A/N: Hello there! This is the first part of my fanfiction, To Defy the Laws of Mortal Beings. I'm transferring it over here from ao3, so anyone who doesn't frequent that site will be able to read it here. If you'd rather read it over there, here's the link: /works/1115196/chapters/2245819

I've also made a playlist for this fic, and you can listen to it on 8tracks: /illogicallogician/desmond-miles-lives

Let me know what you think!

(Also, a note to those who pointed out the strange formatting of my first attempt to post this: Thank you! I'm new to posting on FFnet and I'm getting used to the ropes.)

Chapter 1: Past Barriers of Time

Death was both everything and nothing that he was expecting. As the temple's power coursed through his body, it acting as a conduit for Juno to roam free, Desmond reflected in the only way a dying man could. He could almost laugh in the irony. He was their chosen one, the mortal who they chose, after sifting through so many; they did so painstakingly, meticulously, as there was no mistake that he was the one to save the world. He had lived out his usefulness, then. Such an important individual for so long, and now, what was he but nothing?

Desmond supposed that he always expected death to come suddenly, painfully, before it was welcome. What else could be granted to one who chose the life of assassins? Ever since he was a boy, Desmond had feared he would die as he saw so many others, bloody and screaming and suffering... that's all the assassins had had to offer, right? As he had lived the lives of Altair and Ezio, he had begun to hope, that maybe- as his sanity frayed and the end was clear- that he would pass as they did, peacefully. After such a long life of pain and tumult, death might come as a sigh into sleep.

How Desmond had wanted to just rest. Ever since Abstergo had captured him, ever since he started seeing ghosts of spirits long past, since he would wake up from a fitful sleep screaming, since he'd slip into archaic Arabic or Italian and sometimes forget his own name... he was tired. So, so very tired, and the saving of the world from the storm he'd heard no end of since his childhood was the only thing keeping him going.

Perhaps it was a noble way to die- meaningful. Maybe with it, he made up for every other time that he had fucked everything up. Leaving home, leading Abstergo to the Pieces of Eden through his genetic memories in the animus, killing Lucy...

...God, Lucy... The memory sent a spike of remorse through his already fading psyche. He had failed her... Templar spy or not, she was the person who got him through so many nights when he didn't think he'd be able to hold it together any longer. She'd kept them all together. I'll keep you safe... he'd once said. An off handed comment, maybe a little flirtatious, but sincere. And he'd failed.

Maybe for all of his failures, he'd find penance in the fact that he hadn't failed to save the world.

Death was everything and nothing Desmond Miles thought it would be. There was unspeakable pain, destroying every fiber of his being with darts of light. The roar the temple emitted drowned out his own desperate cry of pain. Then, in seconds that felt like years, it stopped. Desmond felt nothing, and as the pain faded with the light from his eyes, Desmond was finally able to rest. So, in the end, death was both what he had feared- and what he hadn't dared dream it would be.

Death was kind. It didn't dig up phantoms of memories and pain, or flash in front of his eyes all he could have done. Death was dark- like the deepest sleep, one so peaceful that one couldn't recall a dream if they tried. It had been too long since Desmond had experienced such a thing. Desmond posthumously sighed as he reveled in the calm of darkness.

"We have to go back." William's voice was not suited for panic, yet the man before Shaun and Rebecca was anything but collected. None of them were. Their trek away from the temple had been a shock-ridden silence as the End came. At William's statement, they stopped, looking to the man with questioning eyes.

"We can't, William." Shaun's voice was curt.

"We can't just leave him there." William tried to push past Shaun, yet the latter caught his arm, keeping him put.

"That flare of energy was enough to stop the sun from destroying the planet. There's no doubt that the Templars will be upon the Temple faster than we can go back. It's lost to us Bill. It's all lost to us. I'm sorry." Shaun cleared his voice through its crack, desperately trying to blink away tears.

"He wouldn't leave us if the roles were switched."

"Last time I checked, they're not. And since when are you a 'what if' kind of guy?"

"Since my son died to save this godforsaken planet!" William quit trying to mask his grief.

"It's a death wish going back there." Rebecca interrupted them. "Let's not make his sacrifice in vain, okay? We have to keep going." A moment of silence passed, until Shaun spoke up.

"We should head towards the city. There's safety in numbers. We'll blend with the crowd and figure out what to do then. Until we get there, let's focus on staying alive, and getting out of this forest."

"I'm still the superior here." William said, standing his ground.

"Really, you're going to pull this shit?" Rebecca took a step forward.

"The Templars will take him if we don't, and do god knows what with him. I'll go alone if you won't come with me." Rebecca cast her gaze to her feet. Shaun grit his teeth. He couldn't tell if he wanted less to risk an encounter with the Templars- who undoubtedly had weapons and tracking systems when they had nothing- or see the man who braved humanity's greatest fear to save it, to see him crumpled, broken, dead. The word hurt as much as a blade. Shaun had buried Brothers before, their own people; it never got easier. Especially with someone who hit so close to home. Shaun gave a helpless and longing look to both Rebecca and William. Rebecca spoke:

"You're right, William. Desmond deserves better than them." Shaun let out a sigh.

"If we start back now, we can make it back there by sunrise."

"Just in time to marvel at what we've sown."

"Your sarcasm is dually noted, Rebecca. I'm not seeing how it's going to get us any closer to the Temple before the Templars do."

"If it's decided, let's go." William's voice was firm, and back to the norm of a strained kind of collected. It felt more natural, more like than before... everything went to shit... He followed in silence as William turned and started walking in the direction they came.

It all felt so empty- the race to find a downed Assassin before the enemy did, the journey through the most treacherous conditions- all that worked for an essential victory. William knew what awaited them once they returned to the Temple, and he knew that he would never be prepared for such a thing. An Assassin knew that each person would only have so much time; it was a dangerous profession, and people- good and bad alike- died before their time. He had never thought it would happen to his son. He supposed that one never did.

