Part Thirty-One: The End and the Beginning
He thought he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. Achilles... With the Old Man there, it was safe to sleep.
"When will he wake up?"
"When he's able to, bucko. Ye don't go through the soul wound he has without takin' time to sort through it."
"His arm and ribs are almost much better."
"But he is getting veaker."
"He needs to eat. And as long as he's asleep, he's not eating."
"But ve can hear his shtomach growling."
"That's not waking him."
"Should we be getting Dr. White? I zhink he might be able to help."
"It would take too long to sail there, collect him, and sail him back. This is the hardest point of healing. The waiting."
"Raktsí... won't you wake up soon?"
"Don't worry. He's strong. He'll live. I couldn't stand to lose anyone else."
"Don't rightly know how much longer we c'n stay. I reckon our bureaus'll need us soon enough."
"We're staying as long as it takes."
"He's getting so thin."
"He hasn't eaten. He needs to wake up soon or he'll waste away."
Ratonhnhaké:ton woke slowly, a mess of words filtering through the back of his memories, as he slowly looked around. Though his eyes were open, awareness and processing were slow in starting. He remembered a painful sip of terrible wine and a knife slowly cutting through meat.
It was over.
It was finally over.
He could feel his eyes water as he blinked, and he took in a sharp breath. Now what? What now? Red Feather had asked that question and Ratonhnhaké:ton hadn't ever answered. What did he do now? Go back to Kanatahséton? He would not be welcomed there. Back to Rockport, perhaps? But what would he do? He had told his brothers and sisters that they would rebuild, get stronger before the Templars could slip into the Untied States again. But what would his part of that be? For twenty-two years he had been focused on one thing and one thing only, killing Charles. Now it was done and Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't know what to do.
"Connor! You're awake!"
He turned his head slowly, eyes already feeling heavy. "Jamie?"
"Yes, Connor," the doctor replied, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "You're safe. You'll be fine."
He could only give a soft nod before falling back asleep.
The next time he awoke, he was less inward and more aware. Connor had initially thought he'd be in the hospital, since that was where Jamie worked and got his information. It made the most sense. But he was instead at an inn. In Germantown, just outside of Philadelphia.
"The hospital would have too many questions and would notice so many visitors," Jamie explained quietly. "We're more removed out here and better able to slip into the shadows if need be."
"Besides," Joseph said with wide, bright grin, "this town gave birth to the abolitionists about a hundred years ago. What better place to stay?"
"And the people here are well?" Connor asked softly. "After the Commander's defeat here?"
"Zhat vas shix years ago," Jacob rumbled quietly. "Zhey have healed vell." The Hessian gave a low chuckle. "And ve have proper food here."
"Bah," Stephane growled. "La cuisine français est mieux."
"Anyway," Dobby stepped between the two before Jacob and Stephane could descend into an argument about what food was better, "it's good to see you up and about."
"I am hardly up and about," Connor replied softly, not having the energy to even try and sit up.
"I should think not!" Anne said firmly. "That's a large hole in your stomach. You're not going anywhere until that closes."
Conversation continued to flow around all of them. Connor learned a great deal. While he had been in Charles' tender care, they had indeed hunted down and killed all the Templars at the meeting. Anne and Dobby had actually slipped in as serving girls when Connor had offered himself up, and was getting names and faces and occupations. Joseph and Red Feather had acted as valets hailing down carriages or getting horses and listing addresses. Once a list was compiled, it was quickly split between everyone so that they could finish as fast as possible and get to the important part of rescuing Connor. Clipper and Duncan had trailed Connor and kept a close eye on the home on Elfreth's Alley, observing the comings and goings and providing a few other names to the list.
Poison was the best method of assassination. It was easy to pose as a houseboy or serving girl and poison specific meals or drinks. It also led to a rumor of a fever running through the city, with no hint that it was assassinations felling so many people. A few required getting up close, but Jacob and William and Stephane did that with ease and stole wallets to make it look like a cutpurse was to blame.
Duncan, after Charles was dead and Connor was safe and recuperating, had swiftly drafted letters and sent them out with Faulkner to explain the enormity of what Connor had accomplished. That the United States was free, for now, of all Templar influence. With the Company Man down in Louisiana also dead, thanks to Aveline, six years prior, that made a wide swath of the continent free. It would be weeks before Templars in other parts of the Americas found out, months before the Templars in Europe learned of this and sent agents. The United States was free.
This was not to say that all of their effort was easy. Jamie, as a doctor, was struggling with taking so many lives. He knew it was for a cause he believed in, and after seeing how Connor had been treated, believed that they deserved to die. But killing with his own hands had left him shaken. He preferred his investigations in Philadelphia, keeping track of Congress and who was doing what with power. He was prepared to kill, and would do so in a heartbeat, but it shook him. He needed time to reassure himself, to put away his regrets, at least for a little while. Anne was being helpful in this.
Red Feather was worried and struggling as well. Not that he had killed, but that he didn't feel anything about killing them. Now fifteen years old and having trained for four years, Red Feather was a swiftly growing beansprout and he was fully aware that what they were doing was wrong by society's laws, but was right by their Creed after having witnessed himself the horrors of what a Templar could do. But he didn't feel anything when he had killed so many and he was worried that he didn't.
Joseph, despite his bright smiles about being in Germantown and its abolitionist history, carried his own regrets, since a few of those Charles had gathered had been of African descent. It seemed everyone was struggling with killing so many people in so swift a time and much of what they were dealing with had been swept away with worrying about Connor. Now that he was awake, the worry was coming back.
So Connor talked with them. With nothing to do and unable to even sit up with the hole in his side, he spent long hours talking to all of them, as Achilles had with him. He spoke of his own regrets, how regrets were common with what they did because the ultimate goal was to not kill. Killing was their last resort when other options had failed. Because their purpose was to let the world learn to be better. To teach the world self-improvement. The Templars didn't care if people learned or not, as long as their enlightened few stood above them and controlled them. Owned them.
He spoke with all of them as much as he could before they needed to return to their various bureaus all across the United States. He was the Mentor. Which meant he needed to mentor all of his brothers and sisters as hirokoa. Theirs was a difficult life. It was one that had few moments of happiness, and those had to be carved out by hand. The struggle was endless. Even now, they had to plan for unknown Templars sneaking into the United States to start building their strength again. But there were moments where it would be rewarding. Like hearing the Declaration of Independence read out to the people, or watching Rockport come together if someone was in trouble.
But most of all, he spoke of pain and hatred. Of how it existed in all peoples, no matter their color. Of how it could twist a person so thoroughly, they became an atenenyarhu.
"Always remember that ours is not to eat those around us. We are to work for what we have, not take it from others. And just as we work hard, we help others who cannot. Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."
It had been a year without any major engagements, only small skirmishes and raids and ambushes with the British; no resolution had yet been reached. Washington kept the army together, insisting that they needed to be ready in case this temporary ceasefire ended. So winter quarters were again being set and Connor was looking to spend a very long winter in Germantown, healing and recuperating. December was cold and one by one, the Assassins needed to leave before snows got too deep and passes became impassable. Most went by ship, though Stephane got a wagon and some skids to become a sleigh for when he got farther north to Albany.
