Assassin's Creed: Faith Chapter 43: Must Now Be Reaped, an Once Upon a Time + Frozen Crossover fanfic

Chapter 43: ...Must Now Be Reaped

Death is not the enemy. Nor the ally. Death is an ever patient, unforgiving, uncompromising, indiscriminating force. Death always wins. But every day, every person around the world fights against this unstoppable force. For the next second. The next minute. The next day, week, month, year to live. Why do we fight against something that can never be stopped, only slowed down?

The Reaper asked himself these very questions. His life was whittled down to the hours, with only so much time left. The snow blew around him in every direction as he shivered, feeling the ice spread around him. Doubtless his hair was now completely white. Most souls would now lie down in the snow, ready to give up if they themselves had been dealt the hand he had been, and had reached it to this point. But he did not. He could not. This town, caught in the middle of another Eternal Winter, would die if he gave up. He had to keep moving. He had to kill The Monster.

The Monster hated him at first sight. They both did. They were related by blood, but to them, it didn't matter. The other was beyond redemption in their eyes, and they marked each other for dead. The Monster pulled strings, whispering in the ears of The Reaper's sisters, trying to turn both of those innocent souls against each other and The Reaper. The Princess knew The Monster for what she was, but The Queen did not. And for that, a whole family would be torn to shreds for thirty years.

The Monster did not kill The Reaper when both of the girls were gone. She left him a fate much worse than death; the fate of life. He would spend more than half of his life watching everyone else that he loved to suffer and die, him powerless to do anything. And when he sought vengeance for his true love, he was sent to Hell.

He could hear the screams all around him in the thick blizzard. Screams of anger, of misery, of pain. The villagers screamed out in fury at each other as they fought and raged at each other. He stood in the middle of the streets of this town, no one seeming to notice him there. The Reaper tried to keep going, but then he saw two of them that he knew.

"I see you clearly now, servant girl! You don't know your place below your stepmother!"

The other snapped and snarled. "You're an abomination! A werewolf!" She mimicked her again with a howl.

"Red?" The Reaper murmured, dizzy with the Curse. "Cindy?"

They stopped, and then turned towards him.

"And you! You just can't let go of this pathetic vendetta! You have thrown everything and everyone you loved to the wind, all so you could satisfy this hunger for vengeance!"

The Reaper yanked out his air rifle, loading a clip in.

"I don't want to do this, girls. But I have to!" He said, pulling the rifle's lever.

The blonde was about to jump him, but The Reaper shot a dart into her chest. The other one began to scream out.

"The bastard is over here! GET HIM!"

He took aim, pumping the lever again. "Sorry, Red." He said as he shot her.

More screams of anger directed to him came out through the mists. The Reaper ran, trying to remember what direction he was coming from. He saw the shell of a building across the street. It had been burned down a few weeks ago, but The Reaper kept moving, ignoring the tormenting guilt that plagued him as he kept moving. He ran along the side of the building, getting out of the wide open into the back of the store. Suddenly, he could see something else in the snow. Four figures, huddled around a campfire. The snow was beginning to thin, and melt around them. And the Reaper could feel something different. Something familiar…

I applied my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly. I perceive that this also was a chasing at the wind. For in much wisdom, is much grief. And he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow…

The meeting with Tazim brought a newfound sense of hope for The Mentor. He ordered the boy to stay back as he approached the four hooded men, huddled around the fire. Dawn was approaching, and the dusk of The Usurper's hold on the castle.

"They say he screams in his sleep." One sneered. "Calling out for his father."

"Abbas. What a miserable man." Another said with spite. Almost with a chuckle.

A third one, who The Mentor noticed did not have his hood raised, looked down at his feet. "It is not our place to judge."

"It certainly is!" Snarled the second one. "If our Mentor has gone mad, I would like to know."

The Mentor continued to walk towards them, purposely putting noise into each step he took. He did not want to startle them. The first man noticed him, and hushed the others.

"Good morning." He said, with a different tone than to the others.

"Water." The Mentor wheezed, holding out a hand.

The others nodded, one grabbing him a large pot of water. Another offered him his seat. The Mentor took it without words, along with the water. Taking the jar in his left hand, he noticed the boys' reactions to the missing finger. His ring finger. They could not deny that regardless of age, this old buzzard was a brother to them.

After finishing the water, he took a moment, and then sighed. "Pity Abbas." He said, to their further surprise. "Do not mock him. He has lived as an orphan for most of his life, shamed by his family's legacy." He stopped, almost feeling a ghost of that old hatred he felt for his corrupted brother. "He is desperate for power, because he is powerless."

The third man, with the lowered hood, spat bitterly. "He is our Mentor!" He snapped, pointing a finger at him as he stood. "And unlike Al Mualim or Altaïr, he never betrayed us!"

But the poor child was alone in his bitterness to the past. Towards their last Mentor. One of them spoke up in support of the old dog.

"Nonsense!" He said. "Altaïr never betrayed us." He turned to The Mentor, a look of knowing painting his face. "He was driven out… unjustly."

"Ugh!" The hoodless Assassin scoffed, before walking away. He had already made up his mind about everything. The Mentor would hope that what may transpire here today would change his mind. If not, he would speak to him until he found his way with him. He would try not to spill any blood of those who could be redeemed.

The Mentor looked down as Tazim walked up, joining the others at the fire. The one who spoke for him looked at him, inquisitively.

"Is… is it you?" He whispered. "I heard rumors, but I did not believe them."

The Mentor looked up at the four of them, his aging mind drifting elsewhere. A woman who managed to temper that anger within him spoke words long ago. Words that had stayed long and hard with him for the last twenty years.

Strength, Altaïr.

Ah, yes. Strength. But was he indeed strong enough, or even wise enough to be strong? That remained to be seen.

"I wonder if I may speak to Abbas." The Mentor said. "It has been… a long time."

"Impossible." One of them growled. "Abbas uses rogue Fedayeen to keep us from the castle."

"Fewer than half the fighters here are true Assassins." Said another.

The Mentor stood, looking about the four faces that surrounded him. They were looking to him. In their time of most need, they looked to him, as they might have many years ago. He may have returned when it was of paramount need. His timing may have been impeccable.

"Then where do I begin?" He asked.

The four stood with him. "With us."

He signaled for the three of them to go off. To rally those loyal to the Creed, hopefully to save every living soul within the walls of Masyaf. Tazim walked with him, instead, already entranced by the tales he had been told by this Mentor, and of the man with one arm.

"You say these men are cruel." The Mentor said. "Has anyone raised his blade against an innocent?"

"Alas, yes." Tazim sighed. "Brutality seems to be the sole joy of these Fedayeen."

"Then they will die." He stated. "For they have compromised the Order. But those who still live by the Creed must be spared."

Tazim nodded, running off into the village to join in the rallying.

The Mentor coughed, and began his climb. The village was always on the side of the mountain, the only way up to the castle. It had not changed at all in the last twenty years, and under his muddied and torn cowl, The Mentor realized that none took notice of him because for once in his life, he had truly become one of them. He had been taught by Al Mualim all his youth how to disappear and become one with the city's crowds. He had used these skills to hunt down the nine devils across the Holy Lands. But he felt that these skills had now become lost to time and age. He could feel the weight on his arm slowing him down as he kept his climb up the mountain; The device was in place. Was it always truly this steep?

As he continued the climb, villagers ascending and descending the hill around him, he spotted two guards. The whispers he heard told him enough. These men were a disgrace to the Creed, and must be put down for it.

"You've heard the stories going around the village?" One said.

"About Abbas and his nightmares?"

"No, no. Altaïr."

"What about him?"

The one who spoke, looked around carefully, fearful of who would be listening. He was right to do so. "People say an old Assassin saved the life of a merchant down in the valley." He whispered. "They say he fought with a hidden blade…"

"Ah… rumors. I don't believe it." Said the other.

"True or not, say nothing to Abbas. He is sick with paranoia."

The other chuckled. "These days, when is he not?"

It was then that they took notice of The Mentor, who had been walking dead on towards them in the middle of their conversation.

"You make me ill just to look upon you." Said the first.

"Someone should have put you down long ago, old dog." Said the other.

"Recite the tenets." The Mentor replied.

"Eh?"

"Do you truly hold to the Creed?"

"Who are you to question me, old fool? Get out of here before I knock you to the dirt."

The Mentor glared at him. "Then you say that you would harm an innocent?"

The scoundrel chuckled, advancing on him. "I can. I have. And if you do not back off, I will!"