There was nothing but death in that place; the place that was supposed to be a sanctuary turned into a tomb. William clenched his fists to keep his hands from shaking. He'd have to return to the Farm, to tell his wife... how am I to tell her that our son is dead? That I failed to keep him safe? The dread made him shudder, even more so than the cold. There was silence in the night, the only thing interrupting it of the mournful journey were the sounds of their footfalls. Though there was no sound around them, whispers of remorse clouded his psyche. I'm sorry, Desmond. As if to mirror their cold, wrought out grief, sleet fell from above, coating the three in what seemed to be the sky's tears, giving remembrance for he who saved all of it. It was disgustingly poetic, William mused, yet he failed to shrug off the sentiment. It sounded like something Desmond would spout, half jesting, half serious. William grit his teeth as tears threatened him again. He, Shaun, and Rebecca continued on.

The edge of the wooden platform seemed a gateway to the abyss. In the bitter cold that the desert's night blanketed the earth with, Altair shivered, even with his arms wrapped around his knees and his face buried in his cowel. The wind was unforgiving, so high up above all else of Masyaf. A place he had called home for so many years, under the watch of the man who had been father and mentor to a distraught child who had neither. For all Al Mualim had done, none of it mattered as the Apple had taken over. He quelled the nausea roiling in his gut as he thought yet again about the Apple's power, how it took hold of him, tearing him to pieces without truly touching him; he thought of how his hidden blade- the sacred blade, given to him as an honor, by the very man he killed with it- sank into the flesh of the Grandmaster, how vulnerable even the most powerful were. It was as if Al Mualim had just been another target, misguided and certain of themselves; did they really deserve to die?

It had been years since Altair had felt the same way after he had killed. Not able to sleep, with a constant bile rising in his throat, the ghosts of the newly deceased crying out for penance.

Altair did nothing now to stop the defiant tears that had threatened him since the pyre had been lit. Al Mualim- his father, mentor- had burned, along with his memory. Altair couldn't help but feel the blame. Had he really been so blind to see how much Al Mualim's grasp had crumbled, so naive and brash and arrogant... countless Brothers and innocent people were dead because of the Apple, because of Al Mualim, because of him.

"I'm sorry." Whispered to the lonely winter wind, it felt empty. Who was he apologizing to? He had no family to redeem himself to, no one who would be willing to forgive him- only the fragments of a distraught Brotherhood were left to him; he could find no solace in that.

"Such a strange place to repent- yet for you, so fitting." Altair twitched in surprise, turning his head.

"Malik. I told you to ride for Jerusalem to spread the word of Al Mualim's betrayal."

"I sent my men soon after we left as I came back."

"Those were specific orders."

"And last time I checked, the wisdom of a Dai takes precedent over even a Master Assassin." Malik walked slowly to the edge of the platform. He sat next to Altair. "I am also not here as a member of our cause, but as a friend." A brother.

"The Brotherhood needs a truthful account of what has happened, and..." Malik rolled his eyes as he interrupted him.

"Altair, while I ruefully respect the trust you have in me, trust my decisions as well. My men are honest and dependable. They will complete any task I give them."

"Why did you come back?"

"Because I'm worried, you idiot."

"That I'm not fit for this duty that has been thrust upon me?" Malik's expression darkened. He sighed.

"Because I've been in your position before, and it's a frightening place. It's hard to limp out of when you're already suffering a thousand other wounds." Altair said nothing, only bowing his head lower. "I don't want you to do this alone."

"I'm fine, Malik."

"You are not."

"You don't know what I am."

"You are such a novice." Malik grabbed Altair's shoulder, forcing the Master to face him. They met eyes for a moment- Altair's petulant golden irises liquid with tears. At one time it would have satisfied him to no end to see Altair's stoic facade broken; now, the tears that streaked through the dirt on his face tightened Malik's chest with a familiar sense of grief.

"Why did you come up here?" The harsh tone Malik had planned was softened by Altair's vulnerability. Altair said nothing, looking away. "Look at me, damnit. Why did you come up here?"

"To clear my head." Altair's voice was nearly obscured by the whistling of the wind.

"Or to jump."

"I would...never." "

Don't lie to me, Ibn La'ahad. You can't honestly say that it hasn't crossed your mind." Malik let go of Altair's shoulder in his frustration, never taking his eyes off of the other as Altair turned his gaze to the skyline. They were both silent for what felt an eternity. Malik spoke again:

"Remember as novices how we would have nightmares about failing our Leaps of Faith, and how the others would taunt those that would be brought to tears because of their fear?" A ghost of a smirk crossed Altair's face. The sadness in his eyes became heavier as he remembered the days of innocence long past; the burden of death had been so few and far between in their days of youth.

"Those nightmares turned to dreams at one point for me. When all I wanted was to fly again, to be free from the constraints and sorrows of mortality." Malik was shocked to see Altair's shoulders shaking, either with cold or his own sorrow, Malik couldn't tell. "What I'm saying is, I've been here before, Altair. On this very ledge, wondering how and when the world became so hard."

"I don't know what to do, Malik."

"You do what life allows you to- learn from the mistakes of yourself and of others, and grow from them."

"I can't do it."

"Because you're incapable, or because you're too stubborn?"

"I can't do this alone." Altair had always been a lone eagle, loyal to the end, but never requesting or accepting help. Malik had accepted it, but his inconsideration still stung.

"Why do you think I'm here?" Malik raised his arm, shaking his head at Altair's insolence.

"No."

"No?"

"I..." Altair grit his teeth. "I can't put you through what I already have again. You claim that I've changed- that the man before you isn't the same person who you faced in Solomon's Temple. People don't change, Malik." Malik contemplated Altair's sullen words.

"What you speak is true. But that isn't to say that the man I see before me isn't different than the arrogant bastard who nearly cost us all everything."

"You're right; because I've now cost us everything I didn't before."

"Altair..."

"We have nothing, Malik." The harshness in Altair's voice cut through his sadness. "There are rifts within the ranks of our brothers and who knows what the Templars are doing? Let alone here, the rest of the world... You saw the map that the Apple projected. If the Templars want these Pieces of Eden, there are plenty for the taking. Who knows what kind of power they'll have, then?"

