Mnemophobia

An Assassin's Creed Fanfiction
By Fye Kurokawa

Mnsemosyne, goddess of memories. Root of the word Mnemophobia, the fear of memories. When a mnemophobic begins remembering past lives, death of the soul is imminent. The only way to save yourself is to feel not only your own pain, but that of everyone before you.

Chapter First
Mνημοσύνη
Mnemosyne. I pray to you at night to resolve my differences with my past. Do not make me forget. If nothing else, make me learn.

Night.

My room is silent. It feels foreign to me, now. I have been watching videos of the Crusades for hours. My computer's battery is dying. I reach to the floor, to the cord I know is there. I search nimbly for the hole which accommodates the plug, and soon my computer runs on external power. The exclamation point in my bar disappears, and I'm left with plenty more hours of movies. I cried for three hours. I was never able to cope with death. On a large scale, such as the Holocaust, death makes me stop breathing. Literally, I curl up on myself and feel as though I'm having a seizure. It isn't very pleasant; it can sometimes be painful. I got used to it, however, and now these fits of empathy do not mean much. They do not affect me as they should.

The music playing in the background comes from my desktop computer. Reminiscent of church choirs, violins and perchance riffs of electric guitar come into the mix. It makes me euphoric, listening to it. My body shivers in delight; music is my blood.

My room is small. The desk it a mere two feet away from the foot of my bed. The latter is shoved into the far right corner, when you enter my room. The television armoire is in the far left corner, after the closet door. A small lamp sits there. It's for my mother. She does not like it when I watch movies in the dark, on such a small screen. It dimly lights my room, enough to that I can see the keyboard, the clothes on the floor. Maybe that is why this room feels strange. I am not used to it being lit in such a way.

I set my headphones on the bed besides me. I paused the movie I was watching, unable to endure much more. I do not curl up and gasp for air this time. I am emotionally exhausted. I cannot feel anything anymore. It is apathy. It is something I have never felt before, and though it is welcome, it does not feel right.
The computer sits in front of my abdomen. I lay on my side, staring down at it. I lay my head on my outstretched arm, probing a bruise on it with my right hand. I do not wince, but wonder where it came from. I close my eyes, tears still streaming, over my nose, down my temple, onto the sheets of my bed. So much death for such an unnecessary thing… Mankind was always a mystery to me.

My foot accidentally brushes the tall nightstand by the head of my bed, underneath the window. I knocked over an empty glass. The sound makes my heart race, possibly skipping a beat, but my room regains its peace soon enough. I look out the window, only to find I cannot see. It is covered in condensation, liquid and frozen. It is winter. Snow covers the land, the streets are covered in ice. I leave one windowpane partly open; I have two panes. The outer one remains closed, the inner is open. Outside the two is a screen, to prevent bug from entering. Leaving my window like that is enough to cool my room, which is unusually warm all year long.

I can vaguely see the blurred form of lit Christmas lights, outside my window. It is mid-December, nearing Christmas. I can see the blurred shape of the street outside, some ten, fifteen meters away. I can make out the faint glow of a lamp post, but not much of it. An old bed sheet covers all but five inches of the window. I had rolled it up a bit so the cool air could flow in more easily. I used a bed sheet for the light it gave my room in the morning. It is a golden, warm tone. It makes me lazy in the morning, but it is beautiful.

I close my eyes, noticing my breathing has slowed to an acceptable rate. I assume that my mind is slightly more at ease; apathy makes it difficult to say anything for certain. At my feet is a duvet. I manage to pull it higher, to rest at my hips. I sigh contently, if I could afford to use such an expression. I am uncertain if content is in the range of emotion I can feel. I brush it off, dismissing the entire thing.