Jamie and Anne were the only ones to stay, nursing him back to health. Jamie was gone most days, doing his work in Philadelphia, and Anne disappeared in the evenings to keep up with her contacts. Anne insisted on feeding him as much as she could, both to help him heal and to put more weight on his bones since his time unconscious had left him malnourished and almost emaciated. Jamie kept regularly changing bandages and checking on the hole in his side. ("We're lucky it didn't hit any organs.")
Connor let them, feeling listless and directionless. Charles was dead.
So what now?
And even if he had a course of action in mind, he couldn't do it until he had healed. And that would be months yet. So he went through the motions every day.
It wasn't until late January that Jamie had Connor starting to slowly move around the inn they were staying at. It was amazing how simply being able to get up and go sit by the window to read was liberating. With his newfound motion, he started reading the newssheets again, most of them speaking of the debates in Congress and the committees and subcommittees, along with many speculations about the war and if it was truly over or not. While the news was interesting, and discussing it with Jamie and Anne was enlightening, Connor didn't have the spark of passion he had felt as before when reading about the news in Boston after the Massacre or the Tea Party. He was weary of war. His war with the Templars and Stone Coats had ended. Yet another war still lingered around them, even if there hadn't been any sort of engagement since Cornwallis's surrender at Yorktown.
By the end of February, Connor's exercises were walking more regularly, if very stiffly and with tender care as his side was still painful and with a fair-sized hole in it. After being confined to one building for so long, Connor started doing different exercises and training to help build his strength back up again. He had been confined to Germantown long enough. He wanted to get moving, even if he didn't know where to.
In March Washington gave a speech to impatient troops, assuring them that paychecks were coming and to wait a little longer. After over a year without fighting threats of desertions were starting to cause worry, because this time it wasn't about fear of the British, but of want to get back home and with actual money for all their hard work. The inactivity wasn't helping. But March also brought word that France and Spain had made peace with England and that back pay, prisoner exchanges, furloughs, and other such logistics like returning runaway slaves, (Connor let out a long and heavy sigh...) were deep into negotiations.
It was too much. Connor needed to get away.
So he left a note saying that he was heading back home, got a wagon since he knew his side would never handle being in the saddle, and just started riding.
He didn't return to Rockport. Though he expected that that's what others would assume.
Instead, he headed back to Kanatahséton.
His people were free. It had cost him much. It had cost him his best friend, his place among his people, so very much. He wished to visit with Oiá:ner, listen to her wisdom. None may welcome him back, but she would. And he desperately needed her guidance now. Charles Lee was defeated. Iottsitíson's quest was complete. What was he to do?
That question had been plaguing him for the past three hundred miles. His mission had been divine in origin, though earthly in practice. Now that it was done, what came next? He was the Mentor of the Assassins of the United States. That still bore responsibilities and commitments. But would Iottsitíson send them on their next journey? Would she show the next enemy to face? Was there a new enemy?
He eased his horse over the crest of a hill, the wagon having long since been abandoned since it couldn't take the rough terrain or the snow drifts that were still several feet deep. His side ached and he had to stop riding every hour for rest and to make sure he wasn't bleeding again. He slid off the horse to a barren rock that had no traces of snow, despite the patches that surrounded it. He sat heavily on the rock and just lay back down, grunting out a breath before easing himself into stillness to rest. Almost, he was almost there! He could almost smell the cookfires.
How would he approach? He was not particularly welcomed, he would admit that, so how could he go in and visit Oiá:ner? Almost all had seen him in his settler clothes, knew to look for the white hood or white coat. Should he ride in in more traditional clothes? But that would mean exposing his side and he did not wish to show weakness after he had left on such bad terms after both Kanen'tó:kon and the horrible Sullivan expedition. True, he wished forgiveness, but he would not seek it out of pity. Perhaps he should wait for nightfall? But that would be skulking about the village that had been home for over a decade.
Perhaps he was over thinking this. All he really needed to do was ride in and see how things would be from there. Nothing else mattered.
He was home.
Finally, he was home.
After his side was no longer burning, he carefully climbed into the saddle, disliking how even that caused him great pain, and sat for a few minutes to get his pain back under control. Easing the horse forward at a walk, he rode down to the village, trying to glance through the thick oaks and maples and pines to see the village wall. Something seemed strange. It was... quiet. While cities would bustle with noise making for a hard comparison, every town and village produced sound. Even sleepy little hamlets that he had ridden through had people crossing the green to greet someone, or a market, or something going on. Even his village, arguably quieter than most settler towns, produced sound. Children running around, screaming and laughing, villagers talking, songs of healing. But he heard nothing.
Nothing.
A dark unsettled feeling twisted his stomach.
Riding in, it was easy to see that the village had been abandoned. None remained. And he remembered that Oiá:ner had mentioned that there had been talk of moving. But he hadn't thought it possible.
Ià... ià...
He slid off the horse with some difficulty, tied the reigns loosely, and limped forward.
This couldn't be... After everything he'd done. He'd accomplished his mission! They were finally free! Finally safe! So why did they flee?
His insides twisted again, curling upon themselves, as he wandered aimlessly once more. He had been aimless already for so long... Since Charles had died... What was he to do now? He didn't even have Kanatahséton to return to anymore...
What would he do?
As he neared the river, he smelled smoke. A cookfire. He turned and headed that way, not thinking it wise to rush given the burning fire in his side. In one of the longhouses, he found a man by a fire, a rabbit roasting, humming a soft drinking tune.
The man looked up over his thick unruly beard. "Hello, I reckon," he greeted easily with a smile. "If you're hungry, I've extra." Not a member of the Confederacy, not a member of the village, not a native. It was a white man, buckskins, beaver cap. A settler. In his home.
His insides twisted even more. "No thank you..." he said, carefully holding his side as he sat on a log across from the traveler. He looked around, ghosts of memories of how full of life the longhouse was drifting across his vision, of clanmothers herding the children, of chiefs meeting and talking, of his mother, of himself, of Kanen'tó:kon. Now all empty. "Where is everyone?"
"Gone west," the traveler replied, tending to the rabbit. "Been a while since they left. Seems some fellow from New York was granted the land by Congress."
His insides twisted even further and he wondered if he could hold down the food he had eaten earlier.
"Nahò:ten?" he whispered. "What?"
The traveler nodded. "Seein' it happen more and more. Reckon it'll just keep happenin'. Government says they don't take land that's already owned, but, uh..." he looked around.
He looked down, clutching at his side. "How could this have happened?"
"We're on our own now," the traveler said, turning the rabbit again. "No more Merry English parts and labor. Which means we gotta go at it ourselves. Gotta pay for it too." He pulled the rabbit from the fire and smelled it before setting it aside to cool. "Sellin' land is quick and easy and not quite so nasty as taxes," he said sagely. "And since some say they're what started the whole war, ain't no rush to bring 'em back, I reckon." He stoked the fire. "Clever men, these new leaders of ours. They know not to push it just yet. Too soon for taxes. Too... British."
He rubbed at his eyes and let out a long, heavy sigh. "Thank you," he said softly. Then he settled in for the night. He would need the rest. In the morning he would look for clues on where his people had gone. Seek them out. Join them. Try and... do something.