The Apple burned as it rested in a pouch on his belt. There was such power that had driven even the best of men mad- even subdued and disillusioned him for months... There was such a promise of answers and solutions to even their mortal, petty problems; when the Apple held within it such a grander scale of profound knowledge that made Altair shudder. Such a blessing- and a curse. It must have been what Al Mualim had been thinking as he succumbed to its temptation. The thought made Altair's nausea roil in the pit of his stomach yet.

"You should destroy it." Malik said, his voice cold. Altair jolted from his reverie, only somewhat surprised that Malik was able to track his course of thought.

"It has such potential for growth, for a chance for all of us to be better." Altair argued.

"Yet it has the potential to destroy us all."

"As does a hidden blade given to a newly ranked Master Assassin."

"Overzealousness in both is not equal, Altair. We both know that."

"It feels wrong."

"As does wielding the power no one man should possess." Altair sighed, burying his face in his knees. Arguing yet would not bring him- or them to a decision.

"Have you ever thought about leaving, Malik?" Altair spoke after a while of silence.

"The Brotherhood?"

"Yes. Just shedding your robes as an eagle molting its feathers and then leaving to live out a different life- one that doesn't require us to make the decisions that are not for mortal men to make."

"No. Have you?" Altair let out a humourless chuckle.

"The Assassins have been the only thing I have ever known. I cannot run from something that is my entire life. I didn't know if it was different for others, who... chose this life after experiencing what it was like when you weren't trained to kill."

"Joining the Brotherhood never really seemed like a choice, I suppose. Rather- an obligation, since there was nowhere else to go. Better to die a warrior than a beggar in the streets; at least that's what it had seemed like at one point. Even though it offered pain, it also offered salvation and protection. All things set aside, an eagle cannot just deny what it is because it is tired and wants to start anew. This life we've made ourselves is ours to form and mold, yet we cannot be rid of it."

"The robes of the Dai suit you and your words well, Malik." Malik managed a small smile. Some of the desolation had seeped out of Altair's tone.

"It's reassuring to hear that someone is listening. And you, of all people. Sometimes, I think that my words go through one ear and out the other of our new apprentices."

"Weren't we just as naive and brash at that age?"

"Altair, you're 26."

"And you not far away from it yet."

"What I'm saying is, you are still young enough to embody that. I suppose you'll stay that way until we're both old men."

"Supposing that we make it that far." Malik sighed. He stood, holding out his hand to Altair. "We won't if we stay out in this bitter cold. Come inside, we can discuss whatever we must there." Surprisingly, Altair took Malik's hand and stood without a word. The man beside him shivered in the cold winter wind. There was an impulse for Malik to reach around Altair's shoulders and warm him, offer him his Dai's robes and some form of solace; yet he knew that Altair would never take either while in front of wandering eyes and those who would so openly judge him. While in past months, past years Malik had sought nothing but to dash Altair's pride, it was in that moment that he let Altair keep it, or what little he had left of it. The dredges of fire that were still in Altair's soul needed to be kindled, and so they would be.

The two descended the tower and walked to the main castle, opting for the chamber with the biggest hearth. Malik draped a blanket over Altair's shoulders as the latter curled in front of the fire, petulant golden eyes hardened along with his face. It was the face Altair had had since boyhood, hiding deep wounds in liquid amber. Neither said anything as Malik joined him, sitting with their shoulders touching, as they had when they were boys, half frozen from training in the snow.

Altair would never admit it, but that night was one of the few that Malik's shoulder had been the most welcome for sleep.

As the light from a lone candle dimmed, Altair sighed, ignoring the way the breath shuddered and rattled in his chest. It echoed within the stone walls of his Library- closed off from the rest of the world so only he could revel in his own demons and ghosts.

Of everything that had happened in a long ninety-two years, it seemed peculiar to him that he would remember a single night, years ago that felt centuries. Perhaps after all of the pain and suffering he'd seen, dealt, and faced, it was all he could do but feel gratitude- not for his grievances, but for the small moments when loyalty was given to him; small instances with his loved ones were sometimes the only things that kept him going.

Now, it was all he could do to give thanks and ask forgiveness, though both were futile. Altair didn't know what lay before him, in the realm beyond life. Was it rebirth? Nothingness? Answers to all of his questions? Altair had seldom had a very strong desire to find out- except the moment Malik found you on that wooden platform. Altair smiled, the bitterness of his friend's, brother's death long since passed.

The library- as Altair sat, cold and alone- was filled with ghosts. It seemed they never left him. Maria, Sef, Malik... even the faintest silhouettes of Al Mualim and his Father followed him; every shadow and corner was filled with their memory as age blurred lines of earth and man. He used to run and climb and fly to forget, to lose his grief, if only for an adrenalin-filled moment. Since his limbs stiffened and eyesight dimmed like an ancient lantern, he would see those lost blend with those still living. At first, it made Altair cringe, nightmares plaguing him along with breathless moments in waking- shock for what he would see.

Of all of his failures, of all things that Altair could possibly regret- as he would in his more youthful days, Altair felt no need for redemption. Whatever awaited him after his final breath, it would make no difference now what he felt. It seemed parts of his entire life were built of such feelings, yet he could not feel remorse for those. Altair couldn't tell if it was his fading strength that sapped away his will, or the contentedness that made him realize that all things happened for a reason, and the man he was would not be if not for everything that happened to him.

Altair never had much fear for death. He had expected it sooner; More likely it had seemed that it would happen in his youth, brash and arrogant and feeling invincible, unbreakable. He had expected it to be sudden, in the heat of battle, or afterwards when he was safe and among brothers within the walls of the Bureau. He never had the thought that he would be blessed so much as to die at home.

