Muninn: My Story Isn't Pleasant; it Tastes of Folly, of Madness and Dream, the Life of all People Who No Longer Want to Lie to Themselves

WHO'S READY TO BE SAD?!

Clay met Andrew, alone, at his request. Though the man was rarely alone, preferring to surround himself with his men. It made him feel safe with Altair around, to know that he had people who could defend him. Andrew was too old to defend himself, too slow to ever protect himself from someone like Altair.

Andrew offered Clay a seat in his room, and to his surprise Andrew offered him coffee. He'd missed coffee, he'd run out of it on the island within the first year of his isolation. He hadn't thought about coffee in four years, and now here he was in Demeter, where he could have any food or drink he desired. The sigh he made after taking a sip was the sound of a man tasting the sweetest ambrosia, he then had to add milk. Andrew took a cup himself and sat opposite him at the table. "I'm glad you're alive Clay," Andrew said once Clay had taken a few more sips.

"So am I," Clay said with a pleasant smile. "Now, what did you want to talk about?"

"I heard you were dead." He hadn't spoken to Clay since he'd arrived really. Clay had been too busy, dealing with Hawk, planning the attack on the plantation, then Cain and now this mess with Atlantis and waiting for Desmond.

"Funny thing that," Clay said and put his cup down. "I was dead. For quite a bit actually, floating down the Tiber River. But, clearly, I got better," he pressed his hands to his chest with a smile.

"How?"

"Altair found me. Well, really it was Hawk but when you talk about that lot you tend to just think of Altair. He's sort of big and scary isn't he? Makes quite an impression."

"He does," Andrew agreed hesitantly. "But, I still don't understand, how are you alive?"

"It's a very long story," Clay said and leaned back in his chair. "I don't feel like telling it though. Now isn't the time and I'm not one to partake in idle chatter about death. How's William?"

"Fine," he said slowly, not seeing where Clay was going with his questions.

"Nice to see the new model of me," he said with a smile, not a nice one. It was sharp and hard and mean.

"Excuse me?"

"It's something you do Andrew," he said very seriously, cocking his head to the side a bit. "You have two boys, well, one boy now. One of the most important people in existence that there's ever been in our species since the primordial Eve. And yet, you have so many replacements for them. First Lucy, then you sent her away, and found me. Then I died, and now you have William."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I love my son."

"You might," Clay agreed, "but you still replaced him," really he wasn't impressed with Andrew. Since he'd Woken and Hawk had shown him how corrupt the Order was, as much as the Templars, he wasn't impressed with his Mentor. Not anymore.

"What's it to you Clay? I'm the Mentor, I tried to get him back. He didn't want to come," of course, deflect it onto someone else. Andrew never could handle being told how inept he was, or how bad he was at something. Thankfully that was all Clay did, was remind important men how they'd failed, grounded them.

"Didn't try very hard though did you? Sent out a search party once a year. Desmond was your dirty little secret you didn't want the Order to know about. You didn't want them to know your son was a runaway," Clay frowned. "I mean, I get it. I do, really. First son kills himself, second one runs away, who wouldn't-

"Don't talk about my children like that," Andrew snapped at him. It was the first time Clay had ever seen Andrew seem anything but apathetic towards his sons. Interesting.

"It's okay Andrew," Clay said. "I'm on your side."

"Oh are you? Because it certainly doesn't sound like it."

Clay grinned. "Hawk says I make a good conscience, especially to him. So, let me be your conscience."

"What?" Andrew was just confused.

"I know you sent Duncan to an Order psychiatrist, even before he got beaten because he was depressed. Before it all went to shit, after I saw Desmond actually, I decided to do some digging. You and Desmond are nothing alike save for the fact that you both seem to be where the action is and you hate being told what to do which having met the both of you that wasn't a surprise. But I was surprised to learn you had an older boy, and that he killed himself," Clay frowned and Andrew seemed to get small. "Hearing about how I went must have been hard," he added.

"No one likes to get that call," Andrew said, his voice surprisingly rough.

Clay cleared his throat, "I read his case file though."

"Those files were supposed to be sealed," Andrew growled, "I ordered them sealed."

Clay made an amused snort, "Yes, you did. I unsealed them. Wasn't too hard. Being your old protege I still knew all your passwords, which you never bothered to change since you thought I was dead. I read his file; all of it. His psychiatrist recorded him, with his permission. He had some interesting things to say. Would you like to hear?"

