Chapter 3: Hope in the Static
Waking felt as though he was being lulled from the deepest ocean- darkness, silence, and a muted awareness of what surrounded him; all of it was fading as light broke the surface of his dreaming, before he was intermittently pulled back down again.
A lance of panic filled his groggy psyche. More of bewilderment, but it was acute and alert- a red flag in a sea of gray. I shouldn't be waking at all... that and dreams are for the living. He had felt death, it's warm yet forceful embrace, the feeling of floating and ascending to a more profound place than where he was... And yet he lived. As the lull of waking drew him briefly back into an unconscious state, the stark realization hit him.
At first, when Desmond had woken to painfully real delusions and a realization that he was alive... he hadn't known what to think. More than anything, he was still just as weary as before; weary of the battles still needing to be fought and the fact that they still hadn't ended. He had thought that he had failed, again... that the world had burned while he sat, sheltered in the Grand Temple. After his fellow assassins- through milennia and a common bloodline came into his view, he had thought himself in another coma, victim to the bleeding effect. Maybe this time it would finally finish him.
Even more disconcerting was the fact that he wasn't in agonizing pain, the pain that had erupted as the Eye released the energy of the whole of time through his body. When he tried to shift, muscles didn't respond. A moment of panic, until he realized that they were muscles wearied to the point of atrophy. Painful memories of his coma, of what brought it, what it brought for him- resurfaced with a debilitating clench in his chest. Desmond looked down, surveying what damage had been done to him. The bandages covering his right arm rang alarm bells. He should have been in excruciating pain- he felt it enough before. The horror dawned on him as he attempted to clench a fist. Unresponsive, curled fingers sat motionless in his lap.
No. Desmond despaired in the loss. What had the Temple done to him? Juno had lied. The exertion of tears that formed in his eyes nearly enough to overcome him. What more had he to give for this cause, for this life? Perhaps it was menial in the face of the world and ancient prophecies and the fact that his life had been spared yet again- he knew that he wouldn't come out of this whole, but the shock was still there, battering and ravaging as if he were nothing. He heard movement beside him.
"Desmond?" Dad. Even through his fractured sanity, there was one voice, one face that he never could seem to forget. Desmond blinked, willing the blurriness out of his vision. He was exhausted.
"Take it easy, you're okay." Desmond's eyelids fluttered. How was he alive? How long had he been sleeping, and why was he still so tired? The lights too bright, and sounds too hard to process, Desmond let his eyes close, maybe to break the facade he faced.
When death was no longer a friend, the jaded road to waking was harder. Memories faded into one another; crying out for Lucy turned into crying out for Christina or Maria or Ziio; yelling, screaming at Juno turned into shouting at his father, arguing with Achilles, an ugly fistfight with Malik, into destroying a mirror on the wall in the Assassin Den in Rome because Ezio, he couldn't stand what he saw in it.
Failure. The same story repeated itself over and over again. There was nothing but failure and death. Desmond was no different than those before him. He failed, he fell; though he was given more chances than he was worth.
Worthless. The word hurt even more when he was hallucinating, hundreds of years' worth of ghosts dredging up the most painful emotions- as his tongue spoke a language that didn't quite feel like his, the words not his own when he was speaking, the word itself lost its meaning when he knew that he should know it, that it should trouble him, that he should fight it. Some days it just felt like he had nothing left to fight with.
There was one point- when the visions hadn't stopped, and Desmond couldn't just be Desmond anymore- that he welcomed the delusions. There was no point in trying to stop something that he already had coming since the first time he was thrown inside the Animus. As each moment had felt like he wanted to crawl out of his skin, shaking and crying for losses that weren't even his, it had felt more natural to be Ezio, or Altair, or even Connor, eventually. They were brave, and unrelenting, and everything that he wasn't. Desmond felt more comfortable in their shoes than his own. He was even ashamed in that; he had welcomed madness over fighting for sanity. Fighting was futile; it did nothing but kill, and torture, and take with no promise of victory.
Desmond wondered how his ancestors could handle it- all of the despair and wallowing, dwelling in the dark with no hope of reveling in light. He was weak, and no matter what Abstergo, or the Ones Who Came Before had planned for him, he couldn't lead the world to salvation. He couldn't.
If he was alive- if his father and the others were alive then that meant that Juno roamed free, or that the device had failed and the whole world had burned; either was far too difficult to bear.
It was almost that he didn't want to wake up; as ever, it seemed that the eternal sleep was only for those who were worthy.
