My dad is a negative, judgmental pain in the ass who destroyed my self-esteem, and tortured me my entire life. My mom's a violent, paranoid schizophrenic. God, I love my dad. - Christopher Titus
A/N: Sorry about the long absence, really I've been too busy and or too tired to really let my muse have free reign. And to all my readers and reviewers who wanted to sign the petition on chapter 6, all you have to do is copy and paste the message and then add your name to it and pass it along.
Musical Inspiration for this chapter: All the right moves by One Republic, Bother by Stone Sour, and Rose by A Perfect Circle
voidblade6- thank you for all your reviews, and yes Denethor does tend to both favor and obsess. But as much as a douche as he is, I can see where he comes from. He has what I call part-time daddy syndrome. There is no cure for child abuse, either you deal with it or you don't which Denethor obviously didn't.
Anonymous Legacy- I can understand where you're coming from, but I never really viewed Desmond as an assassin, not like any of his ancestors were. For whatever reason they all made the choice, each Assassin in Assassins Creed chose to embrace that path. Desmond merely accepts it.
Deadzepplin- of course he'll be assassinating people, he is an assassin after all. As for killing important people, well that would be telling now wouldn't it?
Brenan Whitehood cut an impressive figure in a fine woven navy blue surcoat and camel tunic made of tulle, a gift created by his wife's own hand. A silent acknowledgment that though he wasn't legitimate, the brunette was still of the house that ruled just south of the white city. In life, the Lord Ecthelion had been kind to the child of Lord Mabden's betrayal, giving Brenan a chance to distinguish himself in his service, and helping Brenan establish his own house, independent of Brenan's paternal family, so that the ambitious man could wed his beloved. And like the rat that he was, Denethor waited until his father's death before undoing as many of the good works that of late lord as he could legally get away with.
As a result Brenan was no longer a lord of the Stewart's court, though his house retained a mediocre of power, the noble-born bastard and his wife now suffered the disfavor at court, practically isolated and reduced to menial status amongst their contemporaries. And for a man whom spent his entire life proving that he was worth more than what little due he was given, the brown eyed soldier was livid to have a seemingly capable ruler not see his worth. For all Denethor's skills as a commander and that of statecraft, the gray eyed lordling was a product of his peers, a xenophobic, and self-entitled, not to mention cruel individual. "You're in luck Curimardin bastard. I've finally found a post worthy of your, service." Brenan didn't even twitch at the familiar insult.
Regardless of his own feelings Brenan knew there was a level of obligation and decorum that had to be observed. "As you know, it was the wish of our late lord that the lady Vinyaostiel be found. I would have his last command seen to. Return with lady Vinyaostiel that she may be laid to rest amongst kin in honor, or return not at all." Still Brenan dared not look up from the thrown room's polished white floor without Denethor's permission. The bastard son of the lord of Tumladen was in no hurry to be punished for whatever offense Denethor could imagine up.
"Your lordship, might I inquire as to your own findings on the subject?" Brenan asked in a deliberately innocent tone of voice. "Any insights of your grace's investigation into this matter would be most appreciated." The dark eyed man swallowed back the acidic bitterness of being relegated to this task. The lady Finduilas had warned him of the potential re-assignment. But even joining his wife's kin in Ithilien would be preferable to the impossible errand of finding the middle child of Ecthelion. At least if he became a ranger, then he could find a way to claw his way back up the social ladder of the Gondorian court.
It was long encouraged belief by Denethor himself that Vinyaostiel was dead, a suicide executed in grief. Brenan didn't believe it himself. If she were a corpse Vinyaostiel would have been easily found. That being said, Brenan saw no need to go dig out old wounds. The second child of his late liege was neither fickle, nor delicate, despite what others might willfully believe. He watched silently as Denethor's darkly gleeful expression morphed, becoming decidedly uglier than Brenan thought possible. "And what gives you right to question me?"
The illegitimate cur didn't even have the decency to sound the least bit contrite. "His lordship might recall that it was his late liege and father, whom first set him to this honor now being bestowed upon me." It would take a blind, deaf, and dumb commoner to not notice the barbed implication buried in the bastard's insolent tone. "I wish only to see this task done to his lord Steward's satisfaction." Denethor's rage was so great, whatever the new Steward wanted to say chocked in his throat, even as the low-born continued with his subtle diatribe on one of Denethor's many failures in the eyes of his now deceased father.