"Why?" Andrew asked, "So he can torment me from beyond the grave?" He was angry, but the anger was almost hurt. He clearly didn't know Duncan had been recorded.

"Duncan didn't write a note," Clay said and he was glad to see that it pained Andrew so to know his son had never left a note. He'd hidden the fact he'd ever had another son, buried Duncan, probably so he wouldn't have to feel the pain of it. To see Andrew actually in so much pain over the fact that Duncan left no note, no explanation for his suicide meant he was pushing in the right places. "But, he had a meeting with his doctor the day before he killed himself. Would you like to hear his note?"

Andrew blinked at him, "Hear it?"

"Yes," Clay said. "Demeter," he said, "Will you access my computer and display?"

"Of course Clay," Demeter said and holographic projection of Clay's home screen was displayed on the table.

"It's all on here. Would you like to hear it?" he asked, tapping on a folder labeled 'Notes'.

Andrew looked torn. On one hand he didn't want to hear the voice of his son who'd been dead more than twenty years. On the other, he did, because his son had been dead more than twenty years. "Please," Andrew said his voice soft and worn.

"Okay," Clay looked down and away. "And, I might add here," he said as he opened up the file labeled 'finale', "I'm only doing this because Desmond isn't here. Honestly if he knew I had this he'd want to hear it, and then he'd probably kill you."

Andrew was pale, "Why?"

"Because," Clay said, "it was your fault." Andrew looked amazingly uncomfortable. An old self conscious guilt he hadn't wanted to admit to himself was true. But Clay was cracking him open and exposing all the black pieces Andrew didn't want to admit were there.

"You're one hell of a conscious Clay," Andrew said.

"That is what I do," Clay said. "I don't like fighting, you know that. I wanted to be an astronaut, I wanted to explore the great wilderness. I can't do that anymore. So, instead, I'll do the next best thing I'm good at. I'll help people. Some people don't have as strong a moral compass or conscience as they'd like to believe they do. That's where I come in."

"And Desmond won't hear this?" Andrew asked.

"No," Clay said, "Not now at least. Not until he's ready to hear it and can weather hearing it. Hearing this would ruin him. He's got enough problems, enough guilt. He doesn't need this now."

"And I do?" Andrew demanded, suddenly angry, even though he wanted it.

"Yes," and Clay pressed play.

"It's recording, right?" asked a young man's voice. Duncan had a deeper voice then Desmond, though he'd still been growing into it at the time. Andrew's mouth became tight at hearing it and his body went abruptly limp, his hands resting flatly on the table top.

"Yes Duncan, just as always," said the nice, female, psychiatrist.

"Okay. Good."

"Something wrong Duncan?"

"I'm just… kinda stressed out."

"Tell me. You know you can say anything you want here." No answer from Duncan. "Is it your father?"

"…Yes," Duncan said after a silence. "It's always my father," he sounded like he wanted to cry.

"Talk to me Duncan."

"I love him okay?" Duncan said pitifully. "I love my dad. He's smart and clever, and strong, and knows everything. But it's just… so hard."

"What's hard?"

"Loving him," Duncan sniffed. There was some rustling. Duncan blew his nose. There was a long silence as Duncan collected himself. "I just want to make him proud. That's all I want, really. But I can't. Nothing I do makes him happy."

"Really? Nothing?"

"He told me, when I got out of the hospital, that next time I needed to 'be a Miles. Fight back.' But I don't want to fight! I don't want to hurt people!" Andrew closed his eyes, pressing his hand up to them. Clay sat in total silence, but watching him.

"Now, Duncan, calm down. It's okay."

"I don't want to hurt people. I don't want to learn how to hurt people. I don't want my little brother to have to learn how to hurt people," and there was silence again except for Duncan's hitching breath of him crying quietly. More sounds of nose blowing. Clay picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip, Andrew had his face in his hands, trembling.

"He's only doing what he thinks is best Duncan."

"Best for who? Best for me? Best for Desmond? I'm not even legal yet and I'm taking care of my brother full time. My ma—" his voice caught. "Our ma, hates Desmond. She hates our father. I don't know if she hates me too."

"Oh Duncan. I'm sure she doesn't hate you and your brother."

"No. She does," his voice cracked. "She told me once. After he left, when I tried to get her to spend time with us. She said 'get that thing away from me.' She was talking about Desmond, and a lesser extent about me. I just…" he took a deep breath. "I don't know how long I can keep doing this," he sighed.

"Doing what?"