"Desmond?" His father's voice was soft beside him. "Son, can you hear me?" Desmond hated the desolation in his dad's voice. William would be a hard man when he chose to be, however defeat never made it into his tone, no matter what he chose to say or when. Desmond's eyelids fluttered open, blurry vision trying to focus. The light was dimmer than the last time he woke, softening the clarity of his surroundings. He was grateful. He squinted as his father's face came into focus- William's eyes were sad, circles underneath them and his face drawn, as if he hadn't slept for days. Desmond berated himself; he felt about the same, only he felt as though he'd been sleeping for years. As their eyes locked, William let out a smiling sigh, half of relief, and half of tears that were tempting him.
"Desmond." A thousand emotions and sentiments tempted Desmond's tongue, but he couldn't get the words out. They were reflected in William's eyes- those which were usually so shielded, a cold, icy grey now rife with something different. Desmond's eyebrows raised in a tired concern. He pulled his gaze away, eyes moving about the room, purposely avoiding the impulse to assess the damage that had been done to him. He was alive- that much would have to be enough.
The room was small, yet he felt even smaller in it. Nothing furnished it but the bed he lay on and the machines whirring by his side; his father sat in a chair by his bedside. Where are we?
As if William had heard Desmond's thoughts, he spoke in answer.
"We're in an apartment building in New York, one the Assassins own. After you touched the Eye..." and saved the world, intent on sacrificing yourself for it, "Shaun, Rebecca, and I went back to the Temple- we couldn't just leave you there." William's voice dropped, dipping his head to tear his eyes away from Desmond.
"We..." Should he tell Desmond about his ancestors? He had undoubtedly seen them before as they watched over him, intent on keeping the savior of the world safe as he lay, unconscious and vulnerable. They had all heard of him through the whispers of the Apple, but seeing and knowing him evoked a new kind of devotion- even if they didn't know the rest of the assassins with them, on some level they knew him. Maybe Desmond was still too caught in the throes of waking to know they were there. When they were concrete and real, there was ever more of a chance the Bleeding Effect torturing and tearing him apart.
"We realized that you were still alive, and we brought you back here. You did it, son. You saved the world." Juno was still at large, and all of them were essentially on the run from one of the biggest covert operations on the planet- but William hadn't the heart to tell Desmond that for all he sacrificed, they still hadn't won. It felt as if they never would.
Desmond couldn't meet his father's eyes. So the world was saved, then. That meant that Juno was somewhere out there. Desmond's gaze inadvertently shifted to his arm. Bandaged, void of any feeling or response, no matter how furiously he tried to flex his fingers or bend his wrist- the only movement he got was a slight twitch from the elbow- anything below was dead weight. What did you do to me, Juno? Was this really all he was, a pawn so readily sacrificed? Before he realized it, tears had formed in his eyes; he wept. He knew the words before his father even said them. Flashes of lives long past dwelled in the back of his mind. An eagle with its wings clipped. Malik had been an affable fighter even without one arm, but he was Desmond, the one who was only an assassin because of his bloodline, the one who wanted no part in it and only learned how to kill and to fight because he was thrown into a machine.
"We'll have to amputate it. There's nothing else we can do, there's too much damage..." William scrambled to explain, words tumbling over themselves in a desperate attempt to make it seem right. Even with the deepest of remorse in his voice, nothing could make it justifiable. Desmond said nothing, only letting more silent tears fall. William grit his teeth.
"I'm sorry, Desmond." Desmond looked away, wanting to cover his grief, to show some sort of strength, but it was too exhausting. He had no choice than to let his father see him in anguish, in weakness.
"I'm so sorry." William's voice dropped to a whisper. He reached out a hand, clasping Desmond's left in it. A silence passed between them, the air heavy with their collective despair. It took what seemed ages for William to gather the strength to rise from where he sat. He took a deep breath.
"I'm going to go tell the others you're awake. You'd like to see them, right? Shaun and Rebecca?" Desmond looked up at his statement. William managed a smile. "I'll be back soon, okay?" He squeezed Desmond's hand, trying for all he was worth to be encouraging- it was all he could do. He turned, taking care with the door, as if Desmond still slept. Desmond relented. He doubted whether or not he was awake, or still dreaming. Neither seemed very desirable.
William walked down the hallway and into the loft. Rebecca sat with Altair, Ezio, Malik and Yusuf on the couches occupying one side of the room. From what William heard, they were undergoing yet another language lesson. Once they all had settled into the loft, they had begun straight away with the ancestor's assimilation to the century.
