For some reason there are three versions of this chapter on my computer. I'm fairly sure I picked the right one but if there's something wrong please feel free to review and let me know!
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2012
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After Rebecca came into the secret, she insisted they make some time every day for Desmond to tell them something about his time in the past. Usually they didn't have time for much, and Desmond would just share something funny that had happened while he was there, or some detail or other he thought would be interesting. It was actually nice to finally get some of this out on the open, although he didn't much want to keep on with his own story. No- better to keep to safe subjects for now.
"Did you know your accent slips sometimes?" Rebecca asked one night. They were in Monteriggioni by this point, which smelled like sewage and was haunted by the ghosts of Desmond's ancestors. Ezio's life was so unavoidably stamped on every brick and tile of the place, Desmond thought it was a miracle he hadn't completely lost his mind. Yet. It got easier the more time he spent talking about himself, and his own childhood, and so he'd stopped protesting when the other two insisted on hearing more.
"It what?" Desmond asked.
"Most of the time you have an American accent," Rebecca said. "But then sometimes you slip and it sounds more Welsh-"
"Oh!" Desmond laughed a little. "I mean, I sort of grew up in Swansea. And other places. I lost my accent when I was a kid, but then when I came back to this century I tried to cover it up. It just didn't seem right… but then sometimes when I'm thinking back on that time I just…"
"Oh yea," Shaun said. "I remember, when we first met you sounded different." Then he frowned. "Hang on. Where are 'other places'? Did you leave Swansea at some point?"
"Yea…" Desmond sighed. "Yea, I'll tell you."
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1721
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Jenny had been gone for nearly six months when Linette Kenway died. Desmond went to the funeral alone, and spent the whole time wishing she were there with him. There were a lot of people at the burial- she had been a well-liked woman, who had no trouble making friends with everyone she met. After the burial, half the town came by- some to see about farm business, some to tell Desmond how sorry they were about her death.
Desmond was eight years old, with no family and no friends to take him in or tell him where to go next. He very much wanted someone to just give him a direction- go that way, take this path, find that person- but no one did.
In the end, it was a dream that made his decision for him. A little more than a week after the funeral, a raging storm passed through Swansea. It was bad, worse than any storm Desmond had ever seen- apart from the one on the night he'd arrived in the sheep barn, lost and confused and not knowing that his life was about to change forever.
The dream was nothing like a normal dream.
He was on an island, a beautiful, warm island that felt amazing after years of Swansea weather. It was bright and sunny there, a perfect summer's day, and somehow just… real. He felt like he was actually there, not just dreaming of the place. For a while he just stood there, staring around in awe. He lost track of time, but was eventually startled out of his reverie when a man came walking up the cliff behind him, throwing himself to the ground next to Desmond with a sort of cheerful carelessness.
"Oh," Desmond said, backing away a little. "Sorry, I-"
But the man didn't even seem to have noticed Desmond. Instead, he turned back to look over his shoulder, calling out for someone just behind him. A minute or so later, a girl came running up after him, her hair doing its best to escape from a single braid down her back. And Desmond knew her.
"Jenny?" he asked, hardly daring to believe his eyes. Obviously it was Jenny (Desmond had never met anyone quite like Jenny; she was unmistakable), but she looked different from the last time Desmond had seen her. Her face was red from the sun, and she smiled brightly, her whole self radiating more happiness than Desmond could ever remember seeing from her before.
She didn't hear him, either, but when she sat down next to the strange man, Desmond cautiously settled himself on the ground at her side.
"You're too fast," Jenny complained. "My legs are smaller."
"Then you need to run faster," the man said.
"Dad!"
Dad. Of course, she must be on the island with her father. Although Desmond had no idea where that island was, or why. It looked like a nice place, and Jenny seemed happy, and her father seemed okay. He should have been happy to see Jenny so happy, but Desmond couldn't stop himself from feeling more miserable the longer he sat there, listening to the two of them talking together. He didn't want to wake up, and be alone again in the empty sheep farm.
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2012
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"That's the kind of dream I was talking about," Desmond said. "Remember, when I asked about the bleeding effect coming from sources other than the animus?"
"But that would mean you actually are related to them," Shaun said. "The Kenways, I mean."
"I guess," Desmond said. "I'd like to think so, anyway. They were better people than my real family."
"Did you have dreams like that a lot?" Rebecca asked.
"Maybe half a dozen times overall," Desmond said. "Only once in this century, but that…" he shook his head. That had been a dream, not a nightmare. He didn't want to talk about it. "Anyway. That was when I decided it was time to leave."
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1721
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When Desmond woke up the next morning, the bottoms of his feet were crusted over with dried sand, an impossible souvenir of a place he had never been to. He picked at his toes idly, cleaning the sand off them and slowly forming a plan. Now that Jenny was gone and Linette Kenway dead, he had no real reason to stay. But with no other friends or family, there was nowhere else in Europe he could hope to go. The only place he wanted to be was on that island with Jenny. She was the best friend he'd ever had, and now that she had gone, he had no idea what to do with himself.
He couldn't stay on the sheep farm, anyway. That would go to some distant relatives of Linette, a large family who had already made it clear they had no place for Desmond, and that he should leave as soon as possible. So that, Desmond decided, was what he would have to do. He would write to Jenny, and say… something. Beg a place, maybe. He wasn't looking for charity. He had no problem with working for a place, just as long as that place was there instead of here.
This decided, Desmond jumped out of bed and made for the kitchen of the farmhouse. The distant relations were due to come sometime during the next week, which left Desmond with very little time to do what he needed to do. He spent the rest of the day digging through every drawer and cupboard of the place, looking for the letter Jenny's father had sent to her mother. It took most of the morning, but he finally found it in an empty drawer near the pickling jars. The letter was all by itself, a single reminder to Linette Kenway of a distant son. It was a sad sight, but Desmond barely spared a thought for that now. He was just glad Jenny hadn't taken the letter with her.
Next, he went looking for something to write on and with, which took much less effort, and sat down at the ancient kitchen table to write. He'd been practicing a lot since Jenny left, with the kind of half formed idea that it might be a good skill to have someday, and anyway he had nothing else to do.
Dear Jenny,
I'm writing because your grandmother is dead. Not the mean one, the one you liked. Sorry. I wanted to know if there's any room for me at wherever you are? I don't have anywhere else to go.
-Desmond
He glared at the letter, frustrated and not sure what to do. He wanted his letter to sound… better than this. More sympathetic. Less like a beggar. Just- better. For a while he chewed on the knuckle of his forefinger, trying to figure out what to add or take out or change. In the end, he settled on a simple postscript.
PS- It's boring here without you
