Masyef 1192
There was a haze surrounding Altaïr, similar and yet not, to that which invaded him during the final moment of his kills. All else faded away and his entire being was focused on that of his prey. His body moved of its own accord, turning slowly to scan the space for any sort of recognizable objects. The haze was nearly impenetrable.
Just as he began to wonder if there was any hope of making it through the whiteness, his eyes lighted on a shadow in the shape of a man. The image was so faint, if not for his skilled vision, he would have over looked it completely. It was barely an outline, tall and lean.
With eyes narrowed, he began to stalk forward. Frustration rose as with each step as the figure remained the same distance from him. No amount of movement brought him any closer and a growl rumbled from his throat.
"Who are you?" he called out.
There was no response, only the slight shifting of the body. He called out again, only to be met with silence.
For what seemed like an eternity, he stared at the hazy figure when movement caught his gaze. A hand reached toward him. Suddenly his heart was in his chest and without knowing it, he too was reaching toward the extended hand. He tried to focus on something tangible and definite—some indication of who was reaching for him.
He found he wanted nothing more than to grasp that hand. His body tensed and his breathing stilled as their fingers neared until only a hair's breadth of distance was between them. Just as they were to touch, the world shattered around him.
Eyes shot open with a gasp as Altaïr jerked awake, his heart pounding powerfully in his chest. He lifted a hand to grasp at the thin material of his sleeping tunic. Was that his other? Had he nearly touched him?
A low rumbling growl escaped and he slid shakily from bedding he slept upon. The room was mostly bare, much of the furniture having been destroyed by him after Al Mualim's death in his rage of his mentor's betrayal. When he had become Mentor, he wanted nothing that had belonged to the man. His scrolls were placed in the library and his furnishings and clothing destroyed.
Altaïr had never been one for owning more belongings than he could carry on his person. Al Mualim's former rooms, now his own, were possessing only of a desk, a bedding pallet with pillows, a few weapon racks, and a chest for his garments. It was a simply furnished room. He preferred it as such. The Mentor should not have more possessions than the assassin's under his watch.
Pressing a hand to his face, he took a few deep, calming breaths and thought back on his dream. The white haze had obscured any definition, but he knew without any doubt that the figure was his Guardian. He was the man who had traveled with him on his journeys. He had been so close to touching him, to feeling completion again after the last few weeks of emptiness. So close, and yet he had woken just heartbeats before they had touched.
A snarl curled his lip and he ripped his sleeping tunic over his head, stalking toward his clothing chest. He tugged on a pair of loose dark trousers and hooded robes. Leather boots were slipped on with practiced ease. It was a familiar routine, one he had completed on a daily basis for the majority of his life. He forwent shaving in favor of reaching his destination more quickly. The angry and frustrated energy needed to be expelled before he killed a Brother in his distress. Allah forbid him having to deal with Malik's wrath if such a thing occurred.
He faced his racks of weapons, choosing a sword from those displayed and strapped on his hidden blade bracer with practiced ease. The thin blade shot forward with a cursory clenching of his fist, his missing ring finger creating a window for the blade. The hiss of the weapon extending outward was a familiar sound. He left off his belt and dagger harness. He wouldn't need them in order to expel the emotions running rampant through him.
The sun had not even breached the horizon when he prowled from his room, firmly ignoring the guards who patrolled the halls of the fortress. Torches lit the way toward the central yard and to the training ring where practice dummies were set up for novices and Brothers alike. The wooden dummies were nicked and worn, needing to be replaced every few weeks, but they would do for his purposes.
It was too early for any but the patrolling guards to be out. The fading moon providing him enough light for his task.
An easy twirl of the blade tested the weight and balance, not that he was concerned. It was one of his blades. A cruel smile split his face as he stalked toward the waiting dummy, striking without recourse in a quick slice. He was an unforgiving opponent to his target.