Shaun stood with Connor in the small kitchen on the opposite side of the loft, the former showing the latter how the microwave worked. William could almost chuckle- it was ironic to see those who were usually so darkened by death and undeniable duty so wide-eyed with wonderment at things that he and other 21st century-goers took for granted. It had taken nearly half a day for them to explain to the ancestors how they were getting light without any need of rekindling a fire.
"Desmond's awake." William spoke up so the group could hear him. Rebecca and Shaun were the first to react.
"How is he?" Rebecca asked, voice strained with worry. William took yet another deep breath.
"He's not speaking, but there haven't seemed to be any complications. I'm sure he'd be happy to see you two." William's voice quieted, gesturing them to Desmond's room. Shaun and Connor had joined the others. Connor sat down next to Yusuf, and immediately regretted the action as Yusuf smiled and put an arm around Connor's shoulders, welcoming him. Connor tensed, mumbling to Yusuf:
"Please stop." Yusuf had learned enough of the language to understand, bringing his arm back to his side.
"My apologies, Brother."
Rebecca walked to Shaun's side, assuring the group that they would be right back.
A small nod between the Shaun and Rebecca was all William got from them before they went together to Desmond's room. The ancestors had fallen silent, somber eyes all trained on William.
"When will we be able to see him?" Connor spoke up after silence had settled in.
"I don't think that's a good idea, at least, not for now." William crossed his arms.
"Why not?"
"It's a very long and complicated story."
"I am listening."
Shaun and Rebecca were unsure of whether to give in to their inherent heartache or cry tears of joy because Desmond was alive, but the man before them seemed little more than hollow. Rebecca clenched her jaw, willing away tears in the furrow of her brow. Shaun took a deep breath, letting the air out soundlessly as the two moved to either side of Desmond's bed.
You saved the world, Desmond. You saved the world. That's what they kept saying, but was it really true? Was a world enslaved really synonymous with trapped?
Shaun and Rebecca had come in with such hopeful expressions. Maybe not by the set of their jaws or the stiffness in their shoulders, but the ever persistent reflection in their eyes was what gave it away; it threatened to destroy him. It was as if he were nothing at all, that all that they had all done was for nothing- Desmond had nothing to offer to those who had so painstakingly stayed by his side through all of the shit that they had been through, that he put them through. He had nothing to say, and he wasn't strong enough to push past the weight in his chest.
He wasn't sure what the feeling was that made his entire battered body clench, relentless tears still falling. Stop being so self-pitying, Desmond. You don't have the luxury of crying, Desmond. Do better, be better, forget about the shit-hole you used to work in because you'll never have a normal life. You're a failure, Desmond. He couldn't tell if it was anger, fear, resentment, sadness- at what, then? Himself, ancestors long past, the ever-repeating cycle that the assassins fought over and over again? Shaun and Rebecca's hopeful eyes were frivolous.
It wasn't until Desmond had come out of his coma that he had cherished numbness- the kind of feeling that was feeling nothing at all. No grief for tragedy, no guilt for feeling happy or accomplished because there was so much else out in the world that was cruel. It got him through the days where he would drag himself out of the animus after reliving the most painful things a person could live through in Connor; when he pushed himself harder and harder in their race to save the world, there was only so much a person could feel.
He'd sneak out into the harsh Winter night, and just stand or sit or let himself fall so that he lay on the frozen ground until he couldn't feel his fingers and toes or much of anything. The others would find him, drag him- shivering and sometimes whispering in grief for deaths not his to grieve- back to into the Temple, draping him in every blanket they had, scolding him like a child time after time. Still, they let him sneak away, or at least let him believe he was. Rebecca assured him that he wouldn't end up like Daniel Cross, but some days- most days he wasn't so sure.
He couldn't handle it anymore. Desmond- they all gave and gave but what were they to gain? His eyes distantly moved to his bandaged arm. There was no hope for him, or for any of them if Juno was free. What was the point in fighting? The empty numbness what filled his arm seemed to blossom and spread, pulling a veil over perception and feeling. Desmond was powerless to stop it. He wasn't sure if he wanted to. The two voices at his side were muffled and the world around him flattened into shades of gray as he fell to the pit that been tempting him since everything had begun.