Faintly, as he fell asleep, he heard the traveler murmur, "Be safe..."
The following morning he awoke to find himself alone, the fire cold as if it had never been lit the night before. Had it been a dream? A vision? The traveler had seemed awfully knowledgeable for someone out wandering the woods. But what if it was just a man who was seeking the peace and solitude of the forest? The previous night had been so surreal...
Shaking his head, he stood. He needed to see if there was any indication of where his people went. As he walked through the longhouse, looking at all the empty shelves, he found one strange thing. A single wooden box, crisp edges like what Lance or even Terry and Godfrey could build, instead of the logs and sticks and straw his own people would use. With some pain, he leaned down and opened it to find the artifact, the glass ball that had given him his vision.
But... why would they leave this behind?
It was their guide, their link to Iottsitíson, to the Sky Goddess herself. Why leave behind something so important? Reaching out, he pulled up the glass sphere, watching the etched patterns start to glow gold as they had so many years ago. The longhouse faded away, rays of golden light hovering and drifting in the air. Pulses of gold spreading out from each footstep he made as he stumbled back in surprise to see such a vision again. But unlike before, he was not as an eagle, a representation of his spirit. Instead, he just stood there, holding the sphere, looking through darkness as bits of golden light eased along in random patterns.
"Ah, long have we waited for your return," Iottsitíson greeted from the darkness. "You have done as we asked. You have succeeded."
Succeeded? He most certainly had not! "No!" he called out to the darkness. "I have failed! My people are gone! Chased out by those who I thought would protect them."
He had lost so many...
The gold at his feet intensified, spreading, but still could not break through the darkness.
"It is a trade," Iottsitíson explained. "A sacrifice. And not in vain."
What was the Sky Woman seeing that he could not? What did she see that made this acceptable?
And then a woman was there. Paler than any white man, hair braided as his people would, cloaked in white purer than snow or clouds. "For you have found it."
A glow came from something other than the glass sphere and he looked down to the pendent he had taken from Charles, saw its jade color emanating with soft light. "This?"
The Sky Woman nodded. "Now you must hide it. Where none shall think to look. And then, in time, what once was shall be again."
What was she saying? That his people would be restored? Back to their lands and homes? But in time? How long was that to a spirit who was ageless and been there since the beginning? What did all this mean?
"I do not understand."
"Nor need you," Iottsitíson replied gently. "Only do as we ask. Then, you may do as you wish."
But he wished for his people... he wished for Achilles... he wished for... so much...
"But what of my people?"
Iottsitíson was looking through him, to something he couldn't see. "You have saved this place. As was your people's purpose. And that matters most."
Saved from the Templars perhaps. But not the white man. "It is not enough!"
"It will never be enough." The Sky Woman looked to him again. "You strive for that which does not exist."
Freedom for all? Equality for all? Justice for all? It might not exist, but who was to say that it wouldn't? Who was to say that he shouldn't fight for that! Because it was worth it!
"Still," Iottsitíson turned, looking out to something he could not see, "you have made a difference. And you will do so again." She glanced back to him. "Remember, you must hide the amulet where none might find it."
The darkness faded, leaving him once more in the dawn of the day, the glass sphere dissolving in his hand until it was mere dust that blew away on the wind.
He stared at the rising sun.
Such a contrast. When Iottsitíson had first spoken to him, he felt that he had found his purpose. That he at last had direction after years of anxiety and fear. Now that he had conquered his anxiety, mastered stillness, now that he was grown, his meeting with Iottsitíson was... unsatisfactory. Hide the pendent? That was his next mission? Was his work for the Sky Woman truly done?
He was left with more questions than answers.
And he still did not know what to do.
But there was one thing.
He needed to return to Rockport.
It was on the ride back, the long three-hundred-forty mile ride through the late spring rains, that he realized the truth of Sky Woman's words.
"Only do as we ask. Then, you may do as you wish."
Since he was thirteen years old, Ratonhnhaké:ton had been driven by a simple purpose: protect his people. His objective had been given to him by the Sky Woman herself, Iottsitíson, and he performed his duties gladly in spite of the pain he suffered continually for it. Now he was without purpose, he had no duty of the Spirits to fulfill, and he was left directionless. Red Feather had not realized the depth of his question last year: what now? What could he do without purpose? Direction? He was free to do as he wished, that was what Iottsitíson had said, but now that he had his freedom he was lost as to what to do.
"Order. Purpose. Direction. No more than that. It's your lot that means to confound with this nonsense talk of freedom... The Templars seek to remove those sources of pain... a New World will be born, and it will have Order, Purpose, Direction. Freedom must be stamped out, else those deadly sins resurface and destroy the world."
Haytham... had been right. Order, purpose, and direction did have their place in the lives of humanity. Ratonhnhaké:ton had not realized how driven his life was with purpose, had not realized that all of his own talk of freedom had been moot, even hypocritical in light of the fact that he, too, was bound by the very things he had spurned of his father. And it was not just him. Now free from British control, what was this new country doing? Selling off land to make money, regardless of the heritage and the people who lived on it. Was that any better than taxes? Any less tyrannical?
He rode into the village in the dead of night. His side was hurting him, but he had pushed passed sundown to get to the manor. He rode through the valley, seeing sleepy wisps of smoke in the moonlight, signs of life. He stabled the mare and moved into the house, shrugging off his off-white coat slowly and collapsing into a heap on a bed. It was not until the next morning that he realized in his haze he had chosen Achilles' bed. Pain prickled along his already worn down heart, and he moved outside in the dawn hours to the graves, wondering if his throat had at last been cleared. He looked out to the cove, listening to the waves, sitting in the dewy grass and half-imagining being on the Aquila, rocking with the sea and the world empty of everything but shades of blue.
Like the stone blue eyes of Charles Lee.
All that pain, all that heartache, all that suffering. For nothing.
"Ista," he said softly, "Raké:ni. I am sorry. I have failed you both." He looked to the trees, the vision of his mother filling his face, her scent and eyes. "I made a promise to protect our people," he explained, "I thought… I thought I was fighting atenenyarhu. I thought Iottsitíson tasked me with fighting evil and saving our village, our heritage, our culture. I thought if I could stop the Templars, if I could keep the revolution free from their influence, that those I supported would do what was right. I thought I had found allies who understood my battle, who joined with me, who would respect my goals and do the right thing. They did, I suppose, do what was right—what was right for them."
Sam Adams used Ratonhnhaké:ton's culture to further his goals with the Tea Party. He filled a young impressionable native's mind with ideals and principals even while he ignored following them, avoided harder issues like slavery or the treatment of the natives. He did what was right for his own purposes, severing the Colonies from England, and when his life's work had been achieved, instead of staying with the Congress and running the country, he went back to his life in Massachusetts.
Commander Washington had used Connor in missions, benefited from his hard work and his warnings, but he did not even try to understand the native's needs. He was only interested in winning the war, and damn the people he hurt in the meantime – his ignorance over Charles Lee nearly got him killed – twice, and he refused to show sympathy to Ratonhnhaké:ton's people or the slaves he owned or the problems his indecision cost him. The Commander never once asked after his trials in New York, nor questioned what happened when he had left Valley Forge so quickly – to inevitably kill Kanen'tó:kon, his best friend. Instead, he willfully forgot the native's motivations and ordered the Sullivan Expedition to decimate his people and summoned him to deal with the traitor Benedict Arnold, and rewarded him with a piece of purple cloth as if that signified... anything.
