

His hair was still shortly shorn, but was growing in again. He give it a day or two before his target would cut his hair again. A scar ran down the right side of his lip, distinctive, familiar, but also gave him a rakish air considering how many women had engaged him in small talk for the month of observation he had been conducting. His eyes were a golden-brown, and he knew that those eyes would flash to a pure gold when angered. He knew because he had seen others with the same blood, even not related to each other, activate the gifts that they had been given in their genes. Gifts that some considered to be a curse at times as well as a godsend in others. He knew because he had been bequeathed the same gifts and he considered them a godsend from when he had defected from the Brotherhood to the Order. It had helped him greatly to avoid the reprisals he had incurred with his defection.

His target's skin was darker than his own, an olive-brown mix that defined his ancestry from perhaps somewhere in Europe. But he knew that his target's ancestry extended far and wide, from the Middle East, Europe, Asia, and even the Americas themselves. He would have liked to have claimed that it was in the information packet he had been given when he first took the assignment, but that was a lie. He knew it like all of the others like him. They all learned because they all had been cursed and because they all had been wondering what was to be done to end the curse to fulfill the prophecy that was in the Sistine Chapel.

Turned out that while two of their kind had gone completely batshit insane due to either longevity of life or the cursed objects known as the Pieces of Eden, only one had dared to activate a plan of sorts. He had to give Altaїr ibn la-Ahad credit where credit was due. But then again, he had not really paid much attention to the happenings in this modern day and age, his apathy at time past his own overriding whatever convictions he had left – which was few and far in between. Even he had expressed some basic interest, but he had a feeling that the person who assigned him this current mission had been distracted by something else during the time period in which Desmond Miles had successfully destroyed all the Pieces of Eden.

Scratching at his stubble once more, he was about to get a third round of the micro-brew on tap when something whispered a warning. He started and blinked. His senses that he had not used in years went on full alert as he paused in his movement and slowly sat back down. He flickered into his Eagle Vision, letting the hues of washed out grey fill him as he tracked what had tripped his long dormant instincts. His target blazed a bright yellow as he continued to serve drinks, chat with customers, and generally let more flirtatious patrons down gently. He could see the barest flicker of red amongst the grey-white as the whispered warnings grew a little louder, the person pushing past others to approach the bar- There!

He let his vision focus back to normal, leaving the faint after image of red and gold among the sea of patrons and saw that the one marked red was a woman who looked to be in her mid to late twenties. She was of African descent and was apparently somewhat gleefully looking wide-eyed around the bar. For all intents and purposes, it looked like she had been part of a tourist group who had broken off and found this hole-in-a-wall. But he caught the sudden shift in her gaze towards the bartender before resuming her wide-eyed look.

She was here for his target.

He did not know why, but it piqued something in him – almost like a long-forgotten thing awakening. He knew he should not be bothered that someone that seemed hostile to him was also after his target. His mission parameters had been clear, but the fact that he had sat in this hole-in-a-wall for the last month without killing Desmond Miles...maybe it was a bit of possessiveness; a bit of claiming that it was his target and his alone, no one else's. Whatever it was, the arrival of this person riled something in him that he thought had been long dead – concern.

"I suppose it would not be a right gentleman to introduce myself to the competition," he muttered mostly to himself as he stood up and grabbed his empty pilsner. It was time for that third round of micro-brew and to figure out if this person was an enemy or ally of Shay Patrick Cormac, Assassin Hunter.

Author's Notes:

A few things of note, certain characters obviously survived their respective games and will be explain later in this story as to how they survived. Like I said earlier – only AC1 and AC2 are considered canon for this universe. Anything else (including the fact that I have made Ezio related to Altaїr) will be cherry picked. That said, certain canonical characters are dead and will not be appearing in this story, namely Edward Kenway, Adéwale, and a majority of the Colonial Assassins. The Parisian ones like Arno Dorian I haven't quite decided yet since I don't exactly feel like playing the train wreck that was Unity. Also, Syndicate is definitely not canon in my universe. Doesn't matter what it does, it screws up Arden's storyline that was established in Apotheosis.

Another note; this story will be updated very slowly until I finish writing in the Marvel Cinematic Universe.