Rebecca managed an encouraging smile-a tight line that forcefully kept back everything she wanted to say. Could Desmond hear them, see them? What had the Temple done to him? There wasn't much they could do for him when faced with such an ephemeral and profound power. Rebecca vainly wondered if it wouldn't have been better to have Desmond's sacrifice be final after all. She chastised herself for the thought, however whatever happened after death must be better than hardly living at all.
Rebecca bit her tongue. Desmond would get better. He had to. That's what Desmond always did.
Shaun's eyes fell. There was nothing but helplessness in the situation before him. There was nothing he could do, or that the others could do, or that they could do to help the one who needed it the most. Shaun did what came naturally- he talked. The silence in the room was making his neck itch with nervous anticipation.
"Glad to see you're alive, Des." Shaun leaned over and put a hand on Desmond's shoulder. "And what were you thinking playing the whole savior card? You do know the outcome for the hero in that one?" The normal bite to Shaun's tone was softened by the waver in his voice.
"Shaun." Rebecca nearly whispered, closing her eyes to hold back tears. Shaun pulled his hand away from Desmond's shoulder, rubbing his own tears away, trying to disguise it by adjusting his glasses.
"I can't tell you what a relief it is that you're awake, mate. You'll be better soon, alright?" Shaun ignored Desmond's arm in his peripheral vision. Was he lying? Would Desmond recover this time?
"I guess one of us should get Bill..." Rebecca started.
"Go. I'll stay for a while." Shaun pulled up the chair that William had previously occupied. Rebecca nodded.
William looked at the assassin before him as Connor's face shifted from confusion to awe to struggling to understand and back again. It was no small task to explain the Animus, Those Who Came Before, and Desmond's place in a long line of assassins that were for some reason chosen, honored- William spat at the word- to be the most important for the Ones Who Came Before's ultimate goal. Connor took it in stride.
"But why? Why all this trouble, and time and toil for one man?" Connor leaned closer to William, intent on every word. William sighed.
"I used to think that they wanted to save the world, just as we did, but now... I just don't know." William rubbed a hand over his face.
"These deities' plans set aside, what of this 'Bleeding Effect?' The Animus's benefits are far outweighed by the consequences." Connor's voice darkened. This machine drove men mad. Even if for some greater good, was such damage worth it?
The prospect of being within ages worth of people's minds reminded him of when the voice from the artifact led him by the flight of an eagle through the spirit world- a world full of the past, present, and future. To spend so much time in such a place seemed- cruel, to put a word to it. Connor's plights felt daunted next to all that the Animus put Desmond Miles through. Within his own train of thought, Connor missed William's uncomfortable shift. William cleared his throat.
"There's no way around the Bleeding Effect. There was also no other way to save the world, or to stop the Templars. In war, you fight fire with fire or..." Connor's eyes hardened.
"You fight fire with fire and the whole world burns." There was such a bite in his tone that William sat back, remaining silent for a few moments; he averted his gaze from Connor. The man was right. What was their struggle with the Templars and Those Who Came Before if it would only lead to chaos?
"You're right, Connor." Connor's mouth opened in surprise. The sincerity in William's voice was unexpected.
"You fight chaos with peace and freedom- and though that path may be hard, there will be an end. Faith in that will be what drives men forward." Connor looked away for a moment. It disheartened him that there were still so many conflicts- even those Connor could hardly even imagine. Still, the fact that through the unimaginable the Brotherhood could persevere was encouraging. If they could fight through that, they could battle the Templars and win. Or so he hoped.
"You understand, though why I can't let you and the others and Desmond interact?" William changed the subject. Connor glanced back at the other assassins, sitting at the other end of the room. They were his ancestors, too. Though they were not entirely of the same blood- maternal and paternal lines intertwined through millennia to connect them all.
Instead of camaraderie, it disconcerted Connor more than anything. Why? Why him? Why any of them?
"I understand." Connor knew what it was to lose- or almost lose everything that made one who they are; their humanity, their sense of being. Not being able to tell what was really there and barely harvesting the control of his own body. What he could have been would have destroyed him, if it had not stopped. He found it hard to imagine experiencing such profound power as Desmond did, even yet.
"You are not sure whether or not Desmond will stay sane if he sees us." Connor reiterated. William nodded.
"We'll wait until we can assess more about his condition before checking for the Bleeding Effect."