A tremor of reverberation worked up his arm, only giving him a moment's pause before he was attacking the wood in earnest. His muscles began to burn, which he ignored. All his focus was on his target.
In a vague part of his mind, he was aware of the gathering audience—first the guards, then early risen novices. None were an immediate threat and he ignored them all. The sun was peaking over the walls of the fortress, bathing the area in warm light.
Sweat dripped into his eyes, bringing a slight burn that he ignored. He refused to stop his attack until he could no longer swing his sword. The clang of his weapon against the wood brought murmurs from the onlookers and offered little more than a cursory distraction.
"Altaïr!"
The harshness of Malik's voice broke through his nearly meditative state and gave him pause. A hiss of breath escaped through his teeth as he turned to see his old partner standing amidst the gathered crowd. The crowd was now silent as church mice, intent on the interaction between the two.
"What are you doing?"
Altaïr shrugged a shoulder and tilted his head so to allow the arrogant smirk gracing his lips to be seen. "Practicing."
"Allah, give me patience," muttered Malik as he stormed into the practice area. "If you think that dummy will give you any challenge, you are mistaken."
"The dummy or a sparring partner are the same to me," he said with a sneer. "Neither will give a challenge."
He could see Malik's brow twitch and nearly laughed. Malik was so easy to goad. They had spent nearly all their lives in the presence of the other. Altaïr knew him very well and as such, was well aware that the words would push him into joining him in the sparring ring. He had not lied with his earlier statement. There were few who could offer him any sort of challenge.
"Do you think you have anything left?" asked Malik calmly as he drew the sword from his waist scabbard.
"Do you think a one-armed man would offer me any challenge?" he shot back, feeling a small bit of malicious pleasure at the way Malik stiffened.
Malik took a few practice swings of his sword. "You cannot goad me into mindlessly attacking, Altaïr. I have known you for too long. You can't win with cheap tricks. I am not a novice."
Altaïr grunted and took his place before his opponent. "We shall see."
The first strike of their blades was felt all the way up to his shoulder. Malik was not holding back, not that he wanted him to. This was exactly what he desired. He wanted the pain that came from the clashing of steel in real battle. Granted, he doubted that Malik would go for killing blows, but he would not pull his attacks either. This was as close to real battle as he would come without going into the wilderness in search of bandits or Templar guards.
His parry of the next attack came a mere second too late, and though while he did parry enough to prevent injury, the blade sliced through his tunic and nicked the flesh of his upper arm. Blood stained through the material, marking the blow.
Malik did not bother to hide his gloat. "First blood is mine, Altaïr."
"That is all you'll get, Dai." Altaïr lunged forward with nearly unparalleled speed.
All Malik could do was defend at that point. Altaïr's moves were too quick, too feral. He was like a man possessed. Though he did not attack with killing blows, he did not allow Malik any leeway to retaliate an attack.
A quick twist of his body and Malik was knocked from his feet by the force of the swing. Before he could even regain his footing and grip his sword, Altaïr was there, his sword pressed against his jugular with just enough force to bring a trickle of blood to the surface.
"Yield?" he growled, eyes flashing.
Malik swallowed against the blade and nodded his acquiescence. "I yield."
Altaïr kept the blade at Malik's neck for another heartbeat before withdrawing the weapon and turning on his heel. He did not look back as several novices rushed to assist Malik to his feet. His body was exhausted, but nothing was done to stop the racing thoughts spiraling through his mind. If he wanted to stop thinking, it would take more than a spirited spar in the courtyard.
Pressing his fingers to the blood-stained material on his arm, he hissed a breath. Malik was good, even one-armed he was better than ten fully initiated Brothers. That he was able to land a blow was remarkable and he was grateful that his friend was no longer his enemy. Though, while Malik might have forgiven him for Kadar's death, Altaïr had not forgiven himself. His arrogance of that time was a shameful memory and thinking on it only brought with it a keener ache.