The Mentor tightened his wrist. The mechanism freed, springing the blade out. He shoved it into the first man's throat, and before his friend could react, he too felt his life fade away. The Mentor laid them both down to rest, whispering the respect they did not show him.

The Mentor kept walking up the hill. But with each step, he could feel his presence becoming more and more known by the false Assassins that walked among the village. He could spot those loyal to the Creed running along the rooftops, rallying those who could be redeemed.

"Altaïr is here?" A third captain cried from further up the way. "In the village?! Send word to the castle, quickly!" He waved his hand, drawing his sword. "Assassins! To me!"

Ah, but they were not Assassins if they would so willingly toss the meaning of the Creed to the dirt. That was where he erred.

He had no trouble spotting The Mentor, though. He leered at him as he approached.

"Where do you think you are going, old man?"

"I wish to speak with Abbas." The Mentor replied, calm as a pond.

"That will not happen."

"Then will you stop me from it?"

The man who stood before The Mentor appeared as though he would. He raised his sword, and advanced on the old codger. But he got a surprise when The Mentor masterfully grabbed his wrist, and bent it. He yelped out in pain, dropping his sword for The Mentor to catch.

"You still have much to learn." He stated.

The boy he had disarmed was at a complete loss for words.

"Have you betrayed the Creed, before?"

The boy bowed his head, shame reflecting on his face as clear as the pond. "Yes. Once. And it was to my eternal shame."

"But admission is the first step." The Mentor replied, softening his gaze. "Your mistake has taught you as much as it has cost you."

The man looked back up. "Abbas is…cruel." He said. "But you are not. If you would still have me, I would be interested to see what kind of Order you would form. May I follow you, Al Mualim?"

He gave a short nod. "As you wish."

He went on as the Assassin ran off to join the rest of his brothers. The third captain lay ahead with his troops.

"Kill the traitor!" He thundered. "He is there!"

The Mentor felt his followers assemble behind him.

"Spill no blood if you can help it." He reminded them. "Only he will die."

"At once, Mentor."

"It will be as you say." Said another.

Those who fought behind the scoundrel were spared with no difficulty, throwing themselves to their knees as soon as they were disarmed. But The Mentor kindly offered the mercy they begged for as the blood of the corrupt one pooled around his still body.

He continued his climb, getting closer and closer to the castle. It was strange how it had changed more from within than from without. He recognized every brick, every mortar that he could see as though it was his own extended family. There was a missing brick in the walls of the castle to the right of the gate that he still recognized. It reminded him of the simpler time. He could only smile until he saw another one of The Usurper's captains walking up to him.

"Altaïr." He sneered. "Two decades have passed since we last saw you within these walls."

The Mentor could see from beyond the gate. There were more Assassins from within, but none were beyond saving. None but one more who would need to die.

The captain drew his sword, then threw it down to the dirt. "We could use your wisdom, now more than ever."

The Mentor nodded as the captain fell in behind him, and all the others that marched on the castle.

Tens, possibly even a hundred men stood within the walls. All wearing the white hoods with red sashes. But how many of them had stained their hoods like their honor? With the blood of the innocent? How many had broken their tenets?

Tazim came up from behind him, taking his spot at The Mentor's right hand.

From up on the raised section of the courtyard, at the doorway that led into the castle's interior, he could see The Usurper. His hair was still black as his spite, but his beard had gone completely white. He was mad. Mad from the paranoia that infected him every night for the last twenty years.

He turned to those who stood beside him. "Kill him! Kill him, now!" He shouted.

But none did as he said. So many had fallen in behind the Mentor. So many would not do what the scoundrel had brainwashed them to do. Had they truly become the evil they sought to destroy? The Mentor kept walking, more and more Assassins from within the walls falling in behind him.

"What are you waiting for?!" The Usurper screamed. "You fools! He has bewitched you!"

Tazim stepped out in front of The Mentor to speak for him. "Our Mentor has returned!" He called out. "He bewitches no one!"

The Usurper growled, cowardly running inside the castle. The Mentor kept walking, ready to finish his struggle.

"I would see no blood spilled." He spoke out to the Assassins from within the walls. "I only wish to speak with the man within these walls who calls himself the Master of this castle."

One bowed his head, putting his fist over his heart. "My respect, Al Mualim." He replied.

One was not so lenient. He lunged for The Mentor. Tazim quickly intercepted him, and tackled him to the ground. He did not extend his blade, nor did he move in for the kill. And that was all that was needed for the bold one to back off, let go of his sword, and let it clatter to the ground as The Mentor walked past. He walked into the keep.

From the doorway, he saw The Usurper, standing at the top of the stairs to the library. He glared up at him, feeling the weight of what he was about to do. Either spare him, or more likely, be forced to do what was needed to save the Order.

"Tell your men to stand down!" He ordered.

"No!" The Usurper snarled. "I am defending Masyaf! Would you not do the same?"

The Mentor clenched his fist. "You have corrupted everything we stand for, and lost everything we gained! All of it, sacrificed on this… altar of your own spite! You went against the very Creed itself! Your lapdogs killed innocents! You compromised the Brotherhood with your use of the Fedayeen! You shrank from every battle and every decision that came with the power you so desperately craved! You have no honor or respect left for these people, or yourself!"

"And you!" The Usurper roared. "You have wasted your life away, staring into that Apple! Dreaming of your own glory!"

The Mentor nodded. "That is true, Abbas." He admitted. "I have learned many things from the Apple. Of life, and death. Of the past, and of the future." He raised his hand. "Let me show you."

*BANG*

The Usurper fell forwards, rolling down the steps before spilling outwards, limbs spread out as he began to bleed heavily from the shot. The Mentor slowly walked forwards, kneeling down to the dying man. He gently placed his hand on his cheek as he snarled more anger to him.

"I can never forgive you, Altaïr." He wheezed. "The lies you told about my family. My father. The humiliation I suffered."

Pity. The Mentor could feel little else for this man than pity. Pity for all the spite he inflicted on himself. All the anger, all the corruption he felt, and it was all his own doing.

"They were not lies, Abbas." He said. "I was ten years old when your father came to see me. He was in tears, begging to be forgiven for betraying my family. Then he cut his own throat." He cradled and held the man's head in his hands as he spoke. "I watched his life ebb away at my feet. I will never forget that image."

"No!" The Usurper cried, refusing to believe it. He would not believe it then, and he clearly would not now, dying as he was before The Mentor.

"But he was not a coward, Abbas." He added. "He reclaimed his honor."

The Usurper gasped, still fighting to take those last few breaths that escaped him. "I…" He said. "I hope there is another life after this one." He said, softer. "Then I will see my father, and know the truth of his final days. And when it is your time, we will find you. And then… there will be… augh! …no doubts…"

The Mentor felt the tension in The Usurper's neck fade away, as he closed his eyes, and tilted his head back, finally at peace. He bowed his head.

"You were bitter to the end." He said. "I only hope it does not follow you into that life. I do not hate you, Abbas. I never did. Only I feel regret that I could not help you more."

The scenery all around cracked and crumbled, and The Reaper fell forwards.

"Ah!" He cried. "The bloody hell?"

He was in a room of metal. Singes and blackened ash marks littered the walls around the room. It was a freezer.

"Altaïr?" He whispered. "Mentor?"

He felt something change in his eyes. The Usurper. The Reaper had heard of that man, but he had not seen him as he had before. And now he saw something different in the eyes of the madman. A look that he had become all too familiar with in the last thirty years.

He looked over. One side of the freezer was still marked with the same scorch marks. It did not feel cold inside it, however. It only felt cold from within himself.

He suddenly understood where he was as he looked closer at the wall.

He had been here. Almost three weeks ago, he had destroyed this place after murdering the man who betrayed the town for The Monster.

He felt on the verge of tears. The man was not one to show defiance against The Reaper for very long. In fact, he begged for his life after losing his first finger. But that had meant nothing to The Reaper. He had allied with The Monster for his freedom, and that was enough to mark him for dead.

And then, after murdering Glass, he ran like a lunatic through the town. He wasn't even sure why. But he ended his rampage here by taking a bottle of lighter fluid from the hardware store across the street, and tossing it into here.

He ran his hand over the wall. The blackened marks stayed on the wall, but there remained, ever so prominently, the red paint that he had sprayed on. The insignia of the Assassins.

He cursed himself. He had done this in the name of the Assassins. That was what it meant to him when he murdered that man and burned the parlor to the ground. But he had now become a disgrace of the Order.

He felt little else than despair for everything in those moments. And the ice in his heart was killing him more and more with each passing moment.