"It still feels wrong to have a fellow Brother in need of help while we do nothing." Connor said. His discomfort set aside, an assassin was family if not close to it. He could not just stand idle as another innocent soul suffered. Scarred skin on his flank tightened. William replied:
"What you're doing now is going to be ever the more helpful in the long run. Once we get back on our feet," If that's even possible, "we'll need all the help we can get. And a group of the most skilled fighters in our Brotherhood's history will be the best thing for that. To help, you all need to know how to function in this century. That's our goal now." Though it seemed fruitless and nebulous and frankly terrifying, it still felt comfortable to make a plan, and give orders to achieve it. He was better at being a leader than a consoler. Or maybe even a father.
William looked over to where Yusuf, Malik, Altair, and Ezio sat, watching the warmness in which they communicated to one another. Maybe he'd failed at being a father and a mentor; that's how his son ended up where he did- that's why they all ended up where they were.
Rebecca came up behind him, nudging his shoulder to pull him out of his reverie.
"How is he?" William stiffened.
"Desmond's fine. Shaun's with him now, we figured you'd want to take over." William stood.
"Thank you, Rebecca. How are these guys doing?" William gestured to the ancestors.
"Pretty well, actually." Rebecca walked across the loft. "We decided to start tackling Modern English, first. They're more adept than I was expecting, actually; though it will still take a while until they're fluent."
"Good. What else do you have planned?" William crossed his arms.
"Shaun wants to get them into the whole 'indoor-plumbing-and-bathing-every-day' thing; he can't stand how they smell." Rebecca leaned against the arm of one of the couches. William raised his eyebrows.
"Fair enough. What about clothing?" "We'll have to go out, or get some extra clothes from one of the assassin outposts. Until then, we can just keep them in here." William nodded in agreement, saying nothing.
"When will Ruben come back for the...?" Amputation. the word felt bitter and wrong and nothing that Desmond should have ever had to go through. She thought of the blank expression on his face- and how much turmoil must be happening where they couldn't see it. Rebecca couldn't finish her question. William answered anyway.
"Either tomorrow or the next day. He has yet to specify a time." William didn't have the heart to call Ruben himself.
Rebecca recognized the grief in William's voice.
"Shaun and I will be there for you, and for him, William. Everything will turn out sooner or later." What did turning out even mean in this situation? Rebecca put a hand on William's arm. The latter said nothing, only looking to the floor, breaking their eye contact.
"I'm going to go get Shaun." Rebecca took her hand off of William's arm.
"Okay." She looked down as William walked away, taking a deep breath, trying to quell the rising emotion in their situation. She focused on the ancestors in front of her, sitting next to Yusuf and beckoning Connor to join them.
"Ezio, are you well versed in any Literature? Dante, Machiavelli?" Rebecca asked. Reading a modern translation of something familiar would undoubtedly speed up the ancestors' learning process. Before Ezio could speak, Yusuf interjected:
"Well he was best friends with Niccolo, he had to have read some of the man's writings." Italian rolled off Yusuf's tongue seamlessly. Rebecca blinked.
"Yusuf..."
"Yusuf?!" Ezio picked up where Rebecca had trailed off. "Since when are you fluent in Italian?"
"Since I've lived in Constantinople for most of my life. They don't call it The Crossroads of the World for nothing, my friend." Yusuf raised his arms to emphasize the effect of his statement. While a wry grin covered Yusuf's face, Ezio's was caught in between disbelief and irritation.
"I stumbled over Turkish for months because you claimed you couldn't understand Italian!"
"I was playing with you. You take such things so seriously, Brother."
"The Auditore name is very important to me, Yusuf. As is my birthplace. The same as you." Yusuf smiled.
"I'm just trying to offer you another perspective of the world, Ezio." Yusuf put a hand on Ezio's back.
"You are ridiculous." There was sentiment in Ezio's voice.
"Yusuf, how many languages can you speak?" Rebecca blurted in bewilderment. Ezio hadn't been the only one who was expecting Yusuf to be the hardest to teach.
Despite Yusuf's apparent affinity for language, he was still learning the one Rebecca and the others spoke. Yusuf shrugged his shoulders and smiled in submission.
"What?" Yusuf switched to his native tongue. Rebecca smirked.
"I asked how many languages you can speak."
"A few."
"Well, you're learning a new one rather well."
"Thank you." The words were deliberate and careful. Rebecca smiled.
"Aren't you special, Yusuf Tazim da Istanbul." Rebecca could have sworn Ezio was pouting. Rebecca had to cover her mouth and pretend to cough to stifle her laughter. Yusuf and Ezio continued to banter between themselves.
"If I were Italian, that would be my title, would it not be?"
"Except for you're not Italian, and you weren't born in Istanbul." Yusuf waved an arm.