Brenan didn't dare smile as he heard the delicate grind of bone on bone. He could see the lord's hands flex and grip at thick cloth, not being completely hidden in the folds of his sleeves. It was a dangerous to egg Denethor on when Brenan knew that he was already out of favor. But if he was going to be sent into permanent exile, the former tower guard would do so expressing at least an infinitesimal dissatisfaction with his current lot as Denethor's whipping boy. "Of course his grace had, and has other duties." A pointed pause, "I would be of course grateful to his grace if he could tell me who knew of lady Vinyaostiel's last known whereabouts?"
Ecthelion's former captain of the tower guard didn't have to look up to know Denethor's face was rapidly changing color with the increasing intensity of his temper. Brenan's only regret was the knowledge that to lift his gaze now was to surely bring down the full wrath of the petulant lord he was forced to serve on his head. Denethor was still too furious to speak, cycling through the unvoiced insults being transcribed inside his rattling skull. Finally it became too much to hold in, "leave," the pampered lord-ling hissed. "GET OUT OF MY SIGHT I SAY, YOU UNGREATFUL WHORE-SON!" Brenan backed away a hairs breadth too slow to be polite; relishing the raging callow whelp screams gaining volume with each step he took.
By the time the grand doors of the tower Ecthelion closed behind him, Brenan was sure the sound of Denethor's fury had reached even the lowest level of the city. It was either a testament to their superior training, or distain for Denethor himself that the citadel guards on duty didn't so much as bat an eye as their former captain walked by, not in any real hurry to leave the citadel."That was most unwise Mr. Whitehood." Automatically Brenan turned toward the familiar voice coming from the shadows of black pillars, and bowed in the same movement.
"My lady, you have heard?" lifting his head, Brenan watched worriedly as Finduilas moved her hiding place. The swan princess was without attendants, and dressed far too simply for what her station demanded. Long dark hair lay loose about her slender frame, easily blending in with the walnut shade of velvet skirts. And despite the current lack of sycophants dogging Finduilas's steps, Brenan was all too aware of the eyes watching them. As much as the Curimardin would like to believe none of these men would betray this sweet lady, whom had been nothing but good to them, Brenan was far from naïve.
Finduilas knowingly eyed her friend and ally. She also knew she risked much by speaking to him again. However discreetly they met, Boromir's mother was sure that Gondor had eyes and ears everywhere, the majority of which were owned by her manipulative spouse. And Denethor was far from forgiving as of late. "I think the whole of Anor has heard master Whitehood." The dark eyed aristocrat pointedly looked toward the black doors being guarded by two of Brenan's former colleges. "The burden of Stewardship is heavy upon my husband." She said demurely. "You would do well to seek out the former attendants of my lady sister-in-law; some yet reside still in the city." Finduilas now regarded her gilded cage grimly, "see this matter resolved quickly, for all our sakes."
Desmond Miles could not boast much of himself. He was neither the smartest, nor the fastest, or most skilled of his ilk; he didn't have the insatiable inquisitiveness that drove Altair, nor the passion that fueled Ezio, or even the drive for justice like Conner. And from what little Desmond could remember of them, even his parents and extended kinsmen that made up the modern Assassins Order were each uniquely special. In a world filled with personality giants such as Rebecca, Shaun, and even at times Lucy, Desmond was singularly average, a fact that he was more often than not grateful for, that is until he was trapped as he was now.
From his meager hiding space amongst the rubble of the ancient courtyard of Tirband, the former American swore a continuous string of fetid profanities, just a breath away from getting himself caught. Ezio's descendant had expected obstacles to bar his path. The only way to get to the island fortress that was once Tyl Annûn was by no means easy to get to. But this, this was ridiculous even for his own brand of Murphy's Law. Desmond's current worse nightmare was camping out right in front of the secret passage he needed to get to. The former service ramp ran the length underneath the Ariant, the only bridge connecting the main land to the island palace of Ost Elendil and thus the Abies, which was buried under its very foundation.
Rangers were easily avoided, as they were more concerned with their' long time enemies rather than someone whom took great lengths not to be seen. Orcs were dispatched simply enough if Desmond was careful. But beneath the ruined building, from which Desmond perched, patrolled something infinitely more hazardous to the assassin's health. Men (and he used that term very loosely), dressed in full gold and black scaled armor, and well-worn robes made rounds around the Tirband camp of horrors.