That reminded him in those moments. The moments that he had to make count. Because he had been given a second chance by his own Mentor. The Monster had killed so many of their brothers, so he had to go out and finish her before so many others would die at her hands. He had to keep going.

There was only one way out of the freezer. The Reaper headed out, noticing the large hole in the roof. The whole building itself was nearly burned completely down, leaving an easy exit for him away from the street. The building itself had been reduced to four beams holding up the four corners of what remained of the roof, and pitiful pieces of the walls.

Outside, he could see the villagers throwing punches, grabbing others, and fighting hard to kill everyone else for the ills that only this dreadful curse made them see. Screams of pain, and of fury could be heard as The Reaper turned away from the street, and kicked a portion of the crumbling wall down.

Soft, undisturbed blankets of snow covered the ground in front of him as he stepped out, raising his hood further over his head. Over a year ago, he made his walk that led to forces of another world. Perhaps the vision of The Mentor he had seen was only the first of more to come. But he still had his target, and he had to find her.

He would head for the woods. It would be a lot of ground to cover, but he had a feeling that he would be pointed in the right direction by whatever force stood behind him in his fight to wipe out The Monster. He had to keep going.

With no other thought, he pushed on.

Fate had dealt him a lousy hand. He had spent so much of his life on the run from his mother and her husband after his father was killed by them. When they died, he could stop running and start walking from the Templars in Arendelle after their influence died with them. His sisters were people who never saw life outside of the castle walls because of what The Queen was. On the rare occasion he was able to sneak into the castle, he could see her fearfully do everything that she could to conceal everything that she could do. And then the fateful day of the coronation.

Granted, while he himself was never there, he was within the borders of Arendelle when the snow hit. He found himself fighting through storms like this one to understand what had happened, with the Broken Chain Brothers at his side. When the snow melted, he stayed behind, watching over them from a distance. Hans and the Duke would be back one day, and he would have to be ready.

It came a lot sooner than he wanted. The Templars put a hit on The Princess a mere four months after The Queen's coronation, and The Reaper was forced out of the shadows when he was caught by their forces after murdering the hitmen. Then came the Gemini Princes, Fritz and Frans, and the Rogue Assassin Ryan. So many enemies trying to be rid of two women who The Reaper swore to protect. Was it his protection all along that invited their enemies to take their shot to kill the sisters?

The Reaper thought harder and harder on this question as he came closer to the edge of the woods. But as he began to walk past the tree line, into the woods where the snow became even more unbearable, he saw a brick wall. That of beige stones, stacked thousands of feet high. He needed to climb it.

The climb already seemed to be long and dangerous from where he stood. But the further he climbed, the more the snow thinned out. And when he reached the top, it was completely gone, as was the forest behind him. In it's place, a whole city of magnificence stretching as far as the eye could see. Before him, a courtyard of various people in black hooded robes. They eyed him with horror on their brows, but he ignored them. He had a purpose, and he had to stop him.

"Here we go again." The Reaper murmured.

"When I was a young man, I had liberty, but I did not see it. I had time, but I did not know it. And I had love, but I did not feel it. Many decades would pass before I understood the meaning of all three. And now, the twilight of my life, this understanding has passed into contentment. Love, liberty, and time: once so disposable, are the fuels that drive me forward. And love, most especially, mio caro. For you, our children, our brothers and sisters. And for the vast and wonderful world that gave us life, and keeps us guessing. Endless affection, mia Sofia. Forever yours, Ezio Auditore."

It was twenty-four years ago. To the day. To the day that The Prince had seen his entire world ripped to shreds. Before that day, he knew little of what his father was, or what he was destined to become. But he watched as corrupt men of power betrayed his family, hanging his father and his brothers, giving The Prince only one purpose that would plague him, as well as push him for the rest of his miserable life: that of revenge.

He hunted down every man until all that was left was the one who now stood at the head of the Sistine Chapel, reading out in the Latin words of the Lord. With the man standing all alone at that altar, he could clearly hear the voice that changed his life forever.

"Giovanni Auditore!" The voice had thundered with the roar of a lion. "You and your accomplices stand accused of the crime of treason! Have you any evidence to counter these charges?"

Of course, he did. The Prince had personally delivered those documents to the bastardo the night before. But it did not matter. His chain was held by The Prophet, now reading out from the Holy Book below.

"In the absence of any compelling evidence to the contrary, I am bound to pronounce you guilty!" He had said. "You and your collaborators are hereby sentenced to death!"

But in the face of death, and with the rope around his neck, The Prince's father could only look upon Uberto Alberti with anger and a promise for him.

"You are the traitor, Uberto! And one of them! You may take our lives this day, but we will have your in return!" He had thundered. "I swear, we will-"

The Prince shut his eyes tight. He wished he could wipe that image clear from his mind, but he would never be able to do such a thing. He had seen that his father's promise had been made a reality, fighting and killing his way across all of Italia in the name of the Assassins. And now, after all of this, his last target stood below him, ripe for the killing.

He took a breath, and jumped.

The Prophet lay below him, underneath his feet. The Prince was certain he had broken some of his bones in the fall. But it mattered little to him. He extended his blades.

"I thought…" He said, ragged breath leaving his throat. "I thought that I was beyond this… but I'm not. I've waited too long. And lost too much." He raised his arm, the blade glinting above him. "Requiescat in Pace, you bastard!"

"I DON'T THINK SO!"

The Prince was suddenly thrown backwards. He clawed at his throat, for a breath. Just a taste of breath to fill the air knocked out of him. He scrambled up to his feet, and charged for The Prophet.

He raised his staff, the Papal Staff, and slammed it down to the ground. Golden light flashed from all around as it threw The Prince backwards again. All those around him, the friars and monks that had come to see the Pope himself offer the services, cowered and screamed with fright at what they saw. Energy from the Staff in The Prophet's hands pulsed about the room, but The Prince stood his ground, to the amazement and fury of his foe.

"How is it you resist?" He cried.

The Prince's hand instinctively brushed to the pouch at his belt, which also glowed with a similar light.

The Prophet grinned as he saw it. "I see..." He cackled. "Kind of you to bring me the Apple. Now give it here!"

The Prince cracked his neck. "Vai a farti fottere." He shot back.

The Prophet laughed again. "Always the fighter. Just like your father. Well, rejoice, my child. For you will see him again, soon!" He raised the Staff, wielding it like a mad dog. "You will give it to me!"

"As you wish…" The Prince whispered, drawing it from his pouch.

He felt something. Something within the Apple. He was a mere child in the eyes of the world, but this… thing was a tool meant for the Almighty. And now it was within his own hands. He stepped forwards, and braced himself in astonishment as the Apple's energies projected another, and another,and another version of him!

The Prophet cocked his head in interest. "Facinating…" He muttered. "An impressive power, this. But if you think it's going to save you, I'm quite afraid you have another thing coming!"

The phantoms beside The Prince were unlike what he was expecting. They were not merely pictures. They were puppets that fought The Prophet as he willed them to. He could not tell in that moment if he was fooled by the tricks that he had heard the Apple was capable of, or if this was really happening before his eyes. All he knew was that whatever he willed the puppets of his own image to do, they did it. He held their strings, and he seemed to pull them with the skill and understanding of someone who had done it for centuries.

The Prophet was a tired old man. Many years past what The Prince had aged to. The Prince knew what the artifacts they both held were doing to their holders, but the difference was he, in his prime, stood more of a chance to be able to take much more of the pain. The Prophet was not so lucky, and was struggling on his knees within minutes.

"No!" He gasped. "You will not take this from me!"

The Prince raised his sword with the Apple in his other hand. "It's finished, Rodrigo!" He ordered. "Lay down your arms, and I will make sure the end comes swiftly."

The Prophet only flashed that wild grin at him. "Oh really, Ezio? And would you give up so easily, were it the other way around?"

He slammed the Staff onto the ground once more, sending The Prince flying backwards across the hall once more.

"Why don't we find out?" He sneered.

With the power of the Staff, The Prince could only watch from upon his back, utterly stunned as The Prophet utterly disappeared…

The Apple! It was just outside his arms' reach. He had to get it! He had to use it to find The Prophet! Before he-

"ARGH!" He cried as he felt a sharp pain in his wrist. He suddenly saw The Prophet laying his boot into his wrist, standing triumphantly above him. He could do little else besides let go of the precious artifact, letting it roll away into the diavolo's hand.