"Minor details." Ezio protested as Rebecca was drawn away from their conversation by Shaun entering the room.
"Bill wants to know if you've got the security systems online yet." Shaun sighed. Minor details; things to keep them busy. Recognized and accepted, Shaun and Rebecca followed them.
"Not entirely. The building's wired with alarms- that much was easy to fix, but the jamming signals that allow this sector to go dark still need to be worked on. The equipment needed is hypersensitive, so adjusting the frequencies again will take some time."
"Well, I suppose we have a bit more of that than we did, now that the apocalypse has been averted." Bitterness seeped into Shaun's tone. Rebecca looked away.
"What can I do to help?" Shaun then asked.
"Does this outpost have a store of books or literature?" Shaun's eyes narrowed in curiosity.
"I think so."
"See if you can find some old Italian literature- the translated stuff. And any others you can find in Turkish or Arabic."
"What am I, a librarian?"
"You kind of look like the one in my old elementary school." Shaun rolled his eyes.
"Take Connor with you." Connor came to attention as Rebecca beckoned him toward Shaun.
"Right. Okay." Shaun rubbed his hands together. "Let me know if anything comes up, alright?" As Shaun passed Rebecca, he laid his hand on her shoulder momentarily, before gesturing for Connor to follow him. "Let's go look for a library. Hopefully this one doesn't take five keys and eagle vision to get into." Connor stayed silent at his side, while Rebecca berated him.
"That's especially not funny, Shaun."
"I do beg to differ." Shaun called back, leaving the room and closing the door behind Connor as they made it into the hall. "Let's go find a library, then, shall we?"
Shaun had a vague idea of where the Assassins kept their literature. Contrary to Brothers passed, their small- though eclectic- library was on one of the top floors. In a hidden room, nevertheless, however instead of secretive, it felt free. Within half an hour, Shaun and Connor were able to find it.
Being in such a profound place as a library made Shaun feel some semblance of normal, for once in a long time. Libraries were simple- there were no ethereal beings deciding destiny and fate, or advanced technology so to drive the mortal to insanity. The only wonders were that among the pages of books of history and life- all that was there could be imagined by the human mind. Maybe that's why we're so dull compared to Those Who Came Before. Shaun mused, eyes wandering back and forth as he walked through stack after stack of books.
"What should I be looking for, exactly?" Connor called from another bookshelf.
"Look for the name Dante, or Machiavelli. Generally anything from Syria or Turkey, as well. Make sure it's in English." Shaun called back.
"Okay." Connor's voice lingered, as if something caught his attention. Shaun turned back to the task at hand, a part of him not wanting to leave such a peaceful place. It reminded him of simpler days; the days when conspiracy theories were his side job, when life was harmlessly fickle and the end of the world was only a rumor on paper. Shaun reached up to one of the shelves, rubbing his thumb against the books and their time-softened spines. If there was ever a time Shaun Hastings would be nostalgic, it would be then.
"Shaun?" Connor tentatively walked toward him, eyes cast down to a book in his hands. Shaun shook his head, pulling himself out of his head.
"Yeah, what is it, mate?" Connor's eyes narrowed for a moment as he looked up. Shaun's way of talking was strange to him.
"What happened to my people, in the future?" Shaun looked to the book Connor was holding. He barely caught the slight shake in Connor's hands. Shaun's stomach dropped in a deep ache of sympathy. He took a deep breath.
"You have your answer in your hands. Colonialism. Unfortunately, not only the Mohawk people were driven out of their homelands."
"What of the strive for freedom, for equality, for justice?" There was a boyish timbre to Connor's voice. Shaun was at a loss.
"You can see it with the Assassin's struggle. History changes even things set in stone. It repeats itself."
"Do my people still live?" Connor looked away. Shaun saw the drop of a tear from the shadows Connor's hair cast.
"In their modern day tribe, yes. As do other Native tribes around the world. Even through tragedy, the human race is stubborn." Connor grit his teeth. All of his work, again for nothing. Even the Assassins couldn't save them, with their talk of peace and freedom.
"Tell me about it."
"What? There's kind of a lot to cover, there."
"All of it. Everything you know that's happened from the Revolution to now regarding my people and other tribes." The sternness in Connor's eyes would have made a meeker soul whither. Shaun nodded. He walked to a table that sat next to one of the windows; it looked out over the city.