It felt a challenge in itself to feel the deterioration of his body, once so agile and able, now creaking and broken- scars and phantom aches preventing him from moving as a Master Assassin should. All lives came to an end, but it was more painful to expect it, watch it slowly creep up, knowing that it will come, seeing its pain reflected in the eyes of all those surrounding him. Do not grieve, Darim. I am but one man, my passing is no great tragedy. Many others will come and go; I am but one. Perhaps this suffering was his redemption, his honor.

In the end, death seemed to be as birth; for Altair Ibn La'ahad, both were lonely. He was an infant without a mother, and an old man who sat within the stone walls of the only place he had ever considered home. Altair let his head fall to his chest, limbs feeling as heavy as the earth around him. His vision began to eternally gray, the lightheadedness of ascension cradling him and his weary bones.

Before he let out a final breath, a tear, both of sadness and happiness fell from his eyes. In life, Masyaf had been Altair Ibn La'ahad's home. But in death, his home was not in a place, but with his family. Maria, Malik, Sef... I'm coming home.

"Just you, fratello mio." Ezio held the last key in his hands, a hollow forming and gripping his heart. So much toil, so much pain and death for answers, and now his journey had ended, in the same place the Grandmaster of Masyaf's had. "Requiescat in Pace, Altair." The assassin's struggle continued, and would continue, but Ezio supposed he could feel content in that Altair had made a difference, and as he played his part, so he may as well. He straightened, eyes drawn to the golden glow that a far corner of the library was emitting.

"Another artifact..." The Apple that Altair had used to further the Brotherhood in ways no man could ever hope to dream. The promise of more answers, perhaps even to the future, tempted Ezio as it had when he was just a boy. A hologram appeared in front of him. Desmond MIles... the name was whispered in his ear, and ethereal power filling the Library. Ezio had felt such power before, underneath the Sistine Chapel in the vault with Rodrigo. Since he had first heard the name Desmond it had made him curious, a dulled anxiety in the back of his mind, a mystery always yearning to be solved.

It was a man who stood before him, one who was troubled, broken. He wore foreign and alien clothing, and yet Ezio felt he was looking into the eyes of a brother. You have the power to save him, Ezio Auditore. He must be released so the catastrophe can be stopped.

"I have seen enough for one life." Ezio unstrapped his hidden blade bracers, something in his chest clenching when he remembered the hookblade, and the one who had wielded it. Ezio had seen enough death, he had served the assassins as much as he was able. There was still a chance for the normal life he had wanted. These strange beings who spoke to him and through him past the barriers of time assured him as much; if his entire journey was solely for this moment, for this Desmond, then he would aid the one who would lead them to salvation. If Desmond were to save the world, then all of the suffering and death would be worth something. As if greeting and bidding farewell to a dear friend, Ezio's compassion spoke through centuries as he touched the hologram's shoulder. Go, Desmond, and be the one who carries out this profound deed.

Energy surged from the hologram, through Ezio's hand and filling him with it. It overwhelmed his senses as a flash of light- radiant as the sun illuminated the Library. There was a wash of vertigo as the light faded, and the only thing left to greet him was the black of unconsciousness.

Healing was slow. Even months after Connor's final encounter with Charles Lee, after his journey laced with slight vendetta had ended and he was able to rest- he still hurt.

After he had miraculously made it back to the Homestead-hardly able to walk yet stubbornly pushing forward- Dr. White had tended to him and confined him to bed. The first week or so had been easier, in a way; his wound was so extensive as to come to the verge of infection and nearly claiming him with fever. The ordeal had him weakened to the point of needing the other Homesteaders to take care of him. Connor had been shocked at their compassion. They had already done so much for him- while he left for weeks at a time and sometimes went without seeing them for months. Connor would continuously vow to make it up to them, somehow, but all any of them ever said was "you've done enough for us yet, Connor. Rest, you deserve it as much, if not more than us."

After his fever had broken, he'd grown restless. Despite the fretting of the others- Dr. White's the most stern, Connor wandered. The walls of the manor seemed stifling, closing in on him with its drafts and groans filled with his own regrets and ghosts. At first, he only went to the cliff that looked over the bay, the sunset it beheld as calming as it was when he and Achilles would sit and watch it before night fell and his rigorous training would begin again; or before a supper with the rest of the Homesteaders. Connor smiled as he remembered how happy it made the Old Man when he saw his manor repaired and free people prospering on his land. Tears would come to his eyes as the memory brought another; that Achilles had been the father Connor never had- and the parent he'd gone so long without.

The weeks when his wound had yet to close underneath meticulous stitches were the hardest- when Dr. White or Prudence or Norris or one of the others would find him weeping or near enough to it, and help him as he limped back to the Manor. It was those times when he felt the most vulnerable, the most unlike the ruthless warrior he'd trained himself to be and the most like the scared boy who had run to his burning village, crying for his mother.

The nights he woke up in the Manor were when he was that scared little boy, though those he cried for were not always his mother. No matter how necessary it had been, it had seemed... he carried remorse for his Father, a man he hardly knew, for his lashing out at his mentor, for killing his childhood friend. How worthy was he of mercy if he had failed the only one's he had held so close to him- his people, his family.

The Homestead felt like a family to Connor, yet he wanted to shout every time they assured him of his nobility, his humility. He had wronged so many, he had been betrayed so many times that he seldom kept trust in himself.

When his wound had started to scar and Dr. White had removed his stitches, Connor wandered farther. He couldn't take to the trees yet, the healed skin too weak to endure too much.

Just as his body hurt, he hurt spiritually as well. Connor spent his mornings having food coaxed to him by Prudence, or Myriam, or Ellen or those who owned the Mile's End Tavern. After he had managed to eat enough to their satisfaction, Connor would go on alone, wandering the forests of the Homestead until he tired- for the longest time he felt nothing more than a small pup, the smallest bit of exertion exhausted him, and he'd need to rest. Connor would settle against the trunk of a tree or within a patch of long, meadow grass. Sometimes he'd ruefully look to the birds or the rabbits, envious of their freedom. Is such absolute freedom even achievable?