"Being here. I'm a failure. My dad thinks I'm weak, nothing I do makes him happy. My ma hates me. I have no friends. The only person who cares about me is my brother, and he's eight. I'm just tired of being alone all the time."

"Have you told your father this?"

"No… But like he cares. Like he has time. He's got so much to do. He's important, and I'm not. I don't want to burden him more. He has enough to worry about than me, right?"

"He's your father Duncan. He could make time."

"I don't think he would," Duncan said softly. "I barely see him to even ask. He always comes home early in the morning, and then leaves after showering and changing clothes. Sometimes I see him at dinner. I… don't think Desmond really knows what our dad looks like honestly," Andrew made a pained noise and Clay almost thought it was a sob. But it wasn't. Andrew was just being confronted with what he'd done. What he'd done to his children, to his family.

Clay watched him passionlessly. He'd heard all of Duncan's tapes and read his entire file and he had no sympathy for Andrew. He knew Andrew was a lying, cheat, emotionally abusive and manipulative asshole and for the first time Andrew was faced with and having to confront and deal with the bad choices he'd made in his life. His choice to reach for power instead of be with his family. His choice to ignore his children and wife, two of which suffered from severe depression. Andrew had chosen to strive forward instead, leaving those he claimed to care about behind.

"And what about Desmond?" the psychiatrist asked.

"What about him?"

"You love him don't you? You said he loves you."

"Yeah. But he's my baby brother. Of course I love him. I need to keep him safe."

"Safe from what?"

"From everything! If I don't who will? If I don't who'll stop him from… from turning into one of you?" Duncan practically yelled it. For once not sounding sorry for himself. For once angry, enraged, the Miles fury coming full force from his teenage body. There was a long pause, "He told me I needed to keep Desmond safe," Duncan said softly.

"Who did?" the psychiatrist didn't remark on his outburst. Probably for the best. The worst thing you could do to one of the Miles men after they decided to be angry was to be sharp in return. A gentle tone was usually all it took to defang them though. They exploded quickly but the fallout was brief.

"You know who. The man," Duncan said, sounding deflated.

"The man without a name, or a face?"

"Yes. Him."

"The man isn't real Duncan."

"Yes he is."

"No. He's not."

"Yes he is. The other kids remember him. The adults don't. They all think I made him go away."

"Why did the man say you needed to protect Desmond? Shouldn't your father do that?"

"He didn't like my dad. He loved me though. Me and Desmond. I wish he'd been my dad," Duncan sniffed again. There was another long silence. This time it was silence and not filled with Duncan's tears or sniffling. Andrew looked at Clay, clearly hoping that was the end. Clay just tilted his head; they weren't done. Andrew put his face back in his hands. Andrew needed to know he was a failure, a failure of a father. A failure of an empathetic human being. He had ghosts, and skeletons in the closet he'd tried to bury, but there was no burying what Duncan said next.

"Sometimes I think about killing myself."

"You do?" the shrink asked. "Duncan, why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Because I want to, and I don't want you to stop me."

"Duncan. Suicide isn't an answer."

"It isn't," Duncan agreed. "It's a question. A question to my stupid parents, and my stupid Farm. 'Is this what you want?'" And again there was anger in Duncan's voice, not hurt or depressed, but absolute rage knowing how wrong he'd been hurt by people who were supposed to love and protect him. It wasn't explosive like before though, it was so cold it burned, an icy rage that had clearly settled deep into Duncan's soul.

"Duncan. You don't need to kill yourself. Nothing is solved through suicide."

"But what if it does solve something?"

"Nothing good comes from it."

"If I was gone, dad would have to pay attention to Desmond. Because no one else would be there for him," Duncan said the rage gone now, replaced by the slightest thread of hope. Hope that his father would pay attention to and love Desmond like he hadn't with him. "I wouldn't have to hurt anyone any more. I wouldn't have to fight. I wouldn't have to see the way my dad looks at me when he sees me, especially like this, and know that every moment of my life I'm not living up to his lofty expectations as his son."

"And what about Desmond?"

"What?"

"You'd be gone. How do you think that'd affect him?"

There was another long silence, over the recording they could heard cars driving by. "I love my brother more than anything," Duncan admitted softly.

"For him, suicide is not the answer."

"I want him to be happy."

"Of course you do," the shrink said nicely. "Killing yourself wouldn't help him. Or you. Or anyone. All it would do is create a great sadness. What do you think would happen to Desmond if you died?"

"He'd be really sad," Duncan said, the anger was gone now, blown away by the therapist, reminding him what he had to live for.

