This has been an idea of mine for quite a while, I just haven't gotten around to putting it in writing until now.

Summary: After neglecting his health in interest of his assassinations to further weaken the Templars, Altair falls deathly ill. The only solution anyone can see is for him to use the forbidden Piece of Eden to project his consciousness into an era that may have the cure for the illness. But the Apple has a will of its own, and it has something more planned for him.

'There are many types of sickness, each of them somehow interconnected with the others. The most common is sickness of the body. If the mind is troubled or distracted, the body is without direction and gradually destroys itself.'

A paragraph from the medical texts his master had forced him to read in the early stages of his training swam to the surface of Altair's fevered brain. At that time, it had seemed a useless bit of information, something he would never need to remember. Well, this situation proved otherwise. His musings were cut short by a nasty lurching sensation in his stomach. Swiftly, he shrank back against a haystack, retching to rid himself of the sensation. Saliva mixed with the minimal contents of his stomach splattered the wooden planks of the guard post. When the disturbance had finally calmed, he stood perfectly still for several long moments, chest heaving and sweat trickling down his face. Cursing under his breath, he began to make his way to the bureau. No doubt Malik would be eager to lecture him on the importance of health.

Several times on the way there he came across a patrol of guards. Fortunately, none of them attempted to draw him into combat, which he secretly thanked them for. Eventually, he found the bureau, but the ground level entrance was, of course, sealed. Just like any visitor to the bureau, he would have to enter through the roof. So, steeling himself, he clambered up the wall using the window ledges and iron rungs. He dropped through the grate on the roof and strode to the counter. Just as he always was, Malik was standing behind it poring over a series of old maps.

"Safety and Peace, brother." Altair scowled inwardly when he heard the heavy rasp of his words, like he had swallowed all the sand in the desert. Malik glanced up at his friend, concern flickering in his usually indifferent gaze.

"Upon you as well." He paused, looking Altair over, trying to find any abnormalities in the Master Assassin. "Are you quite all right? Somehow, you do not seem yourself . . ." Altair cursed under his breath. Was his condition truly so obvious to others?

"I am fine, Malik, no need for alarm." The rafiq still looked skeptical, for it was not common for Altair to visit Jerusalem, save for assigning informers in the city.

"Then, pray tell, what brings you here?" Hawk like golden eyes narrowed as Altair struggled to find a plausible excuse. In all honesty, his condition was what had driven him to seek out the bureau in the first place, but to reveal that would only needlessly worry Malik and the Brotherhood. He shook his head, which had begun to pound again with dizzying ferocity. As if to worsen the situation, his lungs and throat began to burn, raising the immediate instinct to cough and clear them. But, not now, because doing so would just confirm Malik's suspicions.

"Nothing particular, just an-" His words halted in his throat as he doubled over, hand clapped over his mouth as another wave of nausea slammed into him at full force. Throaty, rattling coughs ran up and down Altair's body every few seconds. A smoldering heat, like that of hot coals on flesh, blossomed within his gut, growing steadily stronger with each cough. Finally, the attack stopped, and he pulled his hand away from his lips, breath ragged. The digits splayed out in front of his eyes, and he was shocked to find them dripping with blood.

"Altair?!" This time when Malik spoke there was genuine alarm in his voice. Hazelnut met sunrise gold when Altair's gaze shot to his as the Master Assassin crumpled to the floor.

"Assign . . . ment . . ."

That final, pitiful excuse whispered from him before the world went dark.

The white matrix screen of the Animus faded from Desmond's psyche, allowing him to reenter the present. Moments after it did he lurched to his feet, ripping the door to the bathroom open and collapsing on his knees in front of the toilet, vomiting his guts out. His stomach churned and clenched, trying to rid itself of the disgusting heat within his organs. The convulsions gradually ended, but he didn't have the energy to rise from his position. Instead, he pressed his forehead to the cool porcelain bowl while his lungs fought to return air to themselves.

When Lucy had suggested they return to Altair' memories so Desmond cold 'learn' any skill Ezio had neglected to learn, he had not objected. Returning to the Syrian would be a welcome change from the Italian after such a long period of time. But, he did not foresee the impact it had when he was slammed back into his older ancestor's memories. Altair's thought patterns and beliefs were so detached from the carefree cheerfulness of the Italian, that the adjustment was, to say the least, jarring. Someone knocked on the door, which must have swung shut behind him and stepped in without waiting for a response.

"Desmond? Are you all right?" The new assassin raised his pounding head to gaze blearily at Lucy's familiar shape. He pulled himself away from the toilet only to slouch in exhaustion against the wall.

"Yeah . . . Think so . . . I just didn't expect that, is all."

"None of us did. It wasn't something that happens to assassins very commonly." Desmond blinked at her choice of words.

"What didn't? Getting sick?" A nod confirmed it.

"The immune systems of members of the Brotherhood were usually much stronger than other people. It doesn't make sense that Altair would get a condition so serious." Desmond shuddered at the memory of sharing said severe condition with his ancestor.