Though he hadn't known it at the time, not until much later, Solomon's Temple was the first time he had truly felt the presence of his Guardian. Of course, his arrogance had blocked out any feelings of the other. Though, in his defense, his Guardian's presence had been extremely weak at the time. Only knowing the feeling of the other and personal retrospect had allowed him to realize that his other had seen him at his absolute worst as he allowed one Brother to die and the other to be maimed.
Dropping his hand, he pushed open the door to his room when his body went rigid. The sensation was akin to that of the other and he nearly moaned in relief. His Guardian was back.
Only…the sensation was less internal and more external. The hairs on his arm and the back of his neck raised to attention. The sensation of eyes focused on him caused him to activate his Eagle Vision. For a moment there was nothing, until his eyes spotted a haze against the far wall.
For several seconds it lacked all form, until very gradually a body formed. At first, it was only the form that could vaguely be described as a man. As the seconds ticked by, it acquired more detain. The imaged remained intangible to the degree that he could see the stonework of the wall behind him, yet the fine features of his face came into stark definition.
Breath stilled in Altaïr's chest as the head which was bowed, almost as if praying lifted and dark eyes met his. Lips parted and eyes widened before sorrow replaced the surprise and the head lowered again. That sadness tore at his insides with more skill than the way his hidden blade slipped into his target. He could not stop his feet from taking him the distance across the room until he crouched before the frame.
He could see the elegance of long fingers. His eyes traced the veins visible beneath the skin before directing his gaze to the lowered head. When those dark eyes lifted again, the specter gasped and jerked away from him, shifting as far as he could. Though he could see the shock and fear expressed on the features before him, his heart pounded upon having a face to look upon.
Perhaps some might say their features were similar, yet to him, it was only in the vaguest sense. The man before him shared a comparable nose and equally lean face, but the similarities ended there. The eyes displayed before him were rounder and the lips several degrees fuller. He wore a matching scar on said lips and Altaïr longed to know how he had acquired it. Looking closer, he frowned. This man was far too thin, bordering on gaunt, though his clothing made it difficult to truly judge.
Without thinking, his hand extended to the silent figure and attempted to brush against the pale cheeks only to watch his hand drift through him. A tingling shot up his arm from where his hand passed through and his breath hitched. Though no sound escaped the ghostly figure, his eyes closed and his lips parted as if to moan.
"What is your name?" he asked the ghost.
Before he could answer, dark eyes shot open and stared at the wall over his shoulder before the figure vanished in an instant, as if he had never been there at all. "No! Come back," he shouted at the wall.
There was no answer.
And the anger ripped through him once more with increased vengeance.
Altaïr shot to his feet and punched a fist against the stone. Again and again he slammed his knuckles into the unforgiving stone. It was as if he had lost his Guardian all over again.
Giving the wall one last punch, he stepped back and looked at his knuckles. The gauntlets he wore had protected his knuckles from scraping, but they hurt. He had no doubt they were severely bruised and yet, could not find the strength to care.
Sliding down the wall until he sat on the hard floor, he stared at the space that had been vacated on minutes ago. Would he come back? Had it been real or only his mind tempting him with the thought of finding his missing half? All he could do was wait.
Italy 2018
Desmond groaned upon being shaken awake by Lucy. He blinked blearily up at her, actually surprised that he had fallen asleep in the back of the swaying truck. A quick swipe over his eyes cleared his vision of any remaining sleep when all he wished was to return to the dream of Altaïr. He wouldn't tell her, though. She would probably say it was part of the Bleeding Effect. That seemed to be her excuse for everything that was not normal.
He wanted to scream at her. How was any of this normal? How was two secret organizations that had battled each other for hundreds, if not thousands of years normal? But then, as he had learned with Vidic, you can't reason with crazy.
So he remained quiet and stood, waiting for instructions when the back was pushed upward and there stood Rebecca and Shaun. "Hi there. Nice nap?"
Desmond shrugged and rolled his shoulders in an attempt to work out the kinks from his muscles. "As good as could be considering."