"At last!" He laughed, maniacally. He knelt down, and took the Apple, raising it above his head along with the Staff. He now held two of the Pieces. There was no way to stop him…

The Prophet took the Apple, and placed it onto the head of the Staff. It seemingly fit, attaching right as though it was built to be laid there at the head. He turned his back to The Prince, strutting around a bit. Or was he limping? The Prince could not tell from where he lay.

"And now to deal with you." He growled, crouching like a leopard.

The Prince was fell shame. Utter shame, in himself, and what he had received for trying to sink back from what he had tried to climb above.

The Prophet once again, slammed the Staff onto the ground, causing unseen ropes from above to lash to The Prince. He could feel them pull himself up, surrounded by golden light around The Prophet. It would truly have been a sight for the pious and the dedicated to the Lord, but the man who stood before him was no Saint.

He had failed. He had failed his brothers, and his father. He had fought all this time and all this far for his own personal gain, and it had gotten him nothing. Nothing to gain except the knife that The Prophet was now pushing into his abdomen, to a tremendous surge of pain.

Smiling malevolently, The Prophet turned, and walked away towards the altar. What for? Where was he going? He almost seemed to sink right into the floor, but The Prince could not tell. He was dying. He could feel the life drain out of him as he fell to the ground, his face meeting the polished marble floors.

His fading mind drifted to the pages he had read. Those that had tracked across Italia to gather the knowledge left behind by the Great Altaïr. He himself said so much, teaching The Prince years of lessons, without neither having ever met face to face. What had that man learned that he himself had spent learning all these years?

For the people…

An Assassin fought for the people. They did not take lives for personal gain or glory. That was what separated them from the Templars. The good from the evil. To stay our blade from the flesh of the innocent. That woman that Altaïr had loved so deeply… he had killed many others after she had gone, but it did not bring her back to his side.

If there is one thing I know for certain, it is that men do not learn by being told. Instead, they must be shown. They must understand and make the connections themselves…

He had fought long and hard in the name of revenge. But it had done him no honor, and would do him none in the future. When had he done anything that was to be considered honorable? He saved Lorenzo de' Medici…he tried to save the Doge Mocenigo to save Venice. And he had taken up his father's work, who he himself had worked to save Italia. Hell… not just Italia, but all of mankind.

But he had lost this fight with The Prophet because once again, he could not look past that fateful day so long ago.

Except… then why was he still alive?

Curiously, The Prince reached down, and felt the place where the knife had pierced his belly. He had been stabbed before, and very similarly to how The Prophet had stabbed him mere minutes ago. Yet it did not pain as much as it should have. It was then he remembered the curious construction of the armor that he wore. That of Altaïr's…

"Thank you." He murmured to his phantom Mentor. "You taught me well, as you have protected me well."

Doing his best to ignore the pain, he stumbled forwards to the altar. There, steps led… downwards? Into some sort of catacomb.

He was bewildered at what he saw around him, architecture and craftsmanship unlike anything that he had seen before, in both person, and in books. What kind of place was this?! But he would have to focus more on that later. He had another worry before him, and wasted no time.

The Prophet was slamming a gloved fist into the wall opposite the entrance, furiously screaming.

"Open!" He commanded. "Damn you, OPEN!"

"It's over, Rodrigo."

When The Prophet turned with snapping rage, like that of a rabid hound, it sparked curiosity within The Prince.

"What do you even want with the Vault, Rodrigo?" He asked.

"Don't you know what lies within?" He replied. "Or do you mean to tell me that the great and powerful Assassins didn't figure it out?"

The Prince did not understand "Figure what out?"
"God. It is God that dwells within!"

"You expect me to believe that God lives beneath Il Vaticano?" The Prince scoffed, dumbfounded.

"A more logical location that a kingdom on a cloud, don't you think?" The Prophet responded. "Surrounded by singing angels and cherubim. It makes for a lovely image, but the truth is far more interesting!"

The Prince began to stalk forwards. He had had enough of the madness this man would dwell in. He had to finish what he came for, but for a lot more than simple revenge.

"Then what do you think He'll do when you open that door?"

"I don't care!" The Prophet snapped. "It's not approval that I came for. Only POWER!"

But The Prince was still not convinced. The man before him had truly lost his mind. "You think He will even give it up?"

The Prophet cackled. "Whatever lies beyond that wall," He pointed with one hand, holding the up the Staff with the other. "will not be able to resist the Staff and the Apple. They were made for felling gods."

The Prince only shook his head. "God is meant to be all knowing. All powerful!" He scoffed. "You think a couple of ancient relics will harm Him?"

"You know nothing boy!" His opponent boomed. "You take your image of the creators from an ancient book. A book, mind you," He laughed. "written by men!"

The Prince could barely believe what he was hearing. He himself did not believe in a creator as he did when he was much younger, but many others did. Thousands… millions. And here was the very Earthly leader of that religion before him, mocking the very Holy text.

"You are the Pope!" He cried, directing his stalking into a circle around him. "But you dismiss the central text of your Faith?!"

"Are you really so naïve?" The Prophet snarled, walking in a similar circle. The two of them were daring each other to make the first move. "I became Pope because it gave me access! It gave me POWER! Do you think I believe a single goddamned word in that ridiculous book? It's all lies and superstition. Just like every other religious tract written over the past ten thousand years!"

The Prince was done. Cracking his neck, he charged forwards, and jumped. He summoned every ounce of strength he could gather. Thinking back to those drunken brawls every night as a boy. Those fights in the street. A fateful fight against the one and only Vieri Di Pazzi, which was followed by the deaths that started all of this. The Prince mustered all of this strength in the middle of the air, and landed the hardest blow ever into the face of The Prophet.

The madman fell to the ground, defeated, as The Prince knelt down, right above him.

"You can't!" He practically screamed. "You CAN'T! It's my destiny! Mine! I am The Prophet!"

The Prince could not believe the state that this little man was in. He had lost his mind. "You never were." He said.

The Prophet scoffed, then looked away from him. "Get it over with, then."

And deep inside, The Prince wanted to. But it was not what was needed. Instead, he stood. "No. Killing you won't bring my family back. I'm done. Nulla e reale; tutto e lecito. Requiestcat in Pace."

There was no point. He had lost. His allies were dead. Everything that he had conspired in his efforts for the last twenty-odd years. Maybe after all of the lives that The Prince had taken, The Prophet was the one that did not need to meet his end here and now…

A cold blast of wind suddenly struck his face, sending The Reaper to the ground.

"Ah!" He cried, striking the snow off of his face. "Fuck!"

When he got all of the snow off, he wrapped his arms around his whole body, bringing his knees to his chest. He could not help but shiver, but it was not from the cold that was coming from the outside. From within, there was even more ice gathering, and within hours he would be dead. He had to keep moving…

"Ezio…" He whispered, looking out into the woods around him. He could almost feel the presence of the brilliant Italian mere feet from him. He had failed him in his exile, by killing Maloy and his family in cold blood. Just as he had failed Altaïr. The Assassins did not deserve him if he killed so liberally.

"I'm sorry." He sobbed, feeling the air trapped within his frozen throat. "I wish I could make excuses. My mind was not my own. I had no choice. But I know that deep down, I wanted to kill him for what he did to Ruthe…"

He could almost see a face in the darkness. Kindly, like that of an old man, with a scar on his lip.

"Please forgive me." The Reaper sobbed. He reached out for the shadow in front of him, but grasped only more of the cold, dark air that surrounded him.

Alone, and cold in the world, The Reaper had to keep moving. His sisters were in danger. The town on the sea was tearing itself to shreds. And no one but him would be able to do what had to be done to save them all. He had to kill The Monster.

Staggering, he got up from the snowy ground, and kept moving. The Mentor and The Prince had both shown him in what he still had to learn. What would be next? Who would be the next person to see his own vision be rearranged into what it should be?

Turning the corner around a tree, he got his answer. A man in a red coat, holding a musket took aim at him. The Reaper should have been shocked to see a British soldier right then and there, but at this point, little would have surprised him.

"Turn around, Pirate!" He snarled. "We're going for a walk."

The Reaper raised an eyebrow, and did as the soldier told him to. He wasn't expecting a visit from The Pirate, but he would gladly listen.

In front of him, the forest had disappeared, making room for a long brick hallway, with a grated entrance. Two guards were stationed there, and opened the gate to lead him out into the hot sun…

"For years I've been rushing around, taking whatever I fancied, not giving a tinker's curse for those I hurt. Yet here I am... with riches and reputation, feeling no wiser than when I left home. Yet when I turn around, and look at the course I've run... there's not a man or woman that I love left standing beside me…"

The hot sun shined hard down on The Pirate's face as he looked up, listening to the charges read out. He was thirsty. He had been for months, so this was nothing new. His gaze drifted to the corner of the yard, where a lone palm tree was quietly swaying in the wind. That too, was not new, the wind. Neither was the bloody bureaucracy he was witnessing as he saw the two women, and their charges being read out in front of them.