"Anyway, try and get some rest." The sentence barely registered in Desmond's fever-addled brain. Instead of bothering to get into his makeshift bed, he let his eyelids slide closed with the cool tile pressed against his skin.

Malik had set Altair on the mats and pillows used for a resting area just after he had collapsed, and then had hurried to send a message back to Masyaf and to his informers around the city, hoping to gather any tidbits of knowledge that may help.

For what felt like an eternity, he watched over Altair as his comrade suffered, sweat pouring down his face while he shifted restlessly from the unbearable heat enveloping his skin. Golden eyes bright with fever shifted beneath his closed eyelids, unaware of their surroundings.

A scowl marred Malik's expression as he took in the sight. The heavy white robes the Master Assassin usually wore had been discarded, leaving only a thin cotton shirt underneath. When he and removed them, his hands flinched away in shock at the sheer amount and intensity of the heat radiating of the skin. So, judging from the seriousness of the condition, the fever had been steadily growing worse over a long period of time.

"What in the world were you thinking, Altair?" Malik muttered to the man in utter exasperation. Almost in response, Altair jerked like he'd received an electric shock and then settled again, a moan of pain leaving his lips. Moments afterward he began to shiver violently, drawing his knees up to his chest. Carefully, so as to not wake the obviously-suffering man, Malik covered him with one of the many blankets lying on the floor before setting out to find a doctor.

Anyone who's ever had a fever so bad it felt as if their body was cooking from the inside knows (or should know) what a fever dream is. A nightmare, twisted and corrupted by the mental and physical state of the person experiencing it, the world of sleep, that should be welcome, becomes something terrifying. Coincidentally, Altair did not know what such thing that was, despite scolding others for lacking the same knowledge. He never bothered to make it a major priority to memorize something so insignificant. Why bother to learn something he will never need to know?

Well, each great assassin made a mistake from time to time.

The realm of Altair's dreams was something similar to the world the Apple of Eden had shown him when he had first held it for himself. Everything around him was jet-black, save for the blinding white symbols and unusual structures flashing through the air. Things were shown to him that he did not understand: a frame of wood and fabric constructed to resemble gigantic wings, a metal table with unusual devices attached to it. Nothing that should have existed, and yet it all flashed before his eyes.

And then, of course, there were voices. Muffled at first, but growing stronger. They all jumbled together, only a few choice phrases clarifying enough for him to comprehend.

'It would drive weaker minds insane . . . "

'What have you done to me?'

'He's talking to me?'

'Another artifact? . . . No. You will stay here.'

'The rest is up to you, Desmond.'

'Stop, please!'

Altair's consciousness faltered at the last sentence. The voice . . . it had sounded so desperate, so helpless, so . . . alone. What could make anyone sound like that? The surge of protective rage surprised him. He had never felt so strongly about someone else's well-being, even his Masters. So why, why was this boy so important to him? A boy that may not even exist. Someone who didn't even have a na- No. It - he - had a name. The woman had said it herself. What had it been? Surely he could remember something from mere moments ago! And then . . .

'"Desmond."

The name repeated itself over and over, like a mantra, until it became something he would remember forever, regardless of whether or not it was real.

Desmond

Desmond

Desmond

Several hours and one long, fruitless search for a suitable healer later, Malik returned to the bureau, still fuming from an argument with a doctor who refused to treat anyone who wasn't somehow related to nobility. The still air of the late night of Jerusalem was broken only by the incoherent murmurs of Altair, who was still pressed deeply into the blankets. Malik sighed, his temper abating some as he rummaged for some cloth to wrap the ice the doctor had given him in.

He returned to Altair's side with a carefully tied cloth full of ice, which he placed on the man's forehead. As he did, he could just barely make out a word he seemed to be muttering repeatedly under his breath.

"Des . . . mond . . ." His voice, usually so indifferent and calculating, dripped in affection and, if it was even possible for the man, warmth. Whatever, or whoever, this Desmond was, it was obvious he cared for them a very great deal. So why did he never speak of them to anyone, not even the Master?

A shrill, piercing cry broke Malik out of his reverie. He turned towards the open window, where a young golden eagle perched on the sill, seeming to see right through him with its sharp gaze. He untied the note from around the birds back and read the neat scrawl of the healer in Masyaf fortress.

Malik

I have received your letter and reply with utmost seriousness and prayers that all will not crumble because of what I have done. However, the loss of our Grand Master so early into his enrollment into the position would deal an even greater blow to our forces.

You demanded I take whatever measures necessary as long as he is cured of the illness.

That is what I have sent you.

Safety and Peace be upon you.

Malik frowned again, confused by the doctor's words. Until he turned back to the eagle, which was still staring expectantly up at him. It dipped its head slightly, trying to indicate his burden was not yet lifted. Skeptically, with his heart pounding far beyond natural speed, he followed the path of the yellow irises; and gasped.

Clutched in it's talons was the Apple of Eden.

Constructive criticism is welcomed. If you think this story is worth continuing or not, please let me know.