"He would be," she agreed, "You don't want to make your brother sad do you?" Duncan took a breath, but he didn't say anything for a long while. "Duncan do you want him to be sad?"

"No," he said, "But I don't want to be sad either."

"I know Duncan. That's why you're here. Neither of us want you to be sad, or to make your brother sad because he lost you. Right?"

"Right," he said, though Clay could hear the touch of guilt in Duncan's voice. He knew the sound. It was the tone of someone who'd already decided. No matter what, that today was the last day. The last time he'd spoken to anyone before ending up in the Tiber he'd sounded like that. A lost tone, but yet sure of himself. He remembered his last words to Lucy before she'd said goodbye for the night, they'd sounded like that. Sure, but broken. Clay's heart ached for the kid, but there was nothing anyone could do about or for Duncan now.

"Promise me you won't do anything stupid. If you think you need to do something, or hurt yourself again, call me. Understand?"

"Yeah. I understand. I haven't hurt myself in a while though."

"That's good."

"I think that's sort of why I want to kill myself."

"You don't need to hurt yourself or kill yourself, Duncan. You're better than that. I know you are. Are you still keeping your journal?"

"Yes."

"Good, has it been helping?

"Yeah," Duncan said, "It's helped."

"Good, and your glitter jar?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'm proud of you."

"At least someone is."

"Shush. I'm sure your father loves you very much."

"I hope so."

"We're out of time now Duncan. Is that okay? Do you want to stay?" they asked, clearly if Duncan said he wanted to they'd have let him.

"Oh… No… I think I'll be okay."

"What are you going to do when you get home?"

"I'm going to pick Desmond up from the neighbor's and then start dinner."

"And after that?"

"I have some homework. I need to do it. And then, at eight o'clock its time to put Desmond to bed, and make sure ma eats too. Go to the stable, make sure Buckle and Freddy are okay. Then I go to sleep."

"That sounds like a good plan."

"Yeah. It does."

"Well, I hope you have sweet dreams tonight, Duncan."

"…I will." The recording ended.

"The next morning Desmond found Duncan on his bed, with his throat cut upon on a hidden blade. Your hidden blade if I'm not mistaken," Clay said. Andrew still had his head down.

"I know that," Andrew said, lifting his head of slowly. He wasn't crying, but he looked like he'd just taken several hammers to the face. Hearing this had done to him what Clay was saving Desmond from. Andrew looked ruined. "And there are more of these?"

"Yes."

"My son hurt himself?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because he had nothing else? I couldn't really tell you. Why do people hurt themselves Andrew? Why do people hurt other people?"

"What did he do?"

"He cut." Andrew pressed a hand over his mouth. "When he first started going to the doctor and first confessed to it he said he cut once every few days. Too much stress, too many responsibilities. He was fifteen, and needed to act like he was thirty. The doctor helped him. The recording you heard said he hadn't hurt himself in a while. Apparently the last time he cut was two months ago."

"When he got hurt."

"Yes."

"I don't know what you want me to say Clay," Andrew said.

"Nothing," Clay said. "I'm your conscious. I make you remember the things you don't want to remember, to make you a better person," he turned off his computer. "You need a lot of help to become the type of person your son, and your replacement children deserve."

"I'm trying," Andrew said.

"I know. That's why I'm here," Clay smiled. "Well, okay, only here here. You know why I'm really here for."

"You're going to help Desmond."

"Yes. I am. Because he's our hope. Your hope. My hope. Our entire species has their hope resting on his shoulders. The most important man in the world. The proeathans want him for their own purposes. The humans think he's a savior. Do you know what he is, Andrew?"

"A man," Andrew said.

"And a very frightened boy who found the father he deserved when the one he had abandoned him," Andrew looked down, unable to meet his eyes. "Well, fathers," he said.

"Altair's the man Duncan was talking about, wasn't he?"

"Yes. You knew him as Melik. But he's the one Duncan was referring to. The one who helped pick of the pieces of a son you helped destroy. He, Ezio, Hawk, did more for him in the span of a year, then you did in sixteen."

"Are you just here to make me feel guilty Clay?"

"Yes. Guilt makes you strong, especially you Miles. Look at what it's done to Desmond. It turned him into a hero, because he has so much guilt."

"Why? Why does he have so much guilt?"

Clay smiled tightly, "You'll have to ask him that. It's not my place to tell."

"Can I fix it?"

"You can try," Clay said.

"How?"

"How indeed," Clay smiled again, that clearly made Andrew nervous.

Good.

-fin-