Suddenly, my mind is bombarded with images of fire, burning houses and women. I curl up on myself, tightly, and simply stop breathing. The images flash into my head, one after the other. Sometimes, I see men being hung. Other times, I see women at stakes. Rarely, I see children being drowned, heavy bricks tied to their ankles. I do not cry. These images instill more fear and horror than they do sympathy or sorrow. I cannot tell how long I lay there, on my bed, curled up, seeing images of things I have never seen. It feels like an eternity. Eventually, my room reappears, feeling even more foreign than it ever has. My body feels like a stranger's. My very being feels completely new. And I feel as though this night is the beginning of a new life. I finally gasp for air, my lungs burning with an empty fire. I rush to my window, pressing my visage against it. I feel feverish. It feels like molted rock is coursing through my veins, like my blood is coming to a boil. It is not painful. It is, if anything else, almost ecstatic. However I do not like this feeling, as it often comes with the desire for bloodshed. That is a part of me I cannot deny; I crave war, at times. I resent myself for that. But I cannot change who I am, and so I cope with the fact that I partly enjoy harming others.

My room grows silent at that point. My music player is changing songs. For two, three seconds, it feels as though Fate is punishing me for being who I am. Like She resents that I, in the confines of my being, may appreciate inflicting pain. I agree with the punishment, almost disappointed when it ends.

I resume my preceding position on my bed. I decontract my muscles, relaxing every inch of my body. I prepare myself to fall asleep in a very awkward position. I imagine what my mother will say when I will tell her I have a kink in my neck. I imagine her condescending tone, with a hint of amusement behind it all. I imagine myself saving legions of men from slaughter. I see myself with wings of heavenly white, descending on mankind to protect it from itself.

My mind wanders, and I begin drifting into a light slumber.

I hear metal scraping against metal. It is a quiet, dimmed sound. I assume is it part of the soundtrack I am listening to, though I cannot remember hearing that sound before. There is the faint sound of cutting through fabric, and my mind begins to race. I am half asleep, and I try to reason with myself that this may be a hallucination. Or perhaps my brother has taken to a new activity I am unaware of. I grope for an answer that makes some form of sense, but I find too many to choose any one reason.

I hear the sound of metal against metal again, and my heart begins to race. My eyes are still closed. I am scared to open them, for fear of what I may discover stands before me. I did not hear the floorboards creak or whine, but my imagination is faster than I am.

Now, I can discern with certainty the sound of my window, sliding in its rail. I am scared: this is my worst nightmare. I fear for my life. I want to cry out, to scream and thrash and run for my life, but fear paralyzes me. I cannot move. I cannot even curl up in myself and gasp for air. My arms and legs are frozen in place.

The first window stops moving. I hear a sigh, and cold air rushes down on my skin. I shiver, but control the motion. I do not want to move too noticeably.

The second, inner window begins to slide. I hear the snapping of the threads of the screen. Someone is tearing the screen open as they open the window. More cold air rushed into my room. There are no snowflakes. I am grateful for that, somehow.

I hear the clanking of many things and I hear the rails of the window groaning. There is a heavy weight at the head of my bed, the deft, slight clatter of plastic glasses on my nightstand. A foot touches the floor; it creaks only the faintest bit. I hear my nightstand being moved. My heart is still racing. I feel my eyes tear up, now. I feel the water rush to the sheets I am resting on. I still cannot move. I bite back the sobs. I do not want to make a sound. I do not want to move anymore.

Then, a calloused, gloved hand on my mouth.

I instinctively scream, and my entire body seems to shake off centuries of slumber. My limbs are sore and ache horribly. I claw at the hand at my mouth, biting and nipping in vain at the glove there. The reassuring, whispered words fall on deaf ears. I do not want to die. I scream and thrash, and eventually fatigue rules me. It is late. I cannot move anymore. Terror wrings my limb of all strength.

Several seconds pass, and the hand is lifted. I sob freely now, clinging to the comforter on my bed. I try to dry my tears, but my efforts are wasted.

"Shhh." he says. The voice is typically masculine, and sounds genuinely kind. I do not let myself be deceived, although my mind is desperate for a reason to hope for safety. "It's fine. It's alright. Shhh. I won't hurt you. Calm down. Don't… Shhh. Don't cry."

And so it went on for minutes that felt like forever. A hand rubbed my arm in a motion the man had probably meant to be comforting. The more time passed, the more he sounded pressed. I eventually stopped sobbing, risking opening my eyes.

A calm face greeted me alongside a lopsided, scarred smile. My breath caught in my throat; I had not expected such kindness on that man's face. I had not expected to live so long as to be able to notice the dark age artillery strapped to him.