Tallmadge had no qualms of calling on his Assassin heritage if it benefited his mission as head of the Culper Ring.
Lafayette, likable enough and as close to a friend and contemporary as Ratonhnhaké:ton had in the army, gleefully hired Oneida to fight in the war and never bothered to understand his heritage and culture.
The Continental Congress, spouting principals in their Declaration of Independence, now horded their power by selling land that was not theirs. People were still bought and sold as property for the sole purpose to save money, and native peoples everywhere were brutalized and shoved viciously off their land out of greed, all while their cities and culture killed each other with such casual frequency that it was considered normal, and the peace of Ratonhnhaké:ton's home an anomaly.
… Haytham would be proud to know these thoughts. He knew that after reading the journals, after knowing the Templar's mind as he hadn't when still alive.
"As for you, Father," he said, watching the trees sway in the breeze, smelling the pollen in the air, "I thought I might unite us, that we would forget the past and forge a better future. In time, I believed you could be made to see the world as I did—to understand. I believed you would come to know that principle could win out, that there was still hope in the world, that people could change and that there was no need to feel as defeated as you did. But it was just a dream. This, too, I should have known."
Everything welled up in him at that moment, as the sun peeked over the ocean, the morning greeting him with a reverent tapestry of color: pink, purple, gold and red. It was beautiful, serene, everything that he did not feel. If Haytham was right about purpose and direction, if he was right about freedom without a goal, what else was he right about? What other things did his father preach that had an edge of rightness about them?
"Were we not meant to live in peace, then?" he asked, his voice rising with the desperation in his heart. "Is that it? Are we born to argue? To fight? So many voices—each demanding something else? Will a consensus never be reached, will they constantly push for only themselves, will they never see the needs of those around them?" He sighed, weighed down by his burdens, by his realizations. So long he had fought, so long he had pushed, and so much he had been through: the Boston Massacre, Lexington and Concord, abuse in prison and nearly being hung, Kanen'tó:kon, Fort George, even now, his captivity in Philadelphia. The loss: Ista, Achilles, Nora, Haytham... so much had been done to him, and all – he thought – so that his people might be safe, so that his allies could assist him.
And now it was all twisted.
"It has been hard at times," he confessed, morning birds beginning to sing, "but never harder than today. To see all I worked for perverted, discarded, you would say I have described the whole of history, Father." Even Iottsitíson, the Spirit who had sent him on this quest, now revealed that it was not as he had thought. He was tasked not with saving his people, but just retrieving a simple trinket, an amulet that required so much blood to be spilt and now just... hidden away. Nothing he knew was true. Nothing...
"Are you smiling, then?" he asked, looking up to the bluing sky, the wisps of clouds. Would Haytham find this amusing, grinning with pride at his broken world? Laughing at his despair? "Hoping I might speak the words you longed to hear? To validate you? To say that all along you were right? To come to your side and admit defeat? To accept the world as it is?" He was angry now, heat rising in his voice, energy building in his core. Nothing was true, he had learned that now, but perhaps that was the most important lesson. He would not bow to this. No. "I will not," he vowed, pushing himself painfully to his feet, hand instinctively going to his side. "I will not!" he shouted to the cove, voice bouncing off the trees, reverberating, spreading into the air and charging it with the energy he felt: not anxiety or fear, or even anger. The energy he felt now was as he felt in prison: battered but strong, resolute, determined. He would not bow to this. Not now. Not ever. Even now, faced as he was with the truth of Haytham's cold words, he refused.
"Because I believe things can still change. Nothing may be true, everything I believed up to now may have been a lie, but that is only half of the Creed. Everything is permitted, Raké:ni. Even hope. Even change. I may never succeed. The Assassins may struggle another thousand years in vain. But we will not stop. I will not stop!"
He moved down the hill, into the trees and towards the water, away from the manor. Something in him was shifting, changing. His despair was morphing into something else as his thoughts began to crash back and forth in his head. Nothing was true, everything was permitted. The answers to all of his questions, the answer to his years-long trail of doubt and uncertainty, were all being swept away as the Assassin's Creed bloomed in his mind. This is what the Old Man had tried so hard to teach him – that the realities of the world could not be denied with fervent wish or native truths; the contradictions of the world and of the white man must be accepted for what they were, faced honestly and without a blind eyes. But in combination of that was the promise to effect change, to be what the world should be, to inspire others to be as that, to know the value of one's actions and foster such actions in others. That was the point of the Creed: to be what you wished to see in the world. This was his answer, this was his...
"Compromise," he whispered, stopping at the edge of the cliffs, the world in front of him. "That's what everyone has insisted upon. Sam Adams to prioritize people's rights; Washington to placate those around him; you, Father, to admit the defeat against principle. And so I have learnt it. But differently than most, I think. I realize now that it will take time, that the road ahead is long and shrouded in darkness. It is a road that will not always take me where I wish to go—and I doubt I will live to see its end. But I will travel down it nonetheless. For at my side walks hope. In the face of all that insists I turn back, I carry on: this, this is my compromise. This is my Purpose, Father, this is the Direction I will take to bring Order. I will show the doubters, the disbelievers, those lost in their own despair; I will show them by example that hope still exists, that change is still possible, and that nothing – not even despair – is true and that everything – even hope – is permitted."
And, just like that, the weight on his shoulders lifted, the depression bled away. He was not the boy he was, naive and unbending; he was not the teen he was, principled and unwilling to accept the world as it was; now he was a man, twenty-seven, who knew the limits of the world and the sacrifice necessary to change it. He knew the length of the road he walked – well, at least he knew it was never ending. The sadness was still there, the loss, the weight of everything that had happened to him, but now coupled with it was determination, resolution, and understanding. He would face this despair again, he would be hurt again – perhaps even worse than he had been hurt up to now – but he knew that he would be able to conquer it in turn.
He moved back up the hill, towards the manor. His side was hurting him, he clutched it in pain, but he was lighter now than he had been in a long time. He understood now, and accepted what he had learned. His eyes tracked to the two graves and the newer third, and he knew what to do.
Ratonhnhaké:ton moved back into the manor, fixing himself a small breakfast of dried fruit from the root cellar, building his strength for his next task. He pulled out a shovel from below and held the Oniare'kó:wa in his hand, staring at the Great Snake that ate its tale, the treasure that had brought Haytham Kenway to this land and set all of these terrible events in motion. The Sky Goddess was right. It needed to be hidden, and it was a task he would do gladly, to prevent other people from repeating this tragedy.
And he knew just where to hide it.
He slung the shovel over his shoulder and stepped out of the house. It was midmorning now, the sun well into its climb up the sky. His side pricked at him, and he regretted the damage he was about to do, but he felt good about this decision. He paused, thinking, and moved back into the house, down the hall and out the front door. He looked at the tamahaac, Kanen'tó:kon's hatchet that they had buried into the post all those years ago – had it really been that long? The depression hit him to see the memory of his best friend, images flooding into his mind: riding to Boston, seeking counsel from Sam Adams, his best friend so uncomfortable with the world of the settler. The war would never be over, but this phase of it was concluded.