"Let's get started, then." Shaun told Connor everything in harsh and grueling detail. He told of colonialism, of the Mohawk, the different people of the Iroquois, Native Americans far and wide who faced loss of identity, massacre's, and objectification in advances of the modern world. Connor listened, eyes so intent to absorbing the information like a sponge. His expression was caught between neutrality, sadness, and anger. Shaun couldn't tell which one he preferred. When he finished, Connor had even more questions.
By the end of their conversation, Shaun felt a part of himself altered. He'd always studied history objectively- it had happened, and there was nothing he could do about it. Even though events had happened, it was never really real- even when watching the feed from the Animus. Talking to Connor, someone who had lived through what he had only learned about, and telling him that really, nothing had changed and if anything it only got worse... it made Shaun wish he could change it.
He dismissed the sentiment as it had time to settle. That's why they were fighting as they did- Shaun thought of Desmond. History doesn't always repeat itself. Instead of the world burning, it was saved.
Connor's eyes bore into Shaun as the silence stretched. Apologizing to the man before him would do nothing. Still, it was a comforting sentiment.
"I'm sorry, Connor." Connor looked to Shaun as he debated the emotions coursing through him. Underneath a layer of stoicism, Connor battled a thousand. He wanted to feel anger toward something, toward the man in front of him whose voice vaguely reminded him of those he had fought, of those he lost, toward the ambiguous name that developed into something to be feared, abhorred. Connor wanted to weep in the face of his futility, of what centuries of people lost, partly because he failed. Would it have made a difference? What is one man in the face of such monumental odds?
He remembered that the man before him was also an assassin. They all were. Connor supposed that they- that he had to do what the Assassins always did; They would fight to obtain peace.
William rubbed the sleep from his eyes, leaning on the side of Desmond's bed. Desmond had fallen into sleep again; William couldn't help but scoff at the irony that sleep brought anything to them. Such peace, while everything in the waking world was ravaging in war.
He supposed that silence was better than screaming- he had lost count of the nights when Desmond had succumbed to the Bleeding Effect through the vulnerability of sleep, and woken with the most agonized cries on his lips.
William vainly wondered if he preferred the noise or not. Of all the times he had told Desmond to stop crying, an assassin is silent- was that as a father, or a mentor?- William regretted every single one of them.
Every time he changed the bandages on Desmond's arm, he had felt every muscle in his heart clench, as if it wanted to stop. It seemed the remorse would never leave him. What would they do, with the Templars after them and no options outside of running? The Assassin's struggle never ceased.
"Desmond?" William tried. When his son did not stir from his sleep- dreaming? Floating in nothingness?- William sighed, voice cracking as he spoke again.
"You know, when you were little, you'd beg me to tell you stories. It never mattered what they were about- you just loved to be immersed in something that wasn't real." It's my fault, he's broken because of me, because I drilled him so hard so that he ran away. William paused as tears made it out of his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his face.
"Your favorite used to be..." William's words stopped as his phone vibrated in his pocket. He froze, breath hitching in his throat. The moment he'd been dreading had finally come. It was the hardest thing William had ever done to answer the call.
Yusuf regarded those around him with a warm air of friendship. They may all have been from different times and different places, but wasn't everyone? The two from Syria- Altair and Malik- though they were young men, not yet in their thirtieth year, seemed wise and ancient yet beyond their years. Altair had the bearings of one who was capable and not a little haughty, however his sharp golden eyes conveyed a humbled soul. Malik was harsh, yet he moved with a gentleness that made Yusuf smile.
Their speech was dense and hard to grasp, yet Yusuf had picked up threads of Arabic from travelers and informants who would journey from Jerusalem or Damascus; he could catch phrases and words to help him understand. Altair and Malik's stories filled him with wonder of a Brotherhood long since passed. It made the Assassin cause seem even more just and noble, in a way to have such a history.
Yusuf was curious about the one they called Connor. He was big, but held within him a kindness that extended to all those who would not take advantage of it. Yusuf wanted to learn more about him, as he wanted to learn more about the place he and the others now resided.
The shock had taken a while to wear off; such a new place with such different sounds and sights and people was jarring at the least. It disheartened him when he thought of the faces he passed on the street. At one time, passerby were inviting and friendly, not afraid to extend themselves for another. Here, it seemed that everyone was too wrapped in their own heads to take note of those around them. It was intimidating, however Yusuf noted with the rue of a Master Assassin that it could be something to exploit, if ever the need arose.