The days he wandered among the trees and hills of the Homestead were times when Connor would fall asleep there as well, the sound of the earth lulling him to sleep, sometimes to a more peaceful place than when he was confined to the walls and roof of the Manor. Open skies and wild vegetation reminded him of home, a place that was probably no longer there- but thoughts of better, not the best, but better days calmed him. Hunting with Kanentó:kon, learning how to climb trees as swiftly as a mountain lion and to hunt as deftly as a wolf.

The first time one of the Homesteaders had found him sleeping in the forest, it had been Myriam. She scolded him like a child; insisting that he could be hurt by any of the wild animals roaming their land, or the elements could aggravate his slowly healing body. Not being able to summon the energy to protest, he endured as Dr. White worried after him as he returned to the Manor. Nonetheless, Connor continued to walk through the forests of his forged home, sleep coming to him often as his wearied body was forced to move. He had denied sleep for so long as his tasks were laid out before him; now that they were finished, his endurance left him quickly.

No matter how much he denied the Homesteader's concerns, Myriam's seemed to be the most grounded in fact, for one day Connor woke to a wolf only feet away from him. Connor jumped, reaching for his Tomahawk, afraid that he had not the strength to defend himself. The wolf, however, just stood, staring at Connor with piercing blue eyes. It bowed its head for a moment, as if it caught scent of something, and then darted away- as if honoring Connor's mourning with its own form of mercy.

Months passed, and still a phantom- yet deep ache still pained him as he pulled on his assassin robes and strapped his weapons to his belt, tightening his boot wraps and hidden blade bracers and pulling his bow and arrows over his back for travels he had been dreading. Connor knew he had to- his obligation to his tribe did not end because he had failed.

Connor had heard rumors among the colonies that the Mohawk tribe had been driven West, out of their land, out of the Mohawk Valley they had so adamantly stayed within. The war had driven so many to things previously thought unimaginable.

There was a part of him that did not want to believe what he heard, it hurt too much to bear, so he maintained a vain hope he wouldn't find only desertion in the stead of the land that used to belong to his people.

Connor despaired as his fears and the rumors were confirmed. The strange ethereal being in the artifact left behind denied he had failed, when so clearly there was nothing to be salvaged from all he had done. Why had he ever left? Maybe they would still be here if I had not. No matter how much the deed felt an obligation, it did not stop his regret.

He healed slowly, old wounds scarring as time went on. As flesh healed along with mind and spirit, Connor felt measurably freed when he was able to climb again, his inherent limp only troubling him after a careless or particularly jarring fall or Leap. He continued to work his body, training as an Assassin, assisting those in the colonies as he could; Achilles would have wanted him to.

His growing contentedness was reassured as he let his hair grow out again. At first, the soft, dark brown fuzz felt foreign, out of place next to his weathered mohawk. Above all, it itched. Connor impatiently scratched at the incessant discomfort, trying to will his hair to grow faster. Soon enough, it was to his shoulders again, and he braided the same feathers and beads into it that he had before. He marked it as a sign of healing, of acceptance and of inner victory. Connor only wished that the man before him in the mirror didn't remind him so much of souls lost to an endless war. A face of both Mother and Father- still young eyes so burdened by death.

When old demons came to haunt him, he witnessed the power in the hands of power hungry and the weak and the bold, he felt it take hold of him like a vice, unrelenting and merciless. He felt the most wretched kind of heartache as he was given another chance for his past mistakes and still he failed. Not even he could provide his own solace in his futile efforts that could only end in madness.

A year passed, and soon there would be nothing for anyone to remember that Connor's people once inhabited the Mohawk Valley. Those who drove the Kanien'kehá:ka away from their lands were close to inhabiting it, industrializing land that was not their own. Sometimes, Connor wondered why he defended those who were outsiders to this sacred place; he then remembered those at the Homestead, the innocent people who did not wish to conquer, only live their lives freely, as was their right. Every person had the right to freedom.

Connor forced himself to visit his old village for the final time. Memories brought as he walked through the barrier walls, past where they used to grow crops and into what used to be the Clan Mother's Longhouse were painful, and it was all he could do to not let his tears fall. No one was there to see him, yet he felt the eyes of those he failed- those whose spirits had passed watching him.

He had seen what the artifact had done to Commander Washington, what the promise of indefinite power had done to him; as he held the Apple over the edge of the Aquila and above the sea, the feeling was disconcertingly familiar.

Connor pulled the years-old chest from under a wooden bench, heart pounding as he opened it. The round artifact, the size of the Apple of Eden sat in the middle, as it always had. Connor felt a surge of anger, of remorse, and of fear as he took the Apple in his hands. The world around him fell away and was replaced by black laced with gold. The translucent being appeared before him.

"Your mission has been completed, the key is placed for the right hands to use it."

"What are you?" Connor was tired of these beings' riddles and prophecies.

"You do not truly wish to know what we are, but rather, what our purpose is." It was a different voice than the one who had led him to leave his village and fight for the assassins, so many years ago.

"I want to know why you put these things in the hands of mortal men who have no control over them- they lead to nothing but chaos."

"We left them so that man could help where we failed."

"Just so you can see us fail your bidding?"

"Men have failed, but you have not." "You keep saying that, but what is the victory in my people being driven out of their home, my work being for nothing? It is as if I have done nothing at all, the British still conquer, Colonists and Patriots alike struggling for life, all while their leaders practice the very thing they hope to combat. Tell me, what is the point if such tumult is never to be solved?"

"Our work is to prevent destruction, on a far more profound scale than man's small revolutions."

"Thousands have died, men, women, and children, young and old, innocent, why do they deserve any less than you, or anyone?"

"You do not understand. You are an important link in a chain of those destined to lead to the salvation of man, so that the planet will be saved and life can continue. However futile your work may seem, it is infinitely important. He who will save you thrives and will continue because of your work."

"Why me?"

"Fate."

"Am I only to achieve what I must, for your greater purpose, with no control over my own life?" Such a notion was far from the freedom Connor strove for, sacrificed for. It made him shudder.