It was time to bury the hatchet and all the memories along with it.
He worked it out of the post painfully, his side threatening to bleed with the effort he exerted, the stitches threatening to rip apart. The hatchet was rusted with nine years or exposure, the wood worn and dried out, cracked and exposed. It was the effigy of himself and all that had been done to him. He carried it with him over his shoulder, as the shovel, and moved once more to the back of the house, down the slope and to the cliffs.
The graves, one of them was tilted forward, always hard to read. He knelt down, looking at the faded name: Connor Davenport, 1748 – 1755. This was what Father Timothy meant last year, at the service. The grave next to it: Abigail Davenport, 1721 - 1755. He had never put any thought to the names before, but now he understood just why Achilles was in such pain even on top of the loss of the Brotherhood, why he had struggled so much to lead when Shay Cormac was slaughtering them—
The painting. That he so feared to set eyes upon. Oh, Achilles...
That would be next, when his work was done. He would hang the painting exactly where it was supposed to go, honor the family.
He looked to the third grave, and at last he could speak.
"I never properly said goodbye to you," he said softly, kneeling down. He held his side carefully, preparing himself for a long conversation. He needed to explain: "I was not ready."
The words ran out. He was not sure where to even start, how to explain everything that had happened in the past year – more than a year now. "So here I am," he said awkwardly. "My father is dead, I never had the chance to tell you. He was at Fort George, and he nearly killed me. Charles is dead, now, too. So are all of the other Templars in this new country, all of them have been killed. The land you loved so much is free now, but the weight of my responsibilities never seems to diminish."
He sighed, softly, his side hurting him. "There is always something else that needs fighting for." He had seen the letters from his brotherhood delivered to the manor, more reports, more things to do. Slavery was still an enormous problem – not even Aveline could stop it, force of nature that she was, and the Kanien'kehá:ka were not the only ones burned from their lands and homes. It would never stop. "This is something you never warned me of," he accused, but there was no malice in his voice, "maybe because you thought I would have been deterred - you would have been wrong but I know you were not accustomed to that."
So much the Old Man had said had been right. Every prediction, every observation, every facet of human nature – even about his own people, even about himself. Well, not everything. He doubted Achilles would have predicted the answer he had come to, so convinced he was that Ratonhnhaké:ton would fall into despair as he had. He did not wish to dwell on that, there were other things he needed to say.
"Life carries on here," he said, looking back at the manor, and beyond to the village in the valley. "The people seem happy - they are certainly safe, at least for now. I will speak with them more as time moves on. I know Dr. Lyle will be cross with me again, and Father Timothy is determined to look after my wellbeing. He is a fine akatoni. Ellen and Prudence continue to be very close friends, and Hunter grows by the day. He is eight now, learning to read with the help of Father Timothy. Myriam and Norris are much closer now; their life is still a challenge but they have learned how to overcome together instead of separately. Dave has become a strong member of the community, and I am certain the time will soon come when he will be strong enough to speak with Ellen plainly. The Scotsmen are always getting into trouble, I know they are due for one of their fights soon, and Diane is a natural medicine woman under Dr. Lyle's hands."
It felt good, speaking to the Old Man. There was a smile on his lips that he wasn't expecting, a sense that Achilles wasn't really gone. For a moment there was a strong hand on his shoulder, and he leaned into the phantom touch, reassured as he had not been since Achilles' death. Like this, he could share everything, as he had as a child. And he did so.
"One of my brotherhood asked me something I have been struggling with," he said quietly. "What happens if - when - we win? When we stop the Templars? It is a question I certainly do not know the answer to, perhaps you did not either. But a little while ago I realized that what happens does not matter. What matters is what we do, and I've decided what I'm going to do. I've finally realized the truth of the Creed that you taught me. I am sure you would say that it took me long enough. I wish I had learned it a different way, one without as much pain, but I suppose the how is not as important.
"... I miss you," he said softly. "As I miss my mother. Whatever Haytham Kenway was, you were my raké:ni just as much as he. More so, even. I have known that since the hanging, but I never said anything because I was still so confused about Father. Now I can say it freely: Niá:wen'kó:wa, Roiá:ner'kó:wa. You are a sachem worthy of more honor than I can give.
"I hope all is well with you, wherever you are."
He stood, stronger for his rest, his side hurting less. "I trust you enough that I will hide something with your son. I know you will keep it safe – a bother or not."
And so he set about his work, taking his shovel and beginning to dig. The late April air was warm, and his poor health worked him into a sweat quickly as he worked through the pain of the gaping hole in his side that was only partly healed. The earth was soft from recent rain, easy and pliable, and it was not long, perhaps an hour, before he reached the bottom of the grave. He pulled off the amulet. He would not disturb young Connor's rest by opening the coffin, instead he wrapped the trinket in a handkerchief and simply placed it on the weak wood. His task complete, he exited the grave and began the arduous task of moving the earth back.
When his work was done, he looked to the grave of his roiá:ner.
"Goodbye, Old Man," he said, "until it comes time for me to join you - then I will bother you once again."
And he moved on to his future.
Desmond's eyes snapped open as he realized he was out of the Animus. Woah... Just... Woah... He'd never experienced that before, never experienced what it was like to realize the Creed, to have an epiphany of that magnitude. He and Altaïr had known the Creed their entire lives, and Altaïr relearned in slowly over the course of a summer. Ezio learned about it in spits and spurts reading the Codex and being inducted into the Guild, but Ratonhnhaké:ton... he just... it hit him like a sack of bricks, and he hummed with that feeling, and Desmond lingered in that wellspring of hope, as long as he dared, before he closed the partition.
Mind finally back where it was supposed to be, he looked around to see his father at his side. He had kept watch? Desmond smiled.
"I know where the key is," he said, sitting up quickly and swinging his legs to the ground.
William eyed his son before nodding. "Then let's go."
It was over a five hour drive, just under an hour to I90, and then four and a half across the length of Massachusetts, passing through Springfield, then Worcester, then edging around the metropolis of Boston and to Rockport. Shaun did most of the driving, Rebecca too busy masking their signatures and William updating all the teams on what they were doing. Desmond again had shotgun, the highway giving him white noise for his eyes as his mind compartmentalized all that Ratonhnhaké:ton had taught him. He touched the partition, reliving that speech over and over, his shouting to the waves and quiet conversation with Achilles. Those were deeply personal moments, he felt guilty, as always, looking at such intimate moments, but that feeling was so strong, he couldn't ignore it, and he learned something new from his ancestors.
How could he pass this on to the next generation? How could he let others know what it was like? He'd tried on his phone messages; he pulled out the object and opened it up. There was more he wanted to say, but he couldn't bring himself with the others here. Maybe after...
Assuming he, they, lived that long.
He didn't trust Juno, not as far as he could throw her, but this was – literally – the only lead they had. There were no other options, this was the only chance they had.