Rebecca smiled and pointed to the boxes shoved in the truck. "Grab a box and follow me."
All four of them grabbed boxes and followed Rebecca into the run down Italian manor. Cracked paint and chipped or broken stonework graced the outside. Really, it was a dump, but considering the people searching for him, it could have been the Ritz.
"This is Monteriggioni. Ezio lived here and for a time it was the center of the Assassins in Italy," informed Lucy as she set about pulling extension cords from a black bag.
"Who?"
"Ezio Auditore…you know, your ancestor we told you about." Shaun set down his box and turned to level a gaze on Desmond. "You sure this guy is up to snuff?"
"Wouldn't matter if he wasn't," stated Rebecca. "He's all we got unless you happen to have some famous assassin family members lurking about in your blood."
Shaun shook his head with a shrug. "Nope. I'm a first generation assassin. I was recruited in school."
"Well, there you go."
"Way to be supportive," grumbled Desmond under his breath. "So what can I do to help?"
Lucy looked up from where she was sorting cables. "Go bring in all the boxes and crates that you can. We'll set about sorting things out and setting up."
Desmond was grateful to get out of the room. He wanted nothing more than to disappear. This war wasn't his fight. True his ancestors had fought against the Templars, but he wasn't a fighter. He wasn't like Altaïr or this Ezio fella. He was a normal guy…a bartender. He wasn't sure he could be what the others seemed to want him to be.
Grabbing a hand truck, he began to unload the heavier boxes. He dreaded going back into that machine. The headaches and occasional nosebleed weren't endearing him to it, particularly since he wouldn't be seeing Altaïr. His incentive to help these guys was extremely low.
"Just put those in that corner," said Lucy.
He found it funny watching them unpack the boxes and crates while he did all the heavy lifting. One of them could at least offer to help.
Six more trips finally unloaded the truck of everything. Since the others seemed to be in their own world, he decided it was time to explore a little of the small villa they were hiding out in. He imagined back in its day, it had been quite the sight.
Working his way down a curving flight of stairs, he found himself in a large room. Every muscle in his body froze upon seeing the statue standing in the middle of the space.
"Altaïr," he whispered reverently.
The statue wasn't an exact likeness, at least not from what he had seen of Altaïr's face. But then, Ezio had never seen Altaïr in person and it was unlikely that there were any accurate representations of him drawn from his era. But, if he squinted his eyes, he could see it. He could see Altaïr standing before him.
Oh, this hurt.
What were the odds of a statue of Altaïr being found in an obscure villa in Italy? He almost wanted to cry from the injustice of it. Why was he so attached? And to an ancestor at that. He couldn't decide if it counted as incest if the connection to his ancestor spanned 900 years or so.
Sliding down against the wall, he bowed his head. He really was a deviant for longing for someone who was long dead. It wasn't like he'd ever spoken to Altaïr. The man never knew he existed. All he had done was watch in abstract as Abstergo drew on the genetic memory stored in his DNA. It was like a crazy sci-fi novel or some crazy video game.
Yet, here he was, sitting in front of a statue, praying for the world to give him a break. One would be enough. All he needed was one break. He longed to take himself away from this hidden war. He had no part in it. The others seemed to think he was raring to fight the evil Templars and save the world or some shit. He could care less about what either group did.
Heaving a sigh, he relaxed against the cold stone only to have something catch the corner of his eye. Lips parted and he startled at the sight of Altaïr walking into the room. He wasn't completely surprised at the Bleeding Effect manifesting. He'd grown used to seeing odd things of late and considering how much time he spent in the Animus under Abstergo's watch, he wasn't surprised so much at the ghostly visage but rather at the pain it caused.
He couldn't look at him and turned his eyes away. He both longed to see him and yet he wasn't sure he could bear the agony of watching a ghost move about. He could see through him to the other side of the room, for Christ's sake. This was simply his brain processing the knowledge of what he'd absorbed from his ancestor and manifesting it for his eyes alone. It wasn't real. Altaïr wasn't real.
