A/N: This is a Skyrim/Assassins Creed crossover for fun and shamelessly inspired by PurpleButtons0203 and Assassin_J over in AO3.
I don't even know what I'm doing. Send help.
Too damn sober for this
Chapter 1
For all of Juno's megalomaniac devices and blatant hatred for humanity, Desmond thinks that it is perhaps a small kindness for her to lie about it not hurting. It reminds him of a parent ripping a Band-Aid off prematurely on the count of 2 to minimize the pain and though Desmond still hates her, he's reluctantly grateful for her deceit the moment he touches the Eye. Unexpected pain is better than expected pain.
And it does hurt. A lot.
He can barely breathe, let alone form a coherent thought as the Eye burns him, siphoning the heat of the sun through his veins like ichor. How long it lasts, Desmond isn't sure. All he is aware of is fire and the insistent humming in his ears growing louder and louder as the Eye pulses through him.
Endure, something urges him, voice like a combination of hundreds of thousands of millions, you must endure.
It sounds like the world and Desmond latches onto it desperately, using it as an anchor through the torrent attempting to pull him under.
His vision had long faded from the agony, yet in his mind, Desmond sees it—the Earth, shining, spinning, in the void of space and he's almost brought to tears because more importantly, it's safe. He wants to reach for it—surprised when he can feel himself able to, but just before he's about to touch it, can't help but think how strange it is that, enveloped in the sun's glare, the Earth looks a lot like—like—
ENDURE.
The pain reaches its crescendo and Desmond screams, feeling the fire in his chest claw its way mercilessly up his throat. He begs for the end. There's nothing he wants more than for it to end already, and just when he's at the tipping point—
Well.
Death, as it turns out, is eerily quiet—and feels a lot like face planting onto a stone floor.
Desmond isn't quite sure what he had been expecting in the first place, to be honest. There had been more pressing matters at the time after all (either walk away and let the world burn or sacrifice his life and stop the solar flare) so thinking about the afterlife hadn't particularly been something to really stress out about.
(It is mostly the repercussions on those he cared about that had.)
He thinks that pearly gates would have been nice or perhaps a gleaming bar in the sky. Desmond wouldn't have minded either—so long as they give him the respite to rest and wake as just Desmond and not the mismatched caricature of men long dead.
So it's with some amount of disappointment then, when Desmond gathers enough of his scattered and frayed awareness, to realize that he will be granted none of that.
The air is hot like it had been in the Grand Temple, but its humming and thick with something that has Desmond's senses feel dulled. It feels like smoke, thick and heavy as it curls lethargically in his lungs.
He tries to move, but his body is sluggish to respond. He can hardly get his eyes to open but as the seconds tick by, he at least manages to work his fingers. He explores what he can, the pads of his fingers catching uneven grooves on the ground until his pinky and ring finger smear across something warm and wet.
That's weird.
Vaguely, Desmond knows that all of this should concern him. Juno had obviously lied to him yet again. He is very much still alive and the Eye—
Desmond's train of thought derails.
The Eye.
Her freedom.
Ah.
And Desmond wants to laugh because that tricky, tricky bitch—but oddly enough, no feelings arise from the realization of Juno's dishonesty. That should also concern him (he's sane enough to know that that is not a good indication of his mental health) but the thing is, there's nothing left in him except bone deep tiredness and which makes it all the more worse because, 'wow, I really don't fucking care.'
That listlessness lasts all of five seconds—to which bleeds into mild annoyance, sours into frustration, and then, finally, shifts into fury.
Because of course it turns out this way. Of course his choices still end up wrong.
How funny is that?
And this time, Desmond does laugh. It bubbles in his diaphragm, tickles his raw vocal cords, and escapes in throaty hiccups. His eyes are stinging. His chest aches. The whole situation is the funniest thing in the world because Juno lied to him, she must have lied to him because he's still alive and she's free, and the solar flare, what about the SOLAR FLARE, HAD IT ALL BEEN FOR NOTHING—
"By oblivion!"