"Freedom is absolute, and inherent in each life who chooses."

"Mine is spent." Bitterness tinged Connor's tone. He had given so much, was it so wrong to expect something in return? The thought left him quickly. He had given so much, could no one benefit?

"Yours ensures that of others in the future."

"The future is irrelevant to me. All I have is now, and I do not like all that I have caused."

"You have given freedom, Ratohnhaké:ton." Connor recoiled at the sound of his name whispered by one he did not trust.

"What am I to do now, if I have given freedom? I still see injustice in the streets of the colonies, oppression and greed in the places of supposed liberation. It is as if I have done nothing at all."

"Your defiance is immeasurable, and influence greater than can be noted." The translucent being regarded him with a scrutinizing eye for a moment. "You are still to be of great use."

"I...do not understand."

"You state that you have no further purpose, but all that you have done has led you here. The most important thing, perhaps." As the being's last words faded, a sigh with the wind, the surrounding gold the artifact emitted dimmed. Connor could feel the gathering power within it, coursing beneath the surface so that it almost vibrated in his hands. He looked down at the Apple, questioning. Without warning, the Apple's energy was released, a shockwave of light exploding from its core.

Connor dropped the Apple in his surprise, the wave of light throwing him back. For a moment- blinded by light and overcome with such ancient power- Connor felt he was floating, being carried by ancient forces that eluded his understanding. As quickly as it came, the suspension was ripped away and he was pulled back to the earth, the shock of impact tearing him from the world of the waking.

It was sound that came to him first. The sound of water dripping from above ground run-off was familiar, however the echo that bounced off of stone walls felt foreign as the slightest whisper of sound seemed miles away. The sound of labored breathing alarmed him. He had been alone, hadn't he? Perhaps Sofia had come and tried to find him after being gone so long, or the alarming flash of light. Had anything happened to her?

The next sense to greet him was smell. The dank odor of ancient stone in an underground place was familiar, but the fading scent of burnt flesh made his breath hitch in fear. Was he dead? Did Those Who Came Before feel it necessary to kill him after he had served his purpose?

Groggily, Ezio clambered to wakefulness, his eyes first focusing on high, vaulted ceilings matching the massiveness of the chamber. Ezio dragged heavy limbs so that he was sitting, looking around him to find his bearings.

While Altair's library was large, it was nothing compared to the immensity of the place he found himself. His eyes adjusted to the dark, he marveled at the alien architecture and craftwork of both metal and stone, obsidian interweaved through the structures that added to its malevolence. Ezio's gaze fell to the prone figure, only a few feet away from him; it bore achingly familiar white robes, the signature of a Master Assassin of the Syrian Brotherhood.

"Altair." Ezio's breath came as a whisper. Perhaps this is the afterlife. Ezio climbed to his feet, internally remarking at the hidden blade bracers still strapped to his arms, when he was certain he had taken them off. It was with the sound of his movement that Altair stirred, groaning as he struggled to consciousness. Ezio's presence startled him, and as the Italian Mentor approached, Altair's hand automatically went up, the hidden blade engaged and ready to spill blood if need be. Ezio jumped back, his own hidden blades extended.

"Peace, Brother. I do not wish to harm you." Altair looked over the stranger before him. His accent and words were unfamiliar to him, however more unfamiliar to him was how he felt inside his own skin. No longer did the aches and pains and hindrances of age plague him, and the weight of the robes on his shoulders had not the bearing of a Grandmaster, but of a Master Assassin, so young and agile and everything Altair hadn't had for ages.

"Who are you?" Altair warily gained his feet, stumbling slightly as the layers of aging was stripped away from him. He was young again. What sorcery has done this? Is this death? Is this all I ever had to look forward to?

"Ezio Auditore da Firenze. Mentor of the Italian Assassins. You are Altair Ibn La'ahad, are you not?"

"How do you know my name? I have not heard yours in the correspondences from our brothers in Italy. Your dialect is foreign to me." Altair's eyes narrowed. The name bothered him. It seemed so familiar, but he could not connect the face with the name.

"I have read your Codex and retrieved your keys to Masyaf's library. We are of the same order, but of different eras." Altair eyed the double hidden blades, the foreign robes he'd never seen before; the red belt trailing behind the Italian, along with the Assassin symbol faded into the fabric the only things that seemed recognizable. Ezio retracted his blades, his hands held above his head to assure he did not mean harm to the Grandmaster. Altair's eyes narrowed. They were not threatening, but they made Ezio feel exposed. After an uncertain silence, Altair's eyebrows lifted.

"Ezio."

"You know me?"

"I know where I have heard the name. Only briefly, as an afterthought of the voices within the Apple. As they gave me answers to further our Brotherhood, they spoke also of other things- things that I could never fully capture or understand. They spoke of other assassins, though. Assassins through time who would lead and save the world from impending doom. I have heard your name spoken among them, as one of my descendants." Altair's stance relaxed, his hidden blade disengaged as he brought his fist across his chest.

"Safety and Peace, brother." Ezio returned the gesture.

"Nothing is True."

"Everything is permitted." Though Ezio's journey had ended, he had even more questions for the Mentor before him. He had come to idolize the Grandmaster, in a way. There were times when he felt lost, and Altair's profound strength had motivated him. He wondered how such a thing was possible. Ezio was just about to speak as Altair's eye caught something behind him. Ezio turned, and was unable to stop his mouth from opening in shock of what his own eyes met. As if a character from a storybook had come to life before him, Ezio stood looking at Desmond Miles, in the flesh. Unbelievable. What could cause such an immensely impossible thing to occur? The man the Ones Who Came Before guided Ezio to help was brought across centuries, across earth and sea so that they were in the same physical space as one another; or maybe Ezio and Altair were brought to him.

"Desmond." Ezio dropped to one knee, sensing the direness in the air. The faint waft of burnt flesh still tugged at his senses. Ezio put a hand on Desmond's chest, the latter's stillness bringing the former to fear. Desmond's right arm was charred and burned beyond recognition of a human limb.