They were Black Númenórean, powerful sorcerers, and generally an all around pain in the Desmond's ass. It wasn't even as if Vesta hadn't even warned the assassin of the disenfranchised descendents of the city's original occupants. But the artificial intelligence had no real scope of just how low the Númenórean sunk in their' rebellion against the Valar. Long after the Abies was buried under tons of dirt, a bunch of the Númenórean got tired of the Valar dictating their' existence. And thus, they saw fit to try and wrestle control from their' formerly greatest benefactors by siding with Sauron, the flunky for Arda's version of Lucifer.
Slowly the former subject 17 sank further back into the shadows of his perch, desperately attempting to remain undetected. Desmond wanted to avoid a repeat of his first and only encounter with the pyro-telekinetic thugs. Bad enough the three whom witnessed Desmond open the previously undiscovered entrance were all skilled fighters, but they also had the added bonus of being able to throw or burn him every time Desmond got within a hare's distance of fatally injuring them. The dark eyed New Yorker grit his teeth against the sensory recall that wanted to drag him back to that fight. "It doesn't matter." Desmond hissed at himself as firmly as he dared. The lie practically burned on the wanderers lips.
Apparently, his less than decisive execution of the "X-men wannabees" had been observed from afar. And as a result the Tirband camp nasties pursued him as ardently as their' war against the Rangers would allow. The assassin desperately appreciated that for whatever reason, neither the orcs nor their masters managed to track him outside the fallen city, and the rangers had no idea he knew how to get across the Ariant. He shuddered to think of the level of harassment he would have faced otherwise. Cautiously, the assassin's grip on his acquired crossbow tensed as he brought it to bear against his rain soaked shoulder.
Even in the dark freezing coastal weather Desmond could see two Númenórean garbed in full armor, including winged helm reclined against the stone coliseum that sat on top of the service entrance. Forcing himself to look for more threats, Desmond spotted a small camp of four more Númenórean further down the wall behind the coliseum, a camp of Harad men further still, with a few archers between the obviously segregated camps perched precariously atop the wall itself. Idly the assassin wondered if Sauron's peons really thought he would attempt to take them all head on. Had it been any one else attempting this, Desmond could honestly believe attacking would be a death sentence. He could practically hear the snide comments of his fallen "comrades" barraging his tired mind.
Desmond ignored the dark murmurs whispering incessant calls to cull the poor idiots dumb enough to get in his way. Because whatever his failings, be it real or perceived, Desmond Miles was no fool. Had circumstances not been as they were, regardless of hundreds of year's worth of experience crammed into his skull, and refined by the cold war he waged with the modern Templars, the assassin would have retreated, only to return while camp Tirband defenses were less stringent. But Desmond knew he didn't have that sort of time. "Vesta, you're up." He felt the answering warmth of the hidden jewel around his neck as he edged back into the dilapidated building with soundless steps. The assassin kept a steady aim on his targets even as he moved out of sight.
Vesta lied, pure and simple. It wasn't the first time the temple/ship artificial intelligence operated outside of her given parameters. But by it's own estimation this was certainly the most of extreme circumstances. The Abies's avatar had far less time to wait for subject Ducere Novo to make preparations before waking the six than she had given credence to. As it stood the ship was expending more energy than the Abies could collect from the trace minerals literally encasing the ship. Put simply the ship wasn't built to last as long as it had.
Even using satellite monitoring cost the Abies precious resources. Had Vesta had more power to spare, it would've known there was more than the Númenórean to worry about. However the synthetic intelligence still hesitated in pursuing more aggressive means of convincing the last of the Assassins' order of the desperation in the tank bound children's' situation. Vesta had observed her former charge's insecurity with her programming's approximation of confusion. Desmond Miles was a physically and mentally competent adult male. And despite all the multitude of variables pitted against the very fact, Desmond Miles was still functioning, and his opposition was dead.
However the descendent of her creators' great enemy rarely did anything that wasn't retaliatory, or motivated by an immediate gain. Vesta could only speculate on the severity of the cognitive blending, otherwise known as the bleeding effect that Desmond could go from passively self-doubtful not quite fully trained assassin, to a near force of nature, tearing a bloody swath through his enemies within thousandths of a second. This observation of the Assassin's volatile nature whilst cornered, led Vesta to not use any of the devices she had convinced Desmond to wear against him.
The former New Yorker would never know how "the birthday suit" functioned in conjunction with the crystal around his neck, much in the same manner as the apple of Eden. Though nowhere near as powerful as the other artifacts of similar design, Vesta could still compel the human to do things. But at the risk of Desmond finding out, and fleeing regardless of whatever consequences came to the six, the Artificial Intelligence was determined that it would never expose the purpose of her "gifts".
