Chapter 3 – My Own Prison
"A creed is a statement of the shared beliefs of a religious community. Creeds are not intended to be comprehensive, but to be a summary of core beliefs. The term "creed" can also refer to a person's political or social beliefs, or is sometimes used to mean religious affiliation. For the American rock band, see Creed (band)." - Wikipedia
Desmond stepped out of the animus and back into reality. The colors were different somehow, as if the room's colors had suddenly—changed. Somehow. Suddenly he felt his left leg go numb and he fell to the floor. He reached for his thigh to see if he could sense any sensation. He couldn't. The numbness was just too much, too much for him to feel any sensation at all. He cursed, vigorously. He was his father's son, and at that moment, he knew it.
He stared up at the ceiling, clutching his thigh even tighter still, hoping to squeeze any sensation out of it. He couldn't. He looked down and saw he was drawing blood. But he kept his grib tight—tight as the moonlight's grip on the moist morning dew. Assasins don't give up.
He looked up at the ceiling again. The colors were different. And swirling. And blue. And purple. And shades of onyx. It was then, and only then, that he reaized. "I took the drugs," he shouted to himself. And this is what I get. The Templars would surely get him if he continued to make mistakes like this. But then he remembered what his father always told him, "Neither an assassin nor a lender be. But to thine own creed be true." And this was it. This was the moment when the creed, above all else, stood immortal. My own prison. And I could escape, if I held my arms wide open and summoned my mind to a state of human clay. His mind felt like clay at that very moment. Dank, tired, gray. But also pliable, mouldable, flexible. His mind, at that moment, was a paradox. The colors were still different. Somehow.
He closed his eyes and dreamed of home. The warm summers, the cool winters. The mild autumns, and the milder springs. Ah, autumn. With the leaves, on the ground, he was surely home. The room was still spinning. And the colors, different. Springtime, with the leaves their normal color and perky on the tree. Springtime back home was…well, he coulnd't put words to it. Rebirth. That's what springtime was. Rebirth.
And so out of that human clay he was rebourne, a stronger assassin than ever before. The colors were different, again different. Different from the different of before. They were the same. They same as they should be. The colors were the colors they were meant to be. The drugs had wourne off.
"I have to find Nic Cage, before he finds me."
He stood up.
The Declaration of Independence. He couldn't even begin to know where to look. If only he could remember the movie. Steps, he thought to himself. Steps. There was a building, and there was steps. White, he thought again. There was white. There was, and at that moment his mind trailed off. "Dammit, you stupid Animus," he exclaimed to himself, "why do you leave me with a foggy head?!" His head was like an enchanted forest mist, filled with answers but only if you got on your knees and really looked. The movie, the steps, the white. The answer was there, he just had to get on his knees and look.
And suddenly it came to him. Nic Cage. Sean Bean. The attractive quirky assistant was programming skills. The blonde. It was all coming together. It wasn't a movie, he thought to himself, it was actually happening. The ancient order of the Templar had a treasure, and Nic Cage was trying to find it. With my Declaration.
And that was when Desmond made a declaration of his own.