"Come on, you have to get up." The man told me, trying to get me to sit up. I was in shock, I noticed, unable to think straight or move on my own accord, let alone speak. "I'm going to take you somewhere safe, okay?" The man added, and I'm not quite sure how I manage to stand on my legs. I was sure my legs had turned to dust, had been blow away with the wind coming from my window.

I stare at the man in awe. He is taking me to a safe place. I feel like I should laugh, because that statement is ironic in the current situation. But I cannot will my mouth to open, if only to take in large gulps of air. The man stares at me, expecting me to move. When I do not, he sighs.

"Pick up what you need. We don't have much time. What you need, and only that." He instructs me, his voice kind though a little more tense than before. I cannot say why I can discern tones in voices, when I cannot think straight. I am baffled. But I obey and grab my nearest messenger bag. I quickly grab my computer, its power cord, as well as my phone and its charger. I take a notebook and pen, two pair of glasses out of the four I owned, and grab my wallet. I reach for the drawers of the television armoire, where my jeans are, but the man carefully informs me I do not have the time to change. I reluctantly listen, finding it highly inconvenient to venture out in flannel plaid pants.

I reach into my already open closet and pull out my trench coat, pull out my boots and give one last look at my room. I try to make sure I've got the strict necessities. Quickly, I grab my deodorant and vanilla body spray, before buttoning up my coat and zipping up my boots.

"I-I-I think I'm ready." I stutter, my voice louder than I mean it to be.

"Good. Let's go. We don't have a lot of time left." The man says, climbing out my bedroom window into the snow-covered flowerbed right below it.

"What about my family? My brother and mom and dad and dog and cat? I can't…"

The man cuts me off. "They've already been taken over there." I hear a car start and drive off, its headlights vaguely making the ice on the road glimmer. "Come on, I told you, we don't have a lot of time."

When I climb out the window, the first thing I notice is the car parked in front of my home of 10 years. I instantly recognise it as being a Lamborghini; the symbol on the front of the car is a testament to that. My breath once more hitches in my throat, and I freeze halfway through the front lawn.

"That's your car?!" I exclaim, louder that I know I should have. But I am amazed, shocked, in pure awe and envy. Lamborghini-brand cars never run for under several hundreds of thousands of dollars, and the recent ones are most likely in the millions. I cannot fathom what kind of man can come to own such a car. Eventually, the man drags me forward.

"Yes, that's my car. Please, hurry. We need to get away from here." He urges me forward, opening the passenger door. I eagerly clamber on inside, relishing the heat, throwing my bag in the backseat.

The instant the man enters the car, he hits the gas. There is a stop sign at the corner of the street, only three houses away. At the sign, I notice a glimmer of orange behind us. I turn around in my seat, but the man's hand roughly shoves me back into a proper position.

"No, let me see!" I shout, filling the car with anxious tones. "What's happening? I want to know what's going on!"

"They're setting your house on fire." The man says, his voice clearly tense. "They were aiming to kill your entire family in your sleep."

Horror. Terror.

I do not see the houses go by. I do not notice the speed the man is driving at, either. I do not register the direction in which we are going. He speaks to me, but I hear nothing. I do not listen. My home is burning down. I was meant to die tonight. My mind cannot wrap itself around the concept.

I am meant to be dead.

Who could hate my family and I so much? We've never done anything wrong. We've never crossed anyone, nor offended anyone to such a point.

Why me?

A hand shakes my shoulder. I force myself to listen. The man presents himself as Desmond. The name is not familiar. He says my name is Jordan. I think about asking why he knows my name, but no words come out. He says we're going to the airport, and there, we'll fly down to the United States.

"Planes?" I croak, fear coating every letter and sound. Desmond turns to look at me for a split second, but otherwise his eyes are riveted on the road. I understand that. Being covered in ice as they are, I would not look away from them, either.

"We don't have a choice. It'll be faster. They probably already know who saved your asses by now." Desmond replies through clenched teeth, just barely making it before a red light.

"Who are they? Where are we going? Why was I last?" I ask, only letting out a fraction of all the questions running through my mind. I also find myself wondering why my vocal chords are suddenly functional.