"No." Ezio growled. Yet again, no matter what was done, they, he had failed against their eternal struggle. Ezio put his hands on Desmond's shoulders, every moment building his remorse.

A familiar golden light flashed, forming into the figure of a woman, one Ezio had seen before, so many years ago. In that moment, the memory was painful.

Ezio took his hands off of Desmond's shoulders, looking to Minerva, rage lighting his eyes as he darted to his feet. Altair looked between the precursor, Ezio, and the man lying before them. He knelt where Ezio had left by the man's side, brow furrowing.

"You lied!" Only the rationale that what he saw was merely a hologram kept him from lashing out further. "Desmond was to be the one who achieved what no one else could. An end to this bloodshed! Nothing has changed, and how he's..." Ezio's voice caught in his throat. He was taken aback by his own reaction. Someone he'd only ever met with the endless fabrics of time forging yet between them.

"Hey!" Altair shouted to Ezio.

"What? Do you want to excuse them from killing an innocent member of our Brotherhood?" Altair thoughtfully regarded Desmond, and then looked back to Ezio.

"I would never. That is what I am trying to tell you. He is not dead." Ezio's eyes widened, rushing to where Altair now knelt before their descendant. "You have Eagle Vision, do you not?" Altair looked to Ezio. Ezio nodded. Without another word, Ezio closed his eyes, concentrating on the energy that gathered around him. Opening his eyes, both the men before him glowed a cool blue. Desmond's aura was faint, even fainter still was the rise and fall of his chest. As his vision switched, his eyes flicked to Minerva.

"How?" The equivalent to a shoulder shrug made Ezio's eyes narrow.

"Desmond Miles is an enigma, even to us. He defies odds that even we do not understand. All I know is that he is alive now, and that he can put an end to Juno's plan."

"Since when have you ever wanted to put the fate of your precious world into the hands of a mortal? You manipulate and you plan, just so we can be your puppets." Ezio hissed.

"We never planned this... I never planned this. This is your world now, Assassin. Do with it as you may. And it is so as the chosen one will yet find no respite." Minerva was gone in a flicker of gold. Without the luminous hologram, the gray of the chamber was heavy upon them.

"What do we do?" The question echoed through the cavern, chilling them as the heavy air around them did. They were utterly lost- in a time and place that held no sense of bearing, with no one to guide them. The two locked gazes and froze. Neither of them knew. Ezio regarded Altair, then Desmond, and then the cold, ancient walls that enveloped them. There has to be some way out, if we managed to get in. The thought was a start, and all they needed.

"We start walking." Ezio said. He placed his arms underneath Desmond's legs and shoulders, lifting him as he stood. Altair warily followed, never taking his eyes off of the mentor as they made their way through the Temple.

Neither of the two said anything, the only noise that echoed through the ancient walls their breathing and scuffing feet. Ezio glanced back at Altair, whose face was obscured in the darkness further by his hood. What brought them all here, to this sacred place, where were they, when were they and why? Ezio was weary of questions that seemed to have no answers, the promise of resolve futile in the face of these 'Ones who came before.' Neither of them had a clue as to what they had to do, or where they could go, but the promise of fresh air and being out of such a confining space was drive enough.

Their collective Eagle Vision was what guided them through the ancient, foreboding Temple. As senses honed, they caught the wisps of a trail, and they could only put faith in fate that it wouldn't lead them astray.

Rebecca grimaced as the wind bit at her face and fear coiled in her stomach. Sleet had turned to snow during their trek, and the silent night of ice did nothing to calm her. The three nervously looked to one another as they trudged on, a resolve had built between them that helped them continue. Still, Rebecca swore he could feel souls of the history passed on the land they walked staring at the back of her head. It unnerved her as much as the echoes with no speaker had in the Grand Temple as they had worked before the End. Every noise that wasn't a footfall made the hair on the back of her neck stand.

The three crested a hill that at its base sat the Temple. The place wasn't surrounded by unmarked government vehicles or illuminated by dozens of spotlights, so Rebecca tried to herald it as a good sign. Her feeble attempt at optimism was turned to a ravaging fear as two-three figures emerged from the mass of the temple. Rebecca bit back a curse as she pulled Shaun by the shoulders behind a tree. William mirrored their movement, noticing the figures as Rebecca did. The dark of night was disorienting, the clouds that dropped snow also obscuring the sunrise as the witching hour turned to dawn.

Rebecca took in a quick breath of air as realization hit the three of them.

"What the fuck?" Shaun whispered.

"That can't be who I think it is." Rebecca looked over Shaun's shoulder.

"Ezio Auditore and Altair Ibn La'ahad. Are we dreaming?" Shaun looked back to Rebecca, and then to William. The latter had already started moving, procuring a pistol and leveling the barrel at the assassins.

"Bill, no." Shaun jumped forward, darting across the opening between trees and taking William's hands in his own.

"It's not them, Shaun, it can't be." Ezio and Altair stopped at the sound of the three's movement.

"Who else could it be? We've seen wilder things than this, and unless the Templars are into role-playing now, I would accept that they are actually your ancestors."

"It could be a hologram."

"For what purpose? The First Civilization are manipulating fuckers, but there is no reason for this."

"It could be a trap." "Again with the 'it could be.' William, whatever they are, whoever they are, they have Desmond and I don't think they'll take kindly to having a gun pointed at them." A lance of desperation flashed across William's eyes. He looked between the assassins and Shaun, letting out a frustrated huff. William uncocked his gun, flicking the safety on before putting it back in the holster.

"What do you suppose we do?" William asked, casting another nervous glance to the assassins. They still stood, rooted to their spots and wary of the noises of the forest. Rebecca had made it across the tree line to Shaun and William.

"We have to approach them." Rebecca said.

"Uh, no." Shaun's eyes widened. "They're Master Assassins, and they don't know us. I doubt they'll be so warm and welcoming as high hopes would suggest."