It was no small thing, finding, and ultimately trying to follow the journeying of one Desmond Whitehood. The man was like a ghost, never being seen or heard of along the few settlements of the Brandywine, just as Halbarad had reported. For the weeks that Aragorn's distant relative spent in perusal of the illusive Whitehood amongst the wilds, Niluana had nothing save what little information his kinsman provided. In fact, by the time Niluana reached the encampment of Echad Garthadir, one of the few remaining areas of the ancient abandoned city controlled by rangers, Niluana was both impressed and worried by what he had found.
The supposed spy had actually been spotted nearly a year ago by a scout sent to watch the movements of the Black Númenórean controlling Tirband. "I hadn't believed the lad," Belecthir, the haggard captain of the company admitted, "No man could survive orcs and those Eru forsaken sorcerers alone, yet I was to believe this Whitehood took out a half dozen orcs and two of Umbar's most skilled in spell-craft that were guarding Tirband, and without aid? I thought the boy had imagined the whole thing." Valiantly the ranger of Enedwaith fought the urge to even consider scolding the obviously over-worked warden of Annuminas.
There was nothing to be gained by ill advised discord amongst those who should be allies. "This man is as real as you or I, and he trades often amongst the Bree folk with Annuminas coin, and a lot of it." Niluana pointed out a tad dryly. Brown eyes widened, and then narrowed in an instant, as the grizzly warrior considered his words. It was long thought that all the treasures of Annuminas had been emptied, and the only reason the agents of Agmar lingered was to retain a foothold in Eriador.
The idea that the unfaithful king's men had found a way to expand their reach was a vexing thought. Yet still, "If the sorcerers are indeed trying to branch out, wouldn't a man obviously having Dunlending blood carrying Annuminas gold be too noticeable? As much as it galls me to admit it, our enemy isn't that stupid." Niluana agreed, there were easier and less obvious ways of getting spies amongst the free peoples of middle earth. And just as galling as it was to admit to their enemy was smart enough to do such things, Niluana was sure that the agents of Umbar and Agmar alike had assets to call on within each kingdom of men.
"You are right of course; for all the good Ecthelion II did in his time as Steward, he could not uproot the traitorous ideals of the Atalantë. Already there is tale of his son Denethor falling to some of Ar-Pharazôn's folly." Both rangers fell silent, each embroiled with thoughts of the fall of the island nation of Númenor which in turn had led to the founding of Gondor and Anor, and forever changed the very shape of the world. The very thought that yet another sovereign of men would bring upon them all the fury of the Valar was a terrifying thought.
Suddenly their contemplations were interrupted by the call of one of the camp watchmen, "Belecthir, Than has returned without Nilal. And he is heavily injured." The older ranger was up and moving before the sentence was completely out the nearly breathless boy's mouth. Niluana was quick to follow. And suddenly the whole of Echad Garthadir was in chaos. Commands were being barked out by Belecthir and captains Niluana had yet to meet. The grizzled ranger all but ran across ruined court, ducking and dodging around other rangers as they scrambled to obey their' leaders.
By the time Belecthir forged the way to the healer's lodgings, the Enedwaith native was surprised that neither he nor the senior warden had ran over anyone. Without preamble Belecthir swept aside the blue coat of arms blocking their' way, pushed passed the rangers that were crammed inside the small building, and carefully navigated around the injured. "Alegan!" The dark eyed warden's voice boomed over the pandemonium, and Niluana desperately tried to not notice the smell of sick heavy in the air.
"Over here Belecthir! Come here and make yourself useful." Niluana followed the brunette deeper into the gloom, and once again struggled to keep his composure. Nestled deep in the gloom of the healer's tower, Alegan senior healer of the Echad Garthadir rangers grappled determinedly with his bloodied patient lying upon a stone table. Belecthir didn't hesitate to grab a weak fist which had been aimed at a head of stringy brown hair. He forced down thick ropey shoulders carefully with the full bulk of his weight, while Alegan struggled to treat Than. "Be still, you thrice be damned whore-son."
"Nilal! Nilal, I have to go back for Nilal. Let me go Alegan, I'll gut that Eru forsaken Whitehood if it is the last thing I do! Light of Elbereth protect me for not believing the boy when he said he saw someone kill those Atalantë, and now the cad has him." Niluana felt a cold chill run down his spine as the near senseless man raved; his voice thick with what the Enedwaith ranger assumed was self-reproach. He couldn't have been more wrong. Forcibly the injured man turned, nearly dislodging Belecthir and Alegan as he hung head over the side of the table, and emptied his stomach of blood and bile.