Desmond's eyes snap open and at the same time that adrenaline chases the sluggishness out of his body, the temperature seems to drop several degrees. The voices in his ears cease, making him realize that the constant low hum he's been hearing hadn't at all been his head after all, but of that of the chanting of the black robed figures standing around him. They seem to hold their breath as he clumsily pushes himself off the ground and it takes Desmond a moment to realize that it isn't just the ground he has been laying on, but a ritualistic satanic pentagram made of blood of a dungeon.
"What the fuck?" Desmond rasps and the robed figures around him recoil in unison (one even faints and if Desmond hadn't been in so much shock, he would have found it hilarious because if they were going to be weird cult guys, then at least, own it) stumbling over themselves with thinly veiled terror. The Assassin stumbles away from the group and when his back hits the wall, there's a clatter as weapons—bows and swords, Desmond realizes numbly—tumble to the ground from the knocked over stand.
The clattering seems to make the robed figures even more agitated, but one of the robed figures however, is braver than the rest. He raises both hands, curling them into loose fists and Desmond has the brief thought of, 'dude, what are you even doing?' before his eyes widen when fire, fucking FIRE, materializes between his palms and shoots right at him.
He throws himself to the side, feeling the heat of it pass inches from his face. His heart hammers in his chest and he can't even fathom what the hell is going on because how is that even possible?!
"Now, brothers! While it's weak!"
''It?'' Desmond thinks in bewilderment but has little time to dwell on it when he sees the rally rouse the others into action. Their hands glow with light and this time when Desmond propelled himself to the other side of the room, it's to get out of the way of a bolt of goddamn lightening. It singes the edge of his hoodie but Desmond barely has time to register that when he hears a whir in the air that is accompanied by a piercing pain in his chest.
"Your soul is ours!" One of the robed figures yells and the staff's head that is pointed at Desmond progressively begins to brighten. Cursing, the Assassin rolls out of the way and just because all this is really starting to piss him off, he grabs a nearby chair and chucks it in their direction. It ends up harmlessly bouncing off a conjured ward-like shield, (because fuck you, magic is apparently a thing) but it's enough of a distraction for Desmond to sprint and scoop up the fallen bow from the ground. It's useless without a projectile but…
'This is gonna suck.' Nonetheless, Desmond braces himself, grips the shaft of the arrow lodged in his left pectoral and yanks it out with a pained grunt. Fire blooms from the entry point, making Desmond's vision go white briefly before he's dipping into a dead man's memories and the white is from something different altogether.
Desmond lets out a slow, steadying breath. His awkward grip on the bow shifts. He notches the bloodied arrow, pulls the string back, and when Desmond releases it straight between the closest man's eyes, it's to phantom sounds of musket fire in his ears and scent of worn leather in his lungs.
The others scatter among terrified screams. Desmond can hardly understand what they're screaming about—doesn't know who these Divines are or what the hell a daedra is—but he wants out.
He snags a dagger off the fallen body, dances it nimbly between his fingers, and just when Desmond is about to make use of it among the robed men's disarray, something catches his attention in the corner of his eyes.
In retrospect, Desmond knows that it should have been nothing of note. Among the gold goblets, fine jewels, and lilac flowers upon the dais, the round object looks dull and nondescript in comparison. Despite that, the object pulls Desmond's gaze to it, making his breath catch and his body still all the same because there is no mistaking the relic.
It's just as he'd last seen it. A Piece of Eden.
Something in Desmond croons. It's his Apple.
He takes a step towards it and at the same time, one of the robed figures gasps.
"The artifact! Don't let it—!"
The robed figure closest to the dais plucks the Apple with a withered hand, but doesn't have it for more than two seconds before Desmond is instantly upon him. The bow cracks and disjoints at the belly when Desmond whips its upper limb across the man's face. The man and Piece of Eden tumble to the ground and when he quickly recovers to reach for the Apple again, a hard cuff with the broken remnants of the bow against his arm buys Desmond enough time to scoop the Apple away.
To Desmond, that was when time seems to freeze. His eyes dilate as the room becomes swathed in a kaleidoscope of gold. Warmth rushes through his body from his connection to the Apple, electrifying every inch of his skin and leaving him gasping for breath. Something like elation bubbles in his chest and Desmond can't help but bask in the alien feeling of rightness that overtakes over him the moment the Apple settles in the palm of his hand like an old friend.