"How else are we going to get Desmond?" Rebecca countered. "If we don't threaten them, they won't so readily attack us."

"And then we can all be friends and everything will be peachy?" Shaun's sarcasm never faltered.

"Rebecca's right, Shaun." William silenced them both. "We have no other choice." The agreement sat among them for a moment. Shaun nodded.

William was the first to reveal himself from behind the trees. Ezio and Altair tensed, locking on William's position in seconds. The shick of Altair's hidden blade was audible through the Winter's quiet.

Shit. Shaun held his breath, following William. Rebecca followed close behind. All of them held their hands up to assure their peace. Ezio murmured something over his shoulder to Altair. The latter held his ground for a moment, before nodding, letting his arms drop to his sides.

"We are fellow assassins." William spoke. "We mean no harm. You have my son, Desmond."

"Desmond is your son?" Ezio questioned. He regarded the strangers with caution. Their auras shone blue, but he had been deceived before.

"Yes." He died to save us all, and I just want to be able to say goodbye. Please. "We came back to retrieve his body, give him the respects an assassin deserves." William clenched his jaw as he looked to his son.

Ezio cradled Desmond in his arms as if he were an infant- his head resting against Ezio's chest, supported by his arm. When had Desmond's face become so drawn and pale? When had the boy gathered the strength to take the weight of the world? William cringed as he saw how severely Desmond's right arm was. The price to save the world. William looked back into Ezio's eyes. Puzzlement met him.

"Your son lives." William's hands balled into fists.

"You're lying to me you..." William advanced, Shaun and Rebecca's hands on his shoulders the only thing keeping him from the two assassins from the past. Ezio took a step back, gripping Desmond tighter, as if protecting him.

"I'm not lying. His life resonates within him. It is not strong, but he still draws breath." William felt as though his heart stopped. He shrugged out of Shaun and Rebecca's hold, walking closer to Ezio as he held Desmond. He did nothing to quell the shaking in his fingers as he reached to check the pulse under Desmond's chin. Sudden tears fell from his eyes as he put his free hand over his mouth. The faint heartbeat under his fingers seemed the most relieving feeling in the world and stars above. William pulled his hand away and fought for a semblance of composure. Had the world actually ended, and were they all in the spirit's place where all lived anew? William turned to Shaun and Rebecca, his eyes confirming what Ezio had said. Shaun's eyebrows raised and Rebecca's jaw dropped, tears glistening in both their eyes.

"We need to make it to the city." He turned so that he spoke to Ezio and Altair as well. "There's an old apartment building that one of our teams was stationed. It hasn't been compromised, as far as I know, so we'll head there." The others nodded. Altair and Ezio still regarded William with caution, but they had no other options.

"Shaun, is the van still functional?"

"I think so. As I remember, it had a terrible turnover, in the cold, but we kept it filled and in working order. As long as the Templars haven't found it, it's available." William nodded.

"Let's go, then." Shaun looked to the near lifeless man in Ezio's arm. The shock had yet to wear off, and adrenalin buzzed through his body as he led the four to where the van was parked.

He had just started to accept the feeling of a thin blanket of security in their plan and the two Master Assassins at their backs, when the sound of footsteps came up behind them and an arrow primed by a bow was aimed in their direction.

Connor woke to the familiar bite of Winter, shaking from the cold. The woods around him were recognizable, though they seemed aged. He dimly remembered what he had heard before he lost consciousness, and as he sat up, he realized he was no longer in his old village, but in the middle of an unknown place. At the sound of voices, Connor stiffly clambered to his feet, his hands finding purchase on a nearby tree trunk. As he steadied himself, he started to climb.

The top branches of the tree gave Connor an apt viewpoint. Six people stood in a clearing, speaking among themselves. One appeared to be incapacitated, yet still Connor was outnumbered. He considered that they may be allies, yet he also considered how so few who roamed the forest were not willing to attack on sight. He clenched his jaw, uncomfortable with his decision; it was still unjust and cruel to attack with no knowledge of the people's motives. Connor shifted his weight so that he descended back through the branches of the tree he had climbed. He took a deep breath, pulling his bow and an arrow from over his shoulders. He rest the arrow in the middle of the bow's curve, pulling it against the chord so that it was taught. Give me strength. He pleaded to any who would listen. Connor revealed himself from the cover of the trees.

"Connor?" Rebecca questioned, disbelieving. How many other ancestors were going to be time-traveled here? What was it that drew so many to this ancient place? Connor stopped.

"How do you know my name?"

"We're assassins. I don't know how you got here, or how they got here," or how Desmond's alive, "but the year is 2012 and we need to get out of here." Shaun held his hands up for what felt like the thousandth time. As much as he was tired of feeling threatened by people, assassins who should be in different centuries- the glint of Connor's arrowhead looked terrifyingly threatening. Connor's eyes narrowed as Shaun spoke. Shaun regretted speaking, for the first time in a while.

"We're all allies here." William spoke up, standing between Shaun and Connor. "I don't plan on dealing any harm. I just want to get my son and us all to somewhere safe; it's not here. I promise we'll figure out what's going on here, but we have to go. We're all of the same Brotherhood. In times like this, we're stronger together than we are apart." William held his arms out in front of him, his voice nearly pleading.

Connor recognized the sentiment in the man's voice- it was the same as when Achilles spoke to him in concern. Cold brown eyes softened. Connor lowered his bow, sheathing his arrow and pulling the bow back over his shoulders. This group of people were allies; as much as his doubt bothered him, he trusted them. Two of them wore robes he had heard of in age-old tales of past Brotherhoods. If these people were assassins, maybe they could fight for the same thing, and find a sense of purpose.

"Thank you." William said, flint-gray eyes livid with emotion. He turned, beckoning for Shaun to continue on. Connor fell in step behind William, Rebecca, and Shaun- walking next to Ezio and Altair.

The snow had stopped, allowing the clouds to clear enough to see the first rays of sunlight. The soft pink and orange of sunrise illuminated the horizon. As they continued on, the lights of the city had never seemed so distant.