I give you all full permission to get out your pitchforks... I really should be updating either my revised fics or KTTSTB but... this... has... been posted... instead...

I've just gotten into the Assassins creed fandom, and I wanted to write this... I accept flames, because I roast marshmallows and power my home on them. So tell me what you think, tell me what you hate...

Please enjoy despite the spelling and grammar errors I am prone too.

Summary: Each family has something they pass on. Sometimes it is a physical item, and sometimes it is the worded stories of past triumphs or failures. Each heirloom has a meaning and is a gift. Sometimes though, a child can misinterpret what exactly their heirloom is.

Heirloom.

I watch Desmond as he runs; the smoothness and stealth of his stride and gait are reassuring, even if they are unnerving. He was only a bartender a few months ago; he had abandoned his heritage in favour of his own pursuits. Though, I know the constant hiding, the terrifying 'look-over-your-shoulder' lifestyle wore on him. He was born to be an assassin, and now, by the play of someone else's hand, he is.

Altair was the first one I was given to. He looked upon me like I was a God, but he had been raised to believe that by the man who took him in and cultivated a killing machine into the man. It was unnerving to be so highly regarded, especially by some boy drunk on glory.

I was disgusted through a majority of his life. This arrogance he held, this soul deep belief that he was unstoppable and was beyond the creed. It disgusted and unsettled me. Never before have I felt so used.

That does not mean I think he deserved to be so stripped of himself. Then again, I cannot regret what happened, being taken away from him for a time. When I came back, I was pleasantly surprised to see that Altair had changed, had righted himself and found his peace and respect- self and for others.

He questioned the norm and stuck to the creed. He realised his mistakes, he finally fought for the people and their freedom. I was pleased to know he had rekindled his friendship with Malik, the boy would do him well. I found myself full of pride to know that he used me to fight for his brothers and not for himself.

I remember when Al Mualim gave me back to him I felt the relief that washed over him when my weight was replaced and when he was reinstated. I knew when he looked down at me that he would not abuse me again. His arrogance was gone and his might restored.

When his master and teacher betrayed us even I had no words to express the resentment and pain. While Altair had been used as a means to an end, I had been used against my master. That pain, that anger, it had no release but through Al Mualim's chest. When I was finally able to aid Altair in bestowing Al Mualim with his end I felt vindicated. Though, it is disgusting and terrifying to know I can hold such hate in myself.

I stayed with Altair then for the rest of his life. I watched him become high master, watched as he restored the Brotherhood to its former, intended glory. It was wonderful to know my master had changed for the better and that I could be of service for this betterment.

I watched his family grow. Watched his children born.

I changed hands many times. Many people abused me, and many people used me for glorious things. I cannot remember all of them; I have passed hands too many times. But another struck me as odd and memorable.

There was Ezio Auditore da Firenze. He was a character. So carefree and innocent. Very liberal with his body, but the time was of such liberalities. I did not like the reason in which I became his.

Then there was Ezio, his father had to die for me to be passed on, something that until then wasn't necessarily the case. It was terrifying. I was used first for revenge, then later for my true cause.

It hurt really to watch him grow under the death of his father and brothers, his sister and mother plaguing his mind and every action.

But he was noble. He did not use me in anger or haste. He learnt the lessons showed to him well and his blood rite often exceeded even Altair's. It was mesmerising.

I watched as he modified my purpose through his uncle's stern, clever words and his friend's keen, creative mind. He fixed what was broken and healed the wounds of the people, and his own words.

All throughout my life under him he did not lose that noble heart, always kind to the people, and ever respectful of his enemies.

I cannot help but be proud that I was there, assisting him all the way.

Of course, he faced many trials. He would be lulled into a sense of finality, of calm. Then there would be an enemy his kind heart spared, or one who lost their own heart o revenge. These men would destroy Ezio's world again, drag him into a word of fighting and pain.

He tried to follow Altair, he tried to follow himself. Though I cannot say whether he achieved either.

I watched again as his family grew, as he aged and became rugged and legendary. Again, I was so very proud of him.

I changed hands for many more generations, I lived through battle after battle and saw m master's age and pass me on to their heirs. I realised during Ezio's time that I was an heirloom, and one that was so precious and highly-regarded that the children who wore me only realised my value after their own first blood.

Through the generations I watched on, I gave support and comfort where I could. I did my job and I worked the best I could.

Then I was put in a box. I was not handed down and I was not worn or needed again. I knew my last master had a son, but where he was I wasn't sure. All I knew was that he wasn't ready.

I watched him though, when I knew he was near, I could feel his pain and triumph and his initial reluctance to take me to his heart. But, in the end I was his heirloom and was the one who would protect him in this time of trouble. Even reluctant, Desmond knew how important I was.

Desmond stops suddenly. His feet balance expertly on the edge of the building, high above the rushing streets and the busy people. His pursuers are still there, chasing him, but they are far behind, dealing with the chaos our very presences inspire. The dead lay in out wake, the soldiers who dared to stand in our way, but Desmond is not worried, and neither am I.

As he stands, his arms resting just raised from his sides to balance, I marvel at him. I never believed I would be given to him, until now I was with his comrades, waiting for my true heir to accept me. But here he is, finally a true assassin, finally accepting and embodying his calling.

He looks down at his arm, the blade bloodied and dripping from the most recent kill. He brings the gauntlet to his face and stares intently at the assassin's crest wrought perfectly onto the leather and metal. It is beautiful, I will admit that.

"I hope you continue to protect me." he murmurs with both pride, assurance, and hope. "You certainly are the only useful heirloom the old man gave me."

I find it funny really, how not one of my masters has ever understood that the blade strapped to their arm was not the only heirloom that was passed onto them, they didn't understand that that blade was not the only one who protected them.

I protect them from myself, and to their enemies and targets I present myself. It is the only truth in this world. The Templars will never understand. I suppose, not even the assassins will ever understand what gifts they have been given, at least, not both gifts.

So there it is, a fail at an Assassin's Creed fic. I hope you enjoyed. I kind of like this.

Thank you for reading, I'd love a review. (As you can –probably- tell I haven't finished Brotherhood or Revelations or 3) so please don't be mad by so little Ezio.

Sorry if this confused you. Feel free to ask me what it all means; I look forward to seeing who you think was telling this story.

Until Next time.

~~Bleach-ed-Na-tsu :3