He feels…renewed, for lack of better word. Gone is the lingering ache in his body. The throbbing wound left by the arrow dulls and Desmond knows without checking that the blood has stemmed and clotted. He can't help trembling in exhilaration or the breathless laugh that escapes because goddamn.
For something as accursed as a First Civilization tech, it certainly has its benefits. Desmond rolls the Apple in his hand leisurely and as if in a trance, admires the faint glow it had taken the second it had come into his possession. It's no wonder that such a thing could bring great people under its lull.
The assassin brings the golden orb to eye level and just like that, something in Desmond's mind furls and uncurls. This is his, instinct says with such fervor that Desmond is nearly taken aback until his gaze draws to the whimpering man who had dared to put his filthy mitts on what is his.
"Mine." Desmond snarls, pure, possessive fury coating his voice, and the man scrambles away with a frightened squeal. He idly notes that his other companions have gone strangely quiet and when Desmond turns to them, he sees the cohort huddling on the other side of the room in varying states of apprehension and fear.
'Good,' Desmond thinks viciously. The Apple pulses dangerously in his hand, responding to his anger. It wouldn't be difficult to fight his way out. He could kill them where they stand. He could kill them before they can even blink.
Then, the robed man in the staff steps forward. Desmond tenses, raises the Apple warningly but is caught off guard when instead of attempting to fry him again, the cultist throws his staff to the ground and drops to his knees.
Desmond startles in surprise, "What are you—"
"Spare us."
What?
The robed man's head bends low, touching the ground. "We beg of you, please! Spare us!" Behind him, his brethren follow suit, bowing their heads low.
From their body language—anxious, but resigned—it doesn't look like they would fight him if he decides not to.
Which is good, isn't it? Still, Desmond's stomach twists uncomfortably and he looks away. "Where's the exit?"
"P…Pardon?" The kneeling man asks and recoils when Desmond scowls at him impatiently.
"The exit." Desmond repeats, feeling a headache bloom in his head from their ridiculous pleas. He slides the Apple in a stolen satchel, ignoring the collective sigh of relief at the action. "Where is it?"
"That is all you...?" The man blinks, looking utterly stupefied. His mouth opens and he seems to want to say something else when he suddenly thinks better of it. He slowly points to the wall. "There's… there's a lever over there. It leads back out to Skyrim."
'What the fuck is a Skyrim?' Desmond wants to ask but holds his tongue in favor of following the instruction. The wall slides back easily once the lever is pulled and Desmond grins slightly when he feels a draft across face.
Desmond doesn't look back. At most, he spares a subdued, "thank you" just for politeness' sake before he's off through the narrow tunnel without so much as a backwards glance to the gawking robed cult.
It's a pity too, because if he had, he would have noticed the golden sheen of light that had encompassed the dungeon leave with him.
-0-
'Okay…this is…definitely not New York.'
That is, of course, an understatement to the highest degree.
Desmond blinks dazedly, looking out into the miles and miles of snow covered pine trees out in the distance.
'Maybe… a national park?' Desmond thinks numbly but then retracts that guess almost immediately because last he checked, green auroras like that stretching across the sky aren't natural in any part of the world, let alone the United States.
And neither is goddamn magic.
Christ. Desmond takes a shuddering breath, part of it due of the frigid cold but mostly to temper down the panic threatening to overwhelm him. He catches himself against the trunk of the closest tree. Where in the hell is he? After the debacle at the Grand Temple, he had thought… he had hoped—
Desmond scrubs his face. He bites his lip hard.
With forced calm, the assassin glances around for any identifiable markers but grimaces when a quick survey yields nothing of value. No roads, no signposts, no break in the trees—Desmond clicks his tongue but when he tries again with his Sight, breathes a sigh of relief when he finds the trail of red footprints leading out through the trees. It's faint—hours old considering the intensity of the glow— but it's a path that looks often used. Hopefully it leads to a town or somewhere safe where he can gather his bearings.
Desmond shivers, burrowing into his hoodie as his breath comes out in cloudy puffs. 'Some thicker clothes wouldn't hurt either.'
The forest is quiet as Desmond navigates his way through the brush. The only sounds he can pick up are of the light crunching of the frost flaked ground, the various sounds of nocturnal wildlife, and the chattering of his teeth.