He started giving directions once they entered the town. The river that had split the community had been filled in for a strip mall, but the inn was still there, now greatly expanded, and still called the Mile's End. He grinned at that, at the colonial architecture that that always been omnipresent in New England and now had personal meaning to him. Oh, it had been modernized, updated, but the lines were still there; Dutch colonials and their dormers, all the five-four-and-a-door designs. Was that the turnoff to the Freeman farm? He wasn't sure, everything had been filled in, flattened. Instead of a small series of houses existing in spite of an enormous forest, forest was now defined as packed houses and tourist locations, signs pointing to local landmarks, Bearskin Neck, Music Museum and Performance Center, etc. The turnoff was to a small town-owned museum, the manor looking nothing like it did, the land now well-manicured, the trees all cut away to a gorgeous view of the ocean, the smell of salt and sea wafting up even in the dead of winter.
It was dark now, almost one in the morning, and they all filed out of the van, Desmond walking with confident steps in the darkness. Ratonhnhaké:ton's partition was still partly open, he could feel the wealth of feelings that were attached to this place: learning, frustration, resentment, relief, home. His eyes moved of their own volition to the graves, still there after centuries, worn down with age, and he felt emotion in his chest to see Achilles' name on the marker before he closed his eyes and sealed off the partition more firmly.
"You did a good job, Old Man," he said, crouching down. "You don't have to look after it any longer. We'll take it from here."
A thought sprang up in his mind, he wondered where Ratonhnhaké:ton was buried. He loved this land as he had loved his village Kanathaséton, cared for all the villagers and wanted to see them happy. There was a dim memory of searching for a teacher that would fit, finding a sheriff instead, memories not yet explored. No, he could not touch them, leaving his ancestor to his privacy. Instead, he simply nodded his head to the grave. "Niá:wen, Roiá:ner'kó:wa."
"Yeah, no idea what you said," Rebecca said. "No subtitles."
"I was saying thank you to a great chief," Desmond said, wrapping his fist around a shovel. "Let's get this over with."
Shaun made a face in the moonlight. "Never thought we'd add grave-robbers to our repertoire of skills."
Everyone pitched in, starting first with a damn pickaxe to get through the frozen, packed earth. Once they were below the freeze line it was much easier. They shifted through the dirt carefully, mindful that the amulet key was small, working in the dark hours as clouds moved over the poor light of the waning moon. William eventually went to the van for lights, putting it in the hole they were digging to mask its illumination, before something in Desmond's mind clicked and his shovel hit something firm. He crouched down, rubbing his hands through the dirt, First Civ DNA in his blood calling to him and guiding his movements before something brushed against his hand. He picked it up, fingers black with dirt, and straightened, turning to show it to everyone else. It held a faint glow, but no voices.
William wanted to pack up immediately, it was a long five hours back to the Temple, but Desmond insisted on reburying Connor Davenport, and Rebecca and Shaun both adamantly agreed. William said nothing, but the look he gave Desmond wasn't hard or judgmental, but soft and knowing.
They left at dawn, Desmond catching up on his sleep while William drove, and when he woke they were back, moving down underground, passed their camp, passed the Animus, passed the various paths he had taken to power up the Temple. The gate was enormous, obscenely so, and its cyan color reminded Desmond of how cold the Ones Who Came Before were. What was Juno planning? Would it really save the world? Or would it doom them?
"Guess this is it," he muttered.
A hand touched his arm, and he turned to see Rebecca, a soft smile on her lips. "We're right behind you," she said.
William nodded his head, encouraging. "Moment of truth," he said.
Desmond stepped forward, moving to the lock. As he did, the key started to glow brighter, actually tugging in his fist. He opened his hand to see it floating, moving imperceptibly towards the door. He gulped, once more in awe of First Civ technology, and licked his lips as he prepared himself for what he was about to do. He held himself still, contemplating the moment, and he put the key in the cyan lock. The energy door and source of light for most of the Temple increased in intensity, blinding everyone even with closed eyes, patterns shifting and moving before it simply... stopped.
Everyone shared a look before tentatively, tepidly, moving forward. The bridge was solid under their feet – to be expected for the ancients, Desmond supposed, and he tried to put some confidence in his steps as he moved into the unknown.
At the end of the bridge was more light, more cyan colors.
"Yes..." Juno's voice seemed to emanate from everywhere. "Come... Here..."
To everyone's left a black lacquered wall stood, the bridge led an off-centered path to the light. In the black wall was a door, completely innocuous, save that there was nothing else on this bridge. "What do you think?" he asked.
"Come..."
"I think that's where we're supposed to go," Rebecca said.
"What, not to the end of the road? Obviously someone had a bad taste for metaphors."
William gave a withering look but he went in, Desmond and the others following.
Compared to the over-bright cyan light of outside, it was pitch black in here, and everyone waited for their eyes to dilate and adjust to the darkness. Deeper inside was a pedestal, Desmond could just make it out, with an orb set atop it. Unlike the Apple, it was bigger, with tiny protrusions instead of smooth grooves. There was no pattern on the orb that Desmond could tell, and he took a step forward to get a better look at it. In response, it lit up.
"At last," Juno said, her hologram appearing. Her voice was smooth as it always way, accented and reassuring in a way that made Desmond slightly cold. "You know our story now," she said. "Of how we tried. Of how we failed. All our hopes extinguished. Save one." She walked confidently up to the orb, parts of it cyan-white and others dark. She put a hand on the sphere, eyes locked on Desmond. "Your touch," she said, "a spark. A spark to save the world."
What did that even—
"Wait! Do not touch the pedestal!" Everyone turned, surprised, and watched in morbid fascination as a new hologram entered the room, blowing past the others and blocking the sphere, a hand defensively over it.
"Minerva...?"
Juno was equally surprised. "You..." she muttered, "But how? You left! You destroyed the device!"
Minerva turned cold eyes to Juno, braid that reached down to the floor whipping heavily around. "Did you think there was only one?" she demanded, acid and contempt in her voice. What the hell was going on?
William echoed Desmond's thoughts. "What the hell is going on here?" he demanded, looking to his son for answers.
"You must not free her!" Minerva commanded.
Wait, what? Free her?
"... Free her?"
"Juno dwells within these walls, awaiting release," Minerva said.
"We figured as much," Desmond countered.
Minerva held up a hand. "I will explain: While we worked to save the world, she sought, instead, to conquer it." Minerva walked slowly around the orb, braid swishing back and forth, gesturing to Juno with disdain. She was taller, but thinner, less adorned save that gaudy headdress. She did not have the ethereal beauty of Juno, her face was too practical, but there was authority in her voice. "She used our machines to set her plans in motion." She moved around Juno, who was curiously still, eyes staring at Desmond with intensity.
"Divination through numbers," Minerva continued, "There is a pattern to existence. To comprehend the calculations is to tame time. This was my focus. And so I built the Eye to aid us. But she turned it towards her own ends." She stopped to Desmond's right, gesturing her distain again, eyes lost in memory. "When we discovered her treachery, we put a stop to it. And then we left." She moved again, eyeing Desmond with the same intensity as Juno, gliding up to him and around him. "But first we called to you," she said, "That you might try again. We thought it would be safe with her gone, safe to give you the keys to rebuild civilization, to be free of our influence and able to reach heights such as ours. However your people were created you are still people, and you had the potential to grow as we did, to live as we did, and to finish what we had started. With her gone, you could prevent that which destroyed us from destroying you. Now I see we were deceived." She turned downright hateful eyes to Juno, and Desmond was utterly unnerved. Those Who Came Before were always so removed, so emotionless, so closed off. To see this level of emotion brought them down to humanity's level: jealousy, petty rivalry, vendettas. They were not so godlike now, and Desmond's head felt like it was exploding trying to wrap his brain around it. "She survived. She endured. And then she began to work."