With the thought, a faint, though deep ache for Kostantiniyye pained him. Though he knew that such a place may not even have been possible to go back to- time had changed lands and borders and people; no one would remember a man by the name of Yusuf Tazim. The prospect made him fear, yet it could not quell a peculiar sort of excitement in being in such a new place, full of life and people and stories. He turned himself to his task at hand. Communication was essential just as defense and knowledge was.
Yusuf turned to Ezio, scanning the mentor's face as he concentrated on writing what Rebecca had told him to while she worked across the room- translating different verbs and forming sentences. It was so menial- it made them feel like they were children, again. Perhaps the feeling was liberating, the idea of being young and amiable.
The mentor's brow was furrowed, so intent on his task that Yusuf could feel the box he was putting himself in. Yusuf put a hand on Ezio's shoulder, the sudden movement making Ezio jump.
"That scowl is yours and yours alone, but it has gotten deeper since I've last seen you. I didn't think such a thing was possible" Ezio raised his eyebrows.
"I was concentrating."
"No," Yusuf held up a finger, "concentrating is what you were just doing, physically. It's the virtue of your bearings underneath that determine a scowl." Behind Yusuf's wry grin was pure sentiment.
"I don't know what you're talking about." Ezio returned to his work. Yusuf sighed.
"Do not fret, il mentore, I feel the burden too. Did you ever complete your mission?" Yusuf changed the subject. Ezio nodded.
"It is how I ended up here."
"I have to ask, Ezio. Sofia..." Yusuf's voice dropped in solemnity.
"She was saved." Ezio offered no more, but the conviction in his voice assured Yusuf. He hadn't completely failed, then. There was something to salvage from that.
William hung up the phone, numbness coursing through shaking hands. Tomorrow. The word echoed through his head as if it were hollow, deafening him with the bombardment of sound. He almost didn't hear Rebecca as she came into the room.
"William." Rebecca knocked on the door as she walked in. "We found this in Desmond's bag... I think you'll want to see it." Rebecca held out Desmond's cell phone.
"It still works?" Rebecca nodded.
"I found some files- random stuff, mostly. Pictures, old text messages... and then I found some audio files."
"That's what phones are used for, Rebecca."
"They're dated from the later part of this year." Since Abstergo captured him. William slowly reached to take the phone, trying to stifle the quiver of his fingers.
"Have you listened to them?" Rebecca nodded, her somber eyes downcast. "I figured you'd want to hear them." Rebecca turned, quietly making her way out of the room. William let out a shaky sigh, accessing the saved audio files on Desmond's phone. Steeling himself, he put the receiver up to his ear and started listening, eyes locked on the floor. He feared that if he looked anywhere else, he'd break.
No matter what he did, William could do nothing for the tears that streamed down his face as he finished the last audio file. It felt as though he hadn't heard Desmond's voice for years though it had merely been days. Had William really been so deaf and blind to Desmond's suffering? William- and the others too- had been so focused on the fact that he was the conduit to stop the catastrophe... that we couldn't see the boy inside that was screaming for comfort.
William had hardly grasped Desmond's capacity for forgiveness, too. He regretted the one move that made him forget his role as a protector and made him give in to his frustration. The memory stood out in stark contrast, even as he tried to push it away. He had hit his son. His own child, so vulnerable and human and already broken that he gave in to his own emotions, despite years of berating Desmond for not controlling his. There was nothing that could take that away. All Desmond had wanted was to go home. William still held that shred of bitterness inside of him.
He placed Desmond's phone gently on the table at his bedside. No matter the exhaustion that tugged at his every seam, William would not sleep that night. He settled back in his chair, gritting his teeth as more tears fell. Desmond had known he was going to die. Even yet, he still said nothing of it. Nobility. Bravery. He certainly didn't learn that from William.
William let his eyes wander to the window on the opposite wall from him. Desmond's favorite stories- were the ones with happy endings.
The time went by in a blur, and before William knew it, time was frozen before him as he stood beside Desmond, Ruben opposite him as they prepared. He swallowed a lump in his throat.
It wasn't until they unwrapped Desmond's arm that they all came to a realization. As William carefully undid the bandages, Desmond's blank expression altered when his brow furrowed. Suddenly, Desmond let out a wail of pain, pulling his arm away and flinching back.
"Desmond? What is it?" William straightened, holding out his hands in an anxious gesture. Desmond writhed where he lay, eyes tightly shut and teeth grit. "Desmond, talk to me." If anyone heard the break in William's voice, no one mentioned it.
"It...it...hurts."