Skyrim, the cultist had called this place. Desmond huffs in mild amusement despite himself. It sounds like something straight out of Tolkien.
'Rebecca would get a kick out of this.' Desmond thinks absentmindedly as he cautiously scales down a slope in the path, careful as to not slip on the frost. He recalled her being a fan of those sorts of stories. Shaun, on the other hand, would probably have an aneurism. Lips twitching, Desmond can already imagine it. He'd flail around angrily, all the while finding some way to pin the blame on Desmond.
And as for his dad… Desmond's steps falter. Well, he'd know what to do. Somehow.
He wonders if he'll ever see them again. It's a sobering thought and Desmond closes his eyes, swallows his grief. He wonders if they're okay—wherever they are now. While he had initially been inclined to believe that Juno had lied to him about sacrificing his life in order to stop the solar flare, his current clearer state of mind has forced him to reconsider that assumption. When he thinks back on it, Juno had seemed very sure of herself. Even Minerva—disapproving as she had been— had acknowledged both options, and thus inadvertently gave them all the more merit.
So maybe Juno hadn't been the one to send him to wherever the hell he is. That still leaves the questions of who, how, and even why—
Desmond stifles a sigh, feeling his head spin. First it's the Assassin/Templar war, and then it's First Civilization drama, and now he has to deal with the magic and mayhem of this strange, new world?
The cosmos, Desmond huffs a little helplessly, seems to really like messing with his head.
He's nearing the edge of the forest where the foliage melds into tundra when Desmond hears it:
"That's close enough."
Under any other circumstance, Desmond would have berated himself for being so deep in thought as to be unaware of his surroundings, especially when it came to unexpected friends or foes. The only reason why Desmond isn't doing such is because he's too busy gawking the moment he notices them—or more particularly, what they're wearing.
"How are you not freezing?!" Desmond can't help but burst out because seeing a campsite of four people isn't all that surprising—seeing them all dressed in essentially furs that only cover 60% of their bodies in 10F temperature, is!
In his surprise, Desmond doesn't notice when he takes a startled step forward until the group collectively narrow their eyes and zero in on the movement. The woman whom had spoken first gets to her feet, drawing a sword from her waist.
"We warned you!"
"You never should have come here!"
And just like that, Desmond's day gets even better.
"Oh, come on! I didn't even do anything!" Desmond yells, aggravated, but when that and backing some steps does nothing to placate the assholes from advancing, there's nothing Desmond can do but turn tail and run.
Is everyone here shoot-first-ask-questions-later?! Desmond immediately throws himself behind the cover of a tree just as arrows embed themselves into the bark, before zigzagging his way through the thicker brush. He can hear them behind him, giving chase and—is that barking?
Desmond spares a glance back and promptly reigns in the very, very, strong urge to curse colorfully into the sky. 'That's a dog. They have a dog. That's SUPER.'
'FUCK SKYRIM.'
Thankfully, Lady Luck seems to shine on him because not one second later does Desmond jolt when hears the welcoming sound of rushing water.
The river. He can lose them at the river. Panting, Desmond sprints to the left towards the direction of the water source. He can hardly see where he's going with the amount of foliage in his way, but Desmond trusts his senses. It's hardly worth watching where he's going when he can hear them quickly catching up behind him.
But not for long. Desmond grins manically, the river loud in his ears. He's almost there. Desmond goes for a running start, aims for the break in the trees, and just when he leaps out of the tall bushes—
"What in the—"
And in that split second, the only things Desmond can register are blonde hair, surprised blue eyes, and the bafflement in a low, deep voice. It's quickly followed by mild surprise in that oh, what are the chances, sort of way before Desmond sends them both tumbling to the riverbank with a cringingly loud crack of skulls from an accidental head-butt.
It takes a whole lot of yelling, annoyingly insistent hands, and his head really hurting—'Concussion. Yep, that's definitely a concussion'—before Desmond knows nothing more.
When Desmond next opens his eyes, he's tied up in a cart.
He's happy to know, at least, that he took the asshole that had been in his way with him.
A/N: Comments/reviews are greatly appreciated~
nikaris