Juno finally ripped her eyes from Desmond, turning her intense gaze to her rival.
Minerva continued to explain. "For centuries Tinia and I walked the world, hoping to rekindle the spark of civilization. We shared what we knew as best we could. We were not the only ones. But for all the power we wrought, still death would claim us. But before it did, I would have one last look to know if we had succeeded."
Ah. "That's how you're here now?"
The goddess nodded. Moving again, completing her circuit around the pedestal. "I had hoped you might find this place – and finish our work," she said, voice oddly gentle before it turned to disappointment. "But it is too late. You and the Templars have squabbled over our refuse. You have wasted centuries. And so you have lost your chance. You cannot hope to stop the end now, Desmond. Only to survive it."
Juno snapped to action at last, turning hateful eyes to Minerva and moving into her personal space. "She's lying!" she cried, before turning back to Desmond and locking eyes again. Her hands touched the orb. "Only touch of the pedestal and the world WILL be saved."
Minerva scoffed. "Better the world burn than she be loosed upon it."
Juno turned to give a scathing look. "Is that so?" she asked, voice dangerous. "Show him, then," she ordered.
A grown brushed against Minerva's face. "But he will not understand," she said.
"Jesus Christ not this again," Desmond growled. "I have had it up to here with your shit! Your cryptic messages, your assumption that it's so hard for us to understand! Tell me what that bitch is talking about!"
"... It is complicated," Minerva said, as if trying to explain to a child. "It is..."
Desmond stood his ground. "Show me," he ordered.
A thin pressing of the lips, the barest of nods, and then everything shifted. Rebecca bit out a curse and he had the sensation of William ducking, and then nobody could see anyone, because they were watching the future in glorious detail. Desmond watched as the solar ejections shoved their way to earth, multicolored lights and screams of terror.
"If you heed Minerva the sun will have its way," Juno said. "The ground will crack and spit fire into the sky. All the world will burn."
And it was exactly as she said: volcanoes erupted from nowhere – in the middle of cities, one after the other, a new Ring of Fire – Hawa'ii blew up, Fuji drowned Tokyo in lava, New York that was only just recovering from Sandy was split into pieces, Europe on fire and whole swaths of Africa flooded. It was horror, billions died.
"But this does not end the world," Juno said, showing Desmond and the others coming out of the Temple, looking at the ruins of the planet, "merely heralds its arrival. Darkness follows. Then you emerge..." Desmond shifted, changed, the others disappearing and a beard filling his face, clothes now rough and handmade, solid earthy colors of a civilization pulling itself up from the gutter. "You resolve to lay a foundation that such a tragedy does not befall the world again. You will become a symbol to those who survive: Hope. Knowledge. Determination. You will inspire them to rebuild. To thrive once more. And as the world heals, so too will humanity..."
Fuck. What? What? Jesus Christ what?
"But you are just a man. Frail and mortal. You pass from the world, leaving behind only a memory. A... legacy." There were candles, men in robes – some hoods, some not, tabards and small forms of decoration, of office; the warm glow of fire leading to a box covered in a white shroud, flower petals, people praying over him. Holy shit... "You will be remembered first as a hero. Later as a legend. And in time... As a god."
Heed these words and you will be saved.
Turned viciously to:
Heed these words or perish as a heretic.
"It is the cruelest fate. To have written words that meant well – and see them made wicked and unwise." And there were fire-pits, cruel words engraved on the face of a book, raised above a priest's head, to inspire more hatred and persecution, the Crusades all over again. Juno's voice rose in passion. "What was meant to encourage life – used instead to justify taking it!
"And so now you see," Juno concluded. "That what was shall be again. So tell me: How is this better?"
Christ. Jesus Christ.
He would turn into Jesus Christ – some random schmo who tried to teach people and turned into a cipher for unbending dogma and cultism, used to start wars and have his wishes perverted to the exact opposite of what he wanted. Jesus fucking Christ! He was just a guy! Desmond no-account runaway-from-home bartender piece of shit! How the fuck did he become the next Jesus Christ? He wasn't even noble, humble, even good-hearted; he swore, was a dick to his father, ran away from his problems, killed people, how was he worthy to become this? How did fate choose him? Because of his First Civ DNA? Because he lived the lives of Altaïr and Ezio and Ratonhnhaké:ton? Because he was born fucking March thirteenth?
What was he supposed to do with this?
Juno was in front of him now, black and gold eyes intense again. "She would sacrifice you – sacrifice the world – for no other reason than to deny me vindication."
God, she made it sound so easy. Like Minerva was the bad guy and Juno just a helpless victim. Juno made him kill Lucy, there was no way to trust her!
Minerva stepped forward, refuting her rival. "They will enslave your kind, Desmond. Is this not why you fight? Is this not why you came here? To ensure more than just your race's future, but its freedom? We made you to be ruled, yes, but many of us learned your value, we had children by you, we learned to love you as more than what you were. Many of us sought the freedom you all so desperately wanted, and now your chance at it will be gone, because she does not value you as we do. She will create just as many deaths – what she is asking is only when and how: now, by the end, or later, under her rule. It is your future and freedom that make this the best decision."
"What future?" Juno sneered. "What freedom? Billions dead and the whole cycle begun anew? This world has known nothing but heartache and horror since we left it."
"Our gift to them," Minerva countered. "They are free to learn, to make mistakes, to find their own way. How long did it take us to reach our greatest heights? How long did it take to learn the same lessons they must learn? And you'd see it all returned. For what?"
Desmond had had it. "ENOUGH!" he shouted, startled by his volume, Rebecca jumping and Shaun taking a step back. "Both of you shut up!"
Minerva was insistent. "You must not do this."
But Desmond was past that, long past. He wasn't anything like a Christ, and he'd be damned if he left the world to see his ideas turned into bloodshed. He didn't want to be responsible for that, he didn't want to have that over his head, didn't want to live knowing that was his future. Maybe he was running away from his responsibilities again, maybe this wasn't the "right" decision or the "best" decision, but it was the one he was confident in making. Juno would be awakened. Fine. Juno wanted to take over the world. At this point, that was nothing new. But there was something neither goddess realized.
"Whatever Juno's planning," Desmond said, "however terrible it might seem today – we'll find a way to stop it." Assassins had proved over and over that they were resourceful, they came back and back no matter how many times they were destroyed. The Templars, too, had a knack for pissing off everybody by not staying dead. There was hope. Just like Ratonhnhaké:ton had said. And with hope, change. "But the alternative," he said, locking eyes with Minerva, "what you want... There's no hope there."
"If you free her – you'll be killed. Destroyed."
Juno was quick to equivocate. "It will happen in an instant. There will be no pain."
"You mustn't!"