"I'll explain it once we get the… Once we get off the plane in New Jersey." Desmond goes on saying he doesn't know how long it'll take to get there. He did not book the flights. He says Lucy did everything for everyone. He says she's a wonderful person, Lucy, and that I'll probably like her.

Desmond talks about everyone he knows. He calls them all brothers and sisters, when he talks of them. I'm puzzled, but I don't ask any questions. I figure that I'll be told that everything will be explained in New Jersey. While Desmond talks, my eyes wander. At first, I simply stare outside. We're already in downtown Montreal, and I wonder when we crossed the Mercier bridge. I don't recognise anything despite my best effort. I redirect my attention to the driver.

My eyes roam around, and I make a point of remembering to ask Desmond about the scar on his lip. My eyes travel downward. It doesn't take long before I notice the odd gauntlet on his left arm. I open my mouth to ask about it. As I begin to for the first syllable, images begin flashing in my head.

Standing behind a building, looking out on men being slaughtered. Standing on top of a tower, admiring the view of a city I've never seen. Walking around in a castle that looks too magnificent to be real.

My head begins to explode in pain, and I'm somehow baffled as to why my brain is still inside my skull. It feels like something is trying to break out of my head. I curl up in the seat and scream in pain, grasping my head with both hands. I smash my head first against the window. That somewhat relieves the pain, but the images keep coming. I hit my head against the dashboard, where the glove compartment is. I hit it repeatedly, the pain ebbing away too slowly.

The last image is the most striking one. It engulfs me whole. I am no longer Jordan. I am no one. I am an onlooker.

I see a man, standing in the middle of a beautiful courtyard. He is dressed in white ropes. He wears much of the same apparel I am used to seeing. A hood covers his head. I cannot see his face though he stands facing my direction. He holds a golden object in his hand. It is wrinkled, and I now know he is not as young as I had originally though. The golden orb begins to rise in the air. There is a burst of light. Amidst it, a blue flame. I am blinded for several seconds. When my eyes allow me to see clearly, I see the man's body slump to the ground. I hear myself screaming, pleading, begging. Tears stream down my cheeks. I am destroyed.

Desmond calls me back to myself. I am Jordan. I am seventeen years of age. I live in Canada. I finished high school last year, and I live in the year 2009. I am me again. I am tangible, not a memory that isn't quite a memory.

I sit still for a moment, waiting for unconsciousness to claim my mind, but nothing comes. I sit motionless. I stare into space, straight ahead of me. I notice the car isn't moving; we've stopped on the side of the road somewhere. I blink. My mouth is agape. I do not know what to say or what to ask.

Desmond takes a shaking breath. He tries to hide his fear, but I feel it. I can taste it in the air. It's almost toxic.

"It hurts, Desmond." I croak, bringing a hand to my forehead. I find it bleeding. I am not surprised. I wonder how many times I hit my head for it to bleed. I wonder if Desmond knwos I am not talking about my head. The pain is not physical. Does he know that?

"I know, Jordan, I know." Sugar-coated lies.

The car starts again. I know who Desmond is, now. That old man bore too big a resemblance for me to ignore it.

"Why me, Desmond?" I ask pitifully, bringing my knees up to my chest. This would have been hard in any other car, but I find the Lamborghini to be quite spacious. "Why do I have to be like this? Why do I have to see these things? I feel like killing myself."

Desmond's breath catches in his throat. I relish the change of tides. "Because no one else can handle it like you do." He whispers. It sounds as though he's trying to convince himself rather than explain it to me. "Anyone else would go batshit crazy with that kind of stuff. Your empathy saves you. That's why."

It is enough for me to be content with at the moment. I ask for him to stop the car for a moment. He asks why. I explain I want to sleep on the backseat. Reluctantly, Desmond agrees, and I fall asleep resting my head on my messenger bag, and dream of having smores around the fireplace in the basement of a house that no longer exists.

I'm really sorry if that was a bit long. But, see, I just spent the best three hours of my life writing that. It was just so easy and simple and all mapped out in my head, before even writing it! It was amazing.

This is my first Assassin's Creed fanfiction, so I'd really love some feedback on this. I'm not too sure about the story thus far, and I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this but... Reviews on this first chapter would be pretty fun. c: Input is always very appreciated!
Thanks for reading that loooo~ooooong chapter!