"The charges, sir." The judge commanded. "I'll hear them again."

It was another fucking Redcoat to read out the charges. So many people came west to seek freedom from these people, but they got nothing of the sort. And it was people like The Pirate, and so many others that got the rope over the neck, the sword through the heart, or the pardon to their hand. After what Roberts had done to him so many months ago, he could count on the rope any day, now.

"Milord, His Majesty's court contends that the Defendants, Mary Read, and Anne Bonny, did piratically feloniously, and in an hostile manner, attack, engage, and take seven certain fishing boats."

The Pirate rolled his eyes as he went on. The captain of the guards was enjoying reading out the charges a bit too much.

"Secondly, this court contends that the defendants lurked upon the high seas, and did set upon, shoot at, and take, two certain merchant sloops, this putting the Captains and their crews in corporeal fear of their lives."

The Pirate looked on with despair at the two women. Mary caught his eye, but her look was not of the same despair. It was of what little defiance she could still muster with all her strength. What else to expect from those bloody Assassins she went on about?

"Edward James Kenway." Said a voice behind him. "Born of motley parentage in Swansea. To an English father, and a Welsh mother."

He turned, and saw the bastard sneering at him. The ugly scarred face like that of a demon's. Woodes Rogers. Beside him was the Spaniard arse, Torres. Both of them he double crossed so many years ago, and had now faced off with time and time and time again. Now, here he was, right at their mercy.

"Married at eighteen, to Miss Caroline Scott, now estranged."

Caroline… he went out here to scrape together a good life for the two of them, but his swashbuckling and escapades had led him so far from her. Of course, she would be estranged from him after so much time.

"She's a beautiful woman, I'm told." Torres said. "But not at all well these days."

The Pirate lurched, spinning right around. "If you touch her, you bastards, I'll-"

Rogers yanked out a pistol, and shoved it into The Pirate's back. He shut up in an instant.

"Quite a surprise, finding you here, rotting in a Jamaican prison." The Templar went on. "We heard rumors that you had taken up with the Pirate Roberts."

Yeah, he did. And then he turned his arse right over to the British for a shiny reward.

"If you know the Observatory's location, tell us now, and you'll be out of here in a flash." Rogers ordered.

Not in a thousand lifetimes would he do so. He knew what it was capable of. He knew what the Templars wanted with it. And he knew exactly what would happen if they got their rotten hands on it. He kept his face turned away from them, silent as the wind that was calmly blowing through the palm at the corner of the yard.

Torres stood up, and leaned towards The Pirate's ear. "Rogers can hold these British hounds at bay for a time." He whispered. He then nodded to the front of the yard, with Anne and Mary getting their charges read out. "But this will be your fate if you fail to cooperate."

The judge screamed out as Rogers and Torres walked away, leaving The Pirates with his jailers.

"You, Mary Read, and Anne Bonny, are to go from hence to the place from whence you came, and from thence to the place of execution, where you shall be severally hanged by the neck till you are severally dead, dead dead!" He shouted.

"Oh, rot!" Anne snarled.

"May God in his infinite mercy, be merciful to each of your souls!" He went on.

"We're pregnant!" Mary thundered.

Silence suddenly filled the yard. The Pirate leaned forwards with surprise, as he listened in. This was a hiccup the court was likely not expecting. Now they had four lives that were to end, but two of which hadn't even started, yet. Chattering and muttering filled the yard as Mary scowled, resuming her shouting.

"Do you all hear that?!" She snapped.

"What the Devil did she say?!" The judge spluttered to the captain of the guards.

"They plead their bellies, milord." He whispered.

"Aye." Anne said, snidely. "Yah can't hang a woman quick with child, can yah?"

The crowd was getting riled up as they made their pleas. The judge angrily slammed his gavel against the table.

"Quiet! QUIET!" He shouted. "If what you claim is true, then your executions will be stayed." He said. But then he added. "But only until your terms are up!"

Anne chuckled. "Then I'll be up the Duff the next time you come knocking!" She spat.

"REMOVE THEM!"

Both the women, and The Pirate were hastily escorted back to their cells. He could barely keep his gaze from either one of them until they rounded the corner, and threw him back into his own cell with the hay and the shit.

Four months later…

The tide was loud that morning. Hours before dawn, yet they brought him out at the chill of the morning. The Pirate was now hanging in a small cage fit for birds, above the beach. Gibbets, they were called. He was never sure how to pronounce the "G" in them. He breathed in deeply with his nose, taking in the smell of the salt off the Atlantic. He looked down the beach, watching three guards come walking around the corner.

He hadn't seen Anne or Mary since their fiasco of a trial months earlier. He hadn't seen a face he would recognize. Or even one that he would have considered friendly. He was rightfully alone here in paradise. Hell in paradise, and him, the caged bird upon the beach.

The guards kept walking towards his cage until they were but right underneath it.

"What's your name?" One called up to him. "Pillock? Kenmore? Conway?"

The Pirate weakly rolled his eyes as he looked down at them. He may have been above them here, but they were looking down on him from their high horses.

"It's Walpole, ain't it?"

Walpole… that was a name he hadn't heard in years. Jaysus, that man. He meant to betray those Assassins from the very start of all this mess. But The Pirate simply killed him, took his name, and personally gave everything that was meant for that bastard Torres. He spent some time learning of the Templars, and what they stood for. Then he heard of the Assassins, and their continuing of the Crusades, after all of this time. And all of this over a bloody Observatory.

"Walpole?" Said the first guard. "Where'd you get that?"

"Now, that's the rumor going 'round." Said the other. "As dirty and daft a pirate as ever sailed these West Indies."

The third, who looked to be in command, shrugged. "Well, whatever his name, you're to make sure he suffers without dying." He said. "Orders from the Governor."

Of course, they were from him. Who else?

"And back to the prisons at sundown!" The leader added, before walking away to leave the other two to guard The Pirate.

"And massage his feet if he's aching, shall I?" The first sneered.

The Pirate was about to settle in for the long day he had ahead of him. But then he began to feel something. The itch. Someone was coming. Someone he knew. Maybe… liberty?

Furiously, he began to rattle his cuffs against the lock of the cage. It made enough of a racket to have the two guards turn around, and start yelling up at him.

"Oy! Stop that!"

He did, for a moment to ask them. "Oy! Water!" He wheezed.

They were so preoccupied with the banging and rattling he was making, they never noticed the hooded figure that stalked through the bushes. With ease, the figure dispatched two other guards some distance away, before walking right up behind and taking the other two.

"Good morning, Captain Kenway." He said, as he placed the dead bodies down onto the damp sand. "I have a gift for you."

He quickly searched the jailers, and found the keys on one of them. He tossed them up to The Pirate in his cage, before shaking his head. "Do not mistake my purpose here. I have come for Anne and Mary, and you owe me nothing for this." He explained.

The Pirate slid the key into the lock, turning it, and pushing the door to the cage open. He leaned forwards, falling right into the sand, groaning and aching from little movement for the last few hours.

"But if you would lend me your air, I can promise you safe passage from this place." He continued.

The Pirate nodded. An easy enough trade. He was quite done with this place.

"I'll need weapons."

Ah Tabai reached into his bag, and pulled out two bracers, and a blowpipe. "You are comfortable with these, I am told." He said, curtly handing them to him. "We must hurry."

The Pirate nodded, waiting for Ah Tabai to take off, before heading in a different direction.

The Pirate snuck about the yard, being extra careful not to alert any of the guards. For good measure, he took time to find each of the alarm bells about the camp and cutting the clappers out of them. There was to be no risks taken if he was to help Ah Tabai rescue the two women out of this hellhole. In their condition, it would be even more difficult to get them out without a single guard spotting them. But they had to try.

His path through the yard took him to the edge of the walls, where he saw a group of guards talking in front of another set of gibbets.

"Maybe he has friends looking out for him." One of them said.

The Pirate got closer, and was able to make out the color of the clothes on the lone skeleton in the cage. There was no mistaking the shirt and vest of Jack Rackham.

"Or money. Like Stede Bonnet from Barbados." Said another.

"No, no." The first replied. "They hanged him, too."

The Pirate stopped. Stede? Jaysus… God, no… Stede was gone, too?

"Did they?"

"Aye. Blubbering and bawling, he collapsed at the gallows." He chuckled. "Weeping like a little lamb."

"Hehe. Serves the bastard right."

Angrily The Pirate pulled out the blowpipe, and shot a dart right into the necks of all three of the guards. He tried to sit back in the bush and watch them rip each other to shreds with enjoyment, but all that came out were tears. Stede was a clumsy old fool, but he was still a good friend.

When the three of them were gone and done after the poison did it's damage, he came out from the brush and looked up at the gibbets.

"You weren't much of a friend, Rackham, nor an able sailor, neither." The Pirate said. "But you were strange and lively. And you made me laugh more than once… and that's enough to make me sorry for seeing you like this." He tried to let out the last words, trying hard not to let out the torrent of what he was feeling fill his skull. "I… I hope you've found a lasting Peace, down there among the dead."

The rest of the trek through the yard was a breeze compared to how it was. Now that The Pirate knew the fate of two more of his friends, somehow, it lifted a weight off of him. He was nearly alone on these high seas, everyone else either running scared, soon to the noose, or rotting in the ground.

No. He was not going out alone. Adewale was still breathing. Soon, he and Ah Tabai would get Mary and Anne out of this shithole. Today would not be the day the pirates died.

He pushed on, sneaking past guards of all sorts before finally reaching the inside of the prison. He hid through lockers and watched guards walk past as he went further down abundances of stairs until he reached the bottom. Then he heard moaning from a familiar scoundrel.

"For there's no drinking after Death, and he that will this health deny, down among the dead men!" The voice groaned out the pitiful melody.

The Pirate easily followed the voice to find the source of him. He left that fool to die on the island when they were both marooned, yet here he was.

"Hello, Vane." He said. "I'd caught wind that you'd been discovered and brought here. Didn't hear what happened after."

He had lost so much more than his ship and his crew after all of that. His mind was the next to go. He noticed The Pirate, and began to scream at him, incoherently. The Pirate was afraid for a moment it would alert the guards, but then he figured that this was likely usual behavior for him. After so much of his life, screaming and drinking, Charles Vane was silenced at last. It would not be a mercy to bring him along. The noose would be better for him, sad as it was for The Pirate to admit.

"Best of luck to you, Mate." He said. "I wish we'd parted as friends."

Now to find Mary and Anne. The Pirate went on, sneaking past each and every guard, knowing not to raise any alarms. He had gotten this far, and he wasn't going to cock this up any further than he already had.

"You spineless cockrobin!" He heard a familiar voice in the distance. "Help her, for God's sake."

The Pirate wasted no time. The voices were leading him right to the women he owed the most to. And they were the real reason Ah Tabai was here. Sure enough, he saw the Assassin Mentor dispatching the guards in front of their cells as he ran down the hall. As Ah Tabai took the keys off of one of the guards, The Pirate peeked his head into one of the cells.

"Mary?" He whispered. "Mary, it's me! Edward!"

But she was halfway dead from what he saw. Anne was screaming truths down the halls, and he hurriedly opened the door when Ah Tabai tossed him the keys. He flung the cell door open, and rushed to her side.

"Edward? Who's this fella?" He heard Anne call.

"It's alright, Anne!" He said, looking up from her. "He's a friend. What's wrong with Mary?"

"She's ill." She replied.

He looked down, noticing her belly was…

"And her child?"

"They took her."

The Pirate looked up, sorrow filling his face as he saw Ah Tabai helping Anne forwards.

"No idea where." She added, before screaming out.

Ah Tabai held on tightly to her arm. "I know it pains, milady, but we must be silent." He said.

The Pirate acted quickly, helping Mary up, and throwing her arm over his shoulder as he began to walk with her out of the cell.

"Lean on me, Mary. Come on." He begged.

"Ugh…" She groaned as they began to move. "I-I can't."

"Search every cell!" A voice shouted out.

Bollocks. They were out of time. They needed to move. The Pirate kept pushing on, now having to pull the weight of another as well as his own. But for Mary, he would fight for as long as she needed to. It was the least he owed her.

"Come on, that's it!" He said, plugging away with her. "You're alright."

The cells now seemed to be leagues long, because they were making as much of a difference in the movement they were making. It was all that Mary could manage, though, so it would have to do if she were to make it out alive.

"Stop!" She sighed, crying out in pain. "Stop, please!"

"I'M NOT LEAVING YOU, DAMMIT! LIFT YOUR ARM!" He cried.

It was a pitiful effort, but The Pirate would not give up. He couldn't. Not after everything that they had been through. This was not the way it was supposed to end.

"It's no good." She sobbed, falling to the ground.

But he was not going to give up so easily. He would get her out of here, even if he had to carry her out. So that's exactly what he did.

"I ain't leaving you nowhere!" He snapped. "No bloody way!"

"Put me down, Edward." Mary said, looking straight into his eyes. There was no way to convince her otherwise. The Pirate obliged, but not letting go of her hand as he slowly placed her down.

Mary took a few seconds, breathing heavily to fight her way through all the pain that she was feeling. Then she looked up at The Pirate.

"Don't die on my account." She said, gesturing to the door. Not ten feet away, and yet, so far from her reach. "Go!"

"You're such a pain in the arse!" He said, tears filling his eyes. He clenched his hand around hers. "Damn it! You should have been the one to outlast me."

Mary looked up at him, tears in her own eyes. But her face was almost ancient. She was on her way out of this world.

"I've done my part. Will you?"

The Assassins? They'd never accept him after everything that he had done to them. She needed to vouch for him if he were to find a place with them.

The Pirate leaned in. "If you came with me, I could." He whispered, pleading with her.

Her head drifted to the side, and her eyes began to close. The grip she had on his hand was fading.

"Mary?"

She opened her eyes, one last time.

"I'll be with you, Kenway." She whispered, letting go of his hand. "I will."

There was no holding back the tears. The Pirate wanted to stay with her, but the shouts he was hearing down the hall had other plans. He had to run. But he wasn't going to leave her, alive or dead. He quickly picked up Mary's lifeless body, and headed for the door.

By the time The Pirate had reached the beach, Ah Tabai had commandeered a rowboat and had Anne settled in. They both saw the two of them coming down the beach.

Anne noticed who The Pirate was carrying.

"What's happened to Mary?" She asked. "What's wrong?"

But Ah Tabai understood. "Is she gone?" He said, with the misery of every banished demon.

Wordless, The Pirate placed the body into the boat, lying her down on one of the seats.

"Oh no." Anne began to weep. Then her cries were of pain. "Oh, God!"

The Pirate turned, absentmindedly walking up the beach from the boat. Now Mary was gone. Who really was left? Him? Anne, if she didn't succumb to the same illness that fell on her friend? That bastard, Roberts?

"What will you do, now?" Ah Tabai asked.

The Pirate put his hand on his hips, contemplating. Then he turned around and faced the Mentor.

"Nothing sensible."

Nodding, Ah Tabai reached into the rowboat, pulling out a bundle.

"You haven't earned these." He said, walking up to him. "But they suit you." He placed it into his hands, leaving The Pirate speechless. He recognized the white fabric he had felt on his head for so long. It was a hood that those with the conviction wore it, and meant it.

"Good fortune to you, Edward Kenway." The Mentor said, smiling kindly.

The Reaper fell forwards into the sand.

No, wait. It was not sand. It was snow. He spluttered and coughed, feeling all the memories come through.

That was Edward Kenway. He had seen Ezio and Altaïr fight with the people they spent the longest time chasing to kill. But Edward was different. He had felt Mary Read die in his arms after she had fought so hard as both a pirate and an Assassin. And after everyone that he had cared for died, leaving him all alone, he finally understood everything and became the Assassin he was meant to be.

These visions he was seeing. They were not meant to scold him or punish him. They were meant to teach him. And he was learning. He had learned much in the last… how long had it been? Hours?

He got up, cracking his knuckles. If there was anything else to learn or see, he would welcome it with open arms, this time. He knew where Ingrid's cave was, and what he had to do. It was not far at all. He could sense it, and exactly where he needed to go. There was only the kill left. The one person he had spent his whole life in tracking down, to finish him…

He walked onwards through the forest. But with every step, the clouds were thinning. The air was warming, and the snow was melting. And then a sudden pain shot through his belly as he felt the last vision come to him.

"I realize now that it will take time. That the road 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…"

Pain shot through The Hirokoa's chest. He bit down hard on his inner cheek, trying desperately not to scream. It should have been from the pain, because there was an uncertainty he was feeling as he walked up the steps to the inn.

He was within. The Atenenyarhu. When he was six, he first glimpsed the man, angry, with the stone cold, blue eyes of the men who crossed the ocean from another world. His own father was one of them, but he would never see such a land for his entire life.

And this one, The Atenenyarhu, had given him the direction as a young boy. He spent so much of his life so sure that he was the one who had burned down his own village, and slaughtered his mother. That was mere hours before their first exchange.

"What… is your name?" He growled, trying hard to speak in that strange tongue his Ista had tried to teach him along their own people's speech.

The Atenenyarhu only saw a pitiful boy look up at him, chuckling. He had bent down to look at him closer, and gave his answer. "Charles Lee." He sneered. "Why do you ask?"

"…So I can find you."

The Hirokoa would never forget the smile on his face.

"I look forward to it." He had said.

The years had passed. The conflict had brewed. The Colonists wanted liberty from the Crown, and in response, a Revolution was thrown, instead. Everything had resulted in pain and misery for several years as The Hirokoa saw men and women lay down their lives in the name of liberty and freedom for all in this land. He too, fought for that by taking the hood of the Assassins. He sought a purpose, and the means to destroy The Atenenyarhu. But the man that he had found to teach him these skills was broken and afraid. It took much of The Hirokoa's begging and fighting to force the old man to finally teach him. He had died a year ago, but the purpose that he had put upon The Hirokoa had not changed. He still had to protect this land from the Templars, and that would not be possible until all of them were dead. All of them, including The Atenenyarhu. And his father.

If it wasn't The Atenenyarhu who he had found his fight the hardest to face, it was his own father. They both shared very different ideas on how the world worked, and after being dead for over a year, the only thing that The Hirokoa could really remember clearly were the last words his father ever said to him before he died. Over and over again in his mind.

"I'm proud of you, in a way." He had said. "You've shown great conviction. Strength. Courage. All noble qualities." Then he flashed a cruel grin up at him. "I should have killed you, long ago."

I should have killed you, long ago.

I should have killed you…

The Hirokoa opened the door, and went inside.

A man in the corner was playing a fiddle, with a barkeep at the table, and a handful of other patrons inside. They were all preoccupied with their own tasks, and paid no mind to The Hirokoa. He had only one reason for being here, and it was not the whiskey.

A doorway led into a smaller room off to the side of the inn. Grunting with the pain in his belly, still from the beam that had impaled him weeks ago, The Hirokoa looked to the only table within.

Black mustache, and blue eyes. Blood covered him all over his front. He too, had great wounds from the struggle that they had had weeks ago. Miraculous, how he had escaped being shot like that. It was an exchange that The Hirokoa would never forget.

The boathouse was burning all around them. So much rubble and debris had fallen on top of him in the fight, leaving his front impaled with a wooden spike. The Atenenyarhu stood over him, looking down on him with a baffled display of disbelief and anger.

"Why?" He scoffed. "Why do you persist? You put us down, we rise again. You end one plot, we forge another. You try so hard, but it always ends the same. Those who know you, think you mad! And this is why!"

The Hirokoa grunted hard, trying to pull out the spike embedded into his belly, but instead found himself reaching for something else. The Atenenyarhu was too preoccupied with his questions to even notice the pistol.

"Even those men you sought to save have turned their backs on you. Yet you fight. You resist." He said. "Why?"

He did not ask it as though he was The Atenenyarhu The Hirokoa had come to see him as. It was as if he just wanted to simply know the truth of what pushed him so far, to fight so hard for something like this.

Why? Why? Why?

The Hirokoa forced the air out of his chest. "Because no one else will!" He cried.

And he shot The Atenenyarhu right in the belly.

Yet still, he had escaped. He found a ferryman the next morning, who explained. He had gone inland, up the Charles River, but he had left a trace wherever he went. He had to find him. He had to kill him. The Colonies were not safe so long as he still breathed.

And now here he was, still breathing right before him. Although, with much visible difficulty. He was struggling to take in every breath, and push out every breath just as well.

In front of him, on the table, was a half drunken bottle of whiskey. As The Hirokoa took his seat, and sat right in front of The Atenenyarhu, he slowly took a deep swig. Splashing the bitter liquid in his mouth, he looked over at The Hirokoa. Then, with an almost prideful grin, with his cheeks full of drink, he held the bottle out to him. One last drink, as men on this Earth. It was to be his last one, and unlike the many other battles they had for so many years, he would not go out fighting, this time. The Hirokoa had chased him this far. Everything that he had wanted from The Atenenyarhu, he had earned.

Silently, The Hirokoa took the bottle, and tipped it back into his mouth. The burning liquid flowed over his lips, going straight into his belly, where it burned up even more brightly. This was it.

There was a moment of silence. The Hirokoa and The Atenenyarhu both just sat there, watching the patrons out in the inn.

But then The Hirokoa looked over at The Atenenyarhu. He was looking down at his chest, and then up at him, giving him the gesture. He understood what he meant.

Neither spoke. For no words were necessary.

Go on.

Struggling against the pain in his own abdomen, The Hirokoa reached out, and grabbed The Atenenyarhu's back. The dagger was in his other hand, and as he held it, suspended in the air, time stopped.

And then it was in The Atenenyarhu's chest. His eyes opened wide from the pain that shot through. The Hirokoa had done it. He was dead.

But he felt nothing.

The Reaper felt everything around him crumble. He fell down an abyss of darkness, everything rushing around him. All the memories, all the lives that he had just witnessed. Everything that he had seen, and what it all meant.

Altair first lashed out in anger against Abbas for what he did to his son, and it lost him his wife, Maria.

Ezio finally had the chance to kill Rodrigo Borgia for the deaths of his father and brothers, but he spared him, knowing that it would solve nothing.

Edward spent so much of his youth a carefree, drunken pirate, and it took the deaths of all of his friends, including Mary dying in his arms before he finally answered the call and took the hood of an Assassin.

And Connor… after so much struggle. After losing so much, and fighting so hard alongside others who fought for liberty and freedom… after everything… when he finally killed Charles Lee… he felt nothing.

"Son…" He heard an echo as he slammed against ground which he could not see.

The Reaper pushed himself off, gasping for the air that had been pushed out of him when he hit the ground.

There was so little light, coming from a beacon above him. It was so far away… miles, leagues, parsecs… He had fallen so far…

"Asgeir…" He heard the voice again as he looked forwards.

A man stood before him. Black hair like his, but shaved so close to his head. He looked to be able to force so much anger, but smiled at him with kindness unknown to The Reaper for so many years.

The Reaper looked up at the man, amazed.

"Father?"

He looked sadly up towards the light, then at his son.

"All this fighting, all this struggling, and it landed both of us here."

"What are you doing here, Father?"

"What I should be. Standing beside my son before he stops Ingrid from destroying this town."

"There's so much I don't understand, Father. You and Mother… why was I…"

"That is another story for another day, Son." He said. "And I sense that you will find that answer sooner than you might believe."

"But even then, I have so many questions." He said. "How did I…"

"Yes… it's a true mystery. How could you survive, or hold out for so long against what nearly killed her?"

He gestured to the side. Three people stood before a gathering of stout, squat figures. The Trolls. Grand Pabbie… The man carried a little girl in his arms as he knelt before them.

"Anna and Elsa…" The Reaper said.

"It's a sad tale, that it is." He said. "One who loved her sister, no matter what she was. The other, who feared everything that she was capable of." He turned to me. "And then along came the brother that they never knew. One that had spent most of his life on the run from their father. One of them embraced him, and loved him, no matter what he was. The other feared everything about him, even that what he was capable of…"

The Reaper looked down at his hands. His blades were extended, and blood covered them both. He did all he could to contain my sorrow, but the shame was too much. He collapsed to the ground, blood puddling and pooling all around him.

"I… my mind was not my own… I only wish I had more time…"

"Ah… so much revealed to you, and yet you never seemed to find the real answer to that question that has plagued you your whole life…" He smiled.

The Reaper kept facing downwards. "How could I survive all of this? How did I survive the Curse, or the frozen heart Ingrid inflicted on me? How is it that Ingrid froze everything and everyone around her with me, Anna, Kristoff, and the brothers together, but I made it out alive?"

His father grinned, then pointed outwards. "Look, Asgeir."

The Reaper looked to his side, a sight straight out of the myths before him.

Tall, blue skinned figures stood in a circle. Six of them. Each one of them bore red eyes as they chanted in a circle.

"History tells us much. Legend says otherwise. But sometimes, fruit is bore from the grounds of both."