Desmond held her gaze. "It's done, Minerva," he said. "The decision's made."
Her voice was watery in response. "Then the consequences of this mistake are yours to live – and die – with."
Desmond turned to his friends. His father. "You need to go. All of you. Now. Get as far away from here as you can."
Rebecca was wide eyed and shaking. "No," she said, tears rolling down her cheeks. "No. No. Not you, too! Not again! Desmond, you can't just...!"
"Shaun, get her out of here."
"Desmond..."
"Shaun. Look after her."
The Brit gave him a long, penetrating look, before he nodded and grabbed Rebecca by the waist.
"No! No! Nooooo! I don't want to go through this again! I can't go through this again! Let me go! Let me go! I have to stop it! Put me down! Nooooooooo!"
Her cried echoed off the walls, Shaun half dragging and half carrying her out of the dark room and down the bridge. Her cries were interspersed with sobs, and Desmond wondered if he had broken her for good. Could she ever recover from this? Would she ever recover from this? But what else was there to do? Watching the world burn like Juno described... that would be so much worse, it was the lesser of two evils. He listened as Rebecca eventually broke to incoherent wails, and her voice faded, echoes still bouncing off the Temple. That only left his father.
William's face had more expression in that moment than any point in Desmond's life; he could pick out shock, fear, sadness, even confusion, all mixed together in an ugly mess. He reached out, grabbed his son's shoulder.
"Come with us," and he was pleading. "We'll find another way."
Desmond shook his head. "There isn't time."
The other hand grabbed him as well, as if the touch was not enough for William, as if he was afraid he would disappear before his very eyes. "Son..."
"You know it's true," Desmond said, quietly insistent. "It's already started. I need to do this now. Right now. Dad..." A lump rose in his throat, and his vision blurred, and he reached and hugged his father, squeezing as hard as he could, holding this memory and burning it into his mind. This was his last moment, he wanted it to count.
"I love you, Dad. Tell Mom I love her."
"Desmond..."
He let go before he lost his nerve, and gave a small push. "Go!" he said. "Go!"
William shuffled back, looking at his son, locking eyes, conveying... everything. Then he turned and ran out of the room.
Desmond turned to the pedestal, walking up to it, a hundred different thoughts and feelings and emotions running through him. His breath was ragged, his body shaky. He was going to kill himself. He was going to die for the sake of humanity, but he had no way of knowing if his sacrifice even did anything other than wake up Juno. Did she want him to die, would he have stood in the way? Would she take his body and use it? Would she even do what she promised? Stop the sun from killing everyone? It was a gamble. A gamble with his life.
… Wasn't life always a gamble?
He took a breath, and hovering over the orb, and he placed his hand on it.
Electricity fire pain unimaginable pain shaking screaming stop it STOP IT END THE PAIN GRAB THE HAND CAN'T LET GO-
Silence.
A corpse slumped bonelessly to the floor.
And there was no more.
Only...
Only... …
"أهلا وسهلا أخي"
… What?
There were shadows, silhouettes, shapes he knew as intimately as he knew his own.
"Ben fatto, fratello."
He knew those languages, knew those faces, knew those people.
"Skenen'kó:wa kenh, rikén'a?"
They were all there, Altaïr and Ezio and Ratonhnhaké:ton and so many others, more than he could count and yet he knew them all, knew their names and their histories as well as he knew his own, he knew his ancestors and was humbled that they would welcome him. Ezio of course opened his arms wide, Ratonhnhaké:ton nodding shyly while Altaïr watched stoically, others moving in and around him: Flavia, Sef, Aquilus, Giovanni, Maria, Maria, Umar, Maud... all of them were there, and hands were on his shoulders and back, words all blurring together to a warm sound that left him feeling safe and loved.
And he was at peace.
"...it's some sort of global aurora borealis..."
"...never seen anything like this before said Senator..."
"...eyewitnesses describe electrical storms and erratic displays of unusual weather... residents are being asked to remain inside and wait for..."
"...geological surveys are now reporting seismic activity throughout the ring of fire... northeastern Canada is said to be experiencing the largest... on record..."
"...satellites and transformers are failing as the flare increases in intensity... Worldwide reports of blackouts and..."
…
… …
"...seems to be receding... Residual seismic activity and volcanic activity is being reported, but nothing approaching earlier levels... Obviously it will be a while before experts are able to assess the full extent of the damage caused by today's event. But it appears the worst is behind us... We'll be sure to bring you more as this story develops..."
Juno looked down at the thing that had at last awakened her. Her energy was low, they had not found enough power sources, but it was enough. Now all she had to do was wait.
"It is done," she told it, offering solace to a thing long gone. "The world is saved. You played your part well, Desmond. But now... Now it's time that I played mine."
Author's Notes: And so it ends.
Connor first. While we didn't full on BREAK our betas like we did in earlier chapters, Mirror was crying as she read the conclusion to Ratonhnhake:ton's story. For everyone who wanted us to use the hidden audio (that we DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY IT WAS CUT) that was so amazing: we did. And of course we expanded it for our own purposes like we did everything else. Ratonhnhake:ton never does anything by half measures (he's the penultimate American in that way), and that includes how he comes to learn the Creed. We wish one day that we have a game - or a DLC - that explores more of his life. We saw Ezio and Altair as mentors, and Connor deserves no less for what he's been through. His final conversation with Achilles is as heartbreaking as it is hopeful, and it's a wonderful place to leave him off.
Desmond, too, wanted to share those deeply intimate moments, but unlike Ratonhnhake:ton he gets interrupted from a massive exposition dump by Minerva and Juno. The pacing of his scene is terrible as a result, and that hurts because this is his big moment to shine. He makes up for it in the end though, as he hugs his dad and says his goodbyes. Those last few lines were amazing.
And now the world is set up for Black Flag and Unity and everything else that happens after. Rebecca is broken to little bits and takes a year to recover while Shaun struggles to find a way to honor Desmond's memory by going out into the field, William is an absolute wreck, and Juno is in the Gray. It's a good place to end.
This series was a labor of love. There was no great idea, no conversation that lead to a plot, no intense FEELING to rush to put on paper. This was just us, loving the world of AC and binge playing 1 through Brotherhood and wanting to experience it in any way we can. It grew into a time-consuming, research-driven, soul-sucking project that used up all of our creativity for several years, and has permanently rewritten how we write things: we don't write stories anymore, we novelize things we see, and we have to spend quite a bit of time rewiring our brains to be actually CREATIVE again. There were times where we just didn't want to write, Revelations was BORING if it wasn't an Altair chapter and all the time-jumps in any fic took teeth-grindingly long amounts of time because there was no inspiration to actually create.
For all the pain this project was, the end result was worth it. We are proud of what we have produced and are humbled at any review that expresses their love of this story. We started with 12(ish) reviews a chapter in AC1 and have dwindled down to almost none for the last several chapters, but the level of praise has always been consistent and high, and we love you guys for the feedback.
We're not done with AC fics by any stretch of the imagination - and any fic we write will likely be in "this universe" we have created, but nothing of the length seen here. We hope you enjoyed our overly-long, self-gratifying fic, and as always, let us know what you think.
Next chapter: Epilogue: George Washington marches to his doom.