With clenched eyes, he prayed for the ghost to fade away. He was exhausted and heart sore. Dealing with the Bleeding Effect was not something he was in the mood to handle.
A sigh passed through his lips and his eyes slid open to see Altaïr crouched before him, staring at him. He couldn't stop the shout of surprise, nor the instinct to move as far away as he could. Heart pounding in his throat, he scooting to the side in an effort to put some space between himself and the specter before him.
Altaïr's head cocked to one side, frown pulling at his lips. He crept forward until they were once more facing each other. A gauntlet clad hand lifted and reached for him. Not that he expected to feel a physical touch, but as the hand passed through his face, he couldn't stop a moan from escaping.
Desmond couldn't describe the feeling. It sent a bolt of lightning down his spine and left tingles in its wake. He could never have described it as a touch, but rather, it was so much more. He felt as if Altaïr's hand passed through his very soul.
He could see Altaïr's lips move, but was unable to decipher the words as there was no sound. He wished he could answer whatever question seemed to be directed at him. He opened his mouth to respond with something, anything, when Lucy's frame became visible through Altaïr's translucent body.
"Desmond, Shaun went and got some food. I know you're probably hungry."
And just like that, the connect he felt was broken. He wanted to cry when the shade before him flickered away, leaving him cold inside.
"Desmond."
"I saw Altaïr," he said matter-of-factly.
Lucy inclined her head. "Hopefully, you won't have as much issue for long. Rebecca promises me that the Bleeding Effect from her Animus will be minimal. And we won't work you beyond what is safe."
"I saw him," he repeated. "And he saw me."
That seemed to give her pause and she frowned at the revelation. "That's impossible."
"Maybe. But it happened. We connected."
Lucy folded her arms across her chest and nibbled on her lip in obvious tell, he just didn't know what it was revealing. "You might have thought you did, but the Bleeding Effect doesn't just show actual events that happened. Your mind is warping it so that you're seeing less of truth and more of fiction playing out. Or at least, that's what I surmise happened."
He didn't bother to argue with her. And, maybe she was right. He shouldn't even be seeing what he was seeing—his brain more than likely damaged from extended periods in the Animus. Bringing a hand to his brow, he chuckled darkly. His own mind saw fit to torture him.
"Desmond?"
He shook his head and stood. He felt so very tired. "I'm fine. It's just an odd sensation. I guess I'm worse off than we thought if I can't distinguish between what is real and what is just in my head."
"You'll be fine, Desmond. We won't be putting you in the Animus for a day or so. Let's go grab some food and then you can rest. That will help you more than anything." Lucy reached to pat his shoulder, only to have him flinch away.
He chose to ignore her and plodded toward the larger room he had left them working in earlier. He must have been gone longer than he had thought. There were several cots with pillows and blankets set up against the far wall. Rebecca was busy putting together her Animus and Shaun seemed to be focused on the computer before him, mindlessly eating what looked like fast food tacos.
Rebecca gave him a wave before turning her focus back to the task at hand. He turned to the large bag of fast food and withdrew a taco. With great effort, his feet seeming to grow heavier with every step, he walked to one of the cots and sat with a grunt.
After a few bites of the lukewarm fare, he tossed it into a box that looked to be used for trash and decided sleep was more important than food, particularly when it was as unappetizing as that pitiful excuse for a taco. As he closed his eyes, he wondered if the Bleeding Effect explanation given to him by Lucy was the truth or whether his eyes and mind were the truth.
He hoped it was the latter.
AN: this won't really follow the games. In fact, it's probably gonna have massive deviance from that, so don't expect me to follow any script by the games. I played them all, but honestly, I've never enjoyed anything that went by an anime or game word for word. And I changed the years. It's just easier on me if events are taking place in 2018 rather than 2012. Please Enjoy.