The Reaper stood up, looking at the circle of figures with interest. They all bore bronze armor, engraved with the runes of a language that looked ancient and enigmatic. From each point that they stood, The Reaper could see lights shining from below their feet. Lines began to form of a similar light, connecting the dots into a picture of sorts… a giant snowflake…

"No…" The Reaper said, shaking his head. "They were myths…"

"Much like how the Romans believed in the other lot, eh?" His father chuckled. "It wasn't just Minerva or Jupiter. The Norse found their own branch. When the Disaster was inevitable, they found the doorway to this world and settled here."

The Reaper could see three new figures standing before him. A barbarian of a man with a winged helmet, holding a massive hammer above his head, lightning crackling all around him. His brother, a cunning one, with a golden horned helmet, and an ever-present grin. And the King of these… other precursors with a single eye and a white beard.

"It's complicated…" His father said. "But they left behind their legends on the world, and those of the far North believed them. In our world, and in this one without magic… The Norse called them gods, just as the Romans and Greeks did for another lot."

The six figures were back, but this time, they stood shoulder to shoulder.

"The Ancients of Arendelle knew the kingdom as another name: Jotunheim. And before the beings that laid the land to form into what it would be, they left behind a final token of their abilities. Left her behind for her to lead these people."

The one close to the center of the line held a bundle of blankets. The Reaper could hear noises coming from it. Cooing and gibberish.

The Reaper reared back as suddenly everything jolted forwards. As if he was on a wagon was suddenly yanked forwards, he fell to the ground as he saw the passing of time.

The Frost Giant baby grew into a woman. Blonde, blue eyes, and sitting on a throne of icicles. She looked familiar, but not that much. She was a queen, but not The Queen he knew.

But then he saw a whole line of queens like her. All of them blonde. All of them had blue eyes. And all of them carried the same gift.

The Reaper was beginning to understand. These were answers to questions he never asked, but they were leading up to the answers he sought.

"But the generations wore on, and it became more and more vital that each Queen hid her gifts. Humans began to fear magic rather than embrace it." His father went on. "Before finally, one of them lost her gifts completely."

This queen was different than the rest. She had brown hair, but the same blue eyes. The Reaper walked up to her. She was only a picture, frozen in time, but she sat there, as if she really was there. The Reaper eyed her with curiosity.

His father stood off to the side. "I knew her, Asgeir." He said. "And one day, she would be my family. She would be our family."

The Reaper still was unsure of who she was, until he looked at the next Queen along the line. This next Queen was his…

"Mother?" He breathed.

"Queen Sonia." He said, pointing to the one before Asgeir. "Unlike so many others, she did not possess the gifts. But that did not mean that the magic would disappear forever. Rather, it would live on in her eldest daughter."

But they all knew how that turned out.

"She feared everything that she could do, and hid away from those she cared for. Then she killed one sister, and was sealed away by the other."

The Reaper looked on as he saw these events play out. The Monster begging for her life as Gerda sealed her into the urn, and his father aimed the gun at her. She sobbed and begged, but it was no use as her sister opened the urn to banish her for over 20 years.

"She hoped to stomp out all magic that contained the spark of the Frost Giants. But it was reborn in her first daughter."

The Reaper nodded to himself as he looked one more time down the line to see The Queen, with her blonde braid, and pale blue gown of ice.

"That spark had lied just below the surface. And indeed, it wasn't just her daughter that held it. Her only son held some of that spark."

The Reaper could see that coming from where his father was leading it. He didn't believe it, though.

"I am nothing like Elsa, or The Monster." He said. "She declared it herself. Said that all Assassins are monsters, and I am the worst of all because I am ordinary. She sees me as a monster for that, simply because I cannot make it snow."

"Not in the way that you would think." His father replied. "But some part of you could withstand the cold. Some part of you could resist it in a way that no other Assassin, or any other human could. You may not hold the same gift of Jotunheim that lives in her, but there is a small piece of it, somewhere."

His father looked up, the light from so far away still shining down on them.

"It's quite the climb from the hole you've dug." He said. "But it's never too late to try."

The Reaper fell forwards into the snow. Every memory closing in on him like a tightening vise.

"Holy-" He coughed. "Bloody hell…"

Thirty years. He had spent thirty whole years of his life, fixated on killing this one woman whom he hated.

He could see another soul. A Soldier. One who followed orders and never missed a shot in his life. He respected The Queen, and did as he was told, until the bitter end. He, like so many others, could have chosen to turn on The Reaper because of everything that he did, and how he shared the blood of The Rogue.

But he didn't.

And he stood against The Monster not out of hate, or spite, or fear. Simply because her death would mean the life of others. He died as a Soldier.

He died as my friend.

And when she killed him, The Reaper could see something burn in The Monster's eyes. True, spiteful, hate. At last, she felt the same as he did of her for the last thirty years.

But it didn't ease The Reaper's soul. Rather, it unsettled him. Because now he truly saw a reflection of what he had become. Cracked and broken.

And then he understood.

The people in the village, outside of these woods, were suffering. Because of her actions.

The Reaper would not slay The Monster for The Queen. He would not slay her for The Princess. Not for his mother, nor his father. Not his aunt, or every brother that had fallen to her hands before the final battle.

Every life he had taken from the moment his heart had been frozen to this moment had been taken because of his own unbridled desire to destroy anything like The Monster. Even that father and his two girls. He had become The Monster, not The Reaper.

Pushing his gauntleted hands into the snow, The Reaper smiled as he stood up. He pulled the stick from his belt, keeping it folded.

"I understand now." He said, feeling the souls surround him. The Mentor. The Prince, The Pirate, and The Hirokoa. And finally, his Father.

It just had to be done. No pleasure or satisfaction to be reaped from it.

"Ingenting er Sant. Alt er Tillat."

The Reaper felt the snow begin to fade in intensity. He could see as he climbed the hill within the forest a cave before him. It felt colder coming from the inside than the out, and he knew that this was where he needed to go. Fresh tracks had been made in the snow. Three sets of them, leading inwards. The Reaper knew exactly who they were, and hoped that he wasn't too late; They would never do what he had to.

The Reaper walked inwards, finally seeing the sight of The Monster's lair. It was elaborately made, almost in an arrogant manner to The Reaper. And he saw, standing among the reclining chair, and in front of a large cracked mirror, the four of them.

The Queen and The Savior listened as The Princess read from a large scroll. The Reaper didn't know what came from it, as he walked in while she was partway through the message.

"-we were wrong to tell Elsa to conceal her powers."

"How fitting that you, who are so much like your mother, should share her last words."

"Not if I have anything to say about it." The Reaper said. It was a different voice that came from him. One changed forever.

The Monster looked past the three women, and eyed him. "And you… you who have been little more than a nuisance to my plans. I have given you every chance to stay out of my way. How could you have survived?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Ingrid." The Reaper said. "But you'd turn away from any bitter truth presented before you. Anything you don't wish to be true, you simply turn your nose up at, and plug your ears."

"Asgeir!" The Princess said. "Don't kill her!" She continued. "I feel terrible that it happened before, and I can't let it happen again."

The Monster's hands lowered for a moment. "What?"

"My sister, Ingrid, like you, also had ice powers." The Princess read. "I never told you about her, or my other sister, Helga. But I should have."

There was a touch of humanity left in The Monster's face. The Reaper could see that as he clutched the stick in his hand, ready to end it all.

"They were beautiful, and kind, and wonderful, and I was fearful. And I let that fear guide me. I let Ingrid hide, when I should have celebrated her for the person she was. I loved her so much."

"You're lying!" The Monster snarled. "My sister hated me! She called me a monster! She put me in that urn like you did Elsa!"

"Mother did not hate you. She let her fears make her do unspeakable things, Ingrid." The Reaper said. "She made a horrible decision because of it. But should you truly deal death out to so many others because of what she did? Do you truly deserve what you believe you deserve if you would kill them?"

"Silence, Reaper!"

Who was this person that spoke with that voice? The Reaper surprised even himself as The Princess kept reading between the violent exchange of the others.

"In this crystal are the memories of my sister, which I stole from the people of Arendelle. Please return them. My sisters deserve to be known." She looked up at The Monster, hopeful that her words were reaching her. "In a cave in the North Valley, you'll find an urn that contains Ingrid. Please do what I should have done long ago, and release her. When you see her, please tell her I love her, and I'm sorry. I'd give anything to take back what I did, to hold her hands one more time."

There was a true moment of sincerity as Anna reached out to Ingrid. The Reaper had held his sights steady on this woman of so many years. A woman that he could no longer deny was his family. One that, as much as he had denied it for so many years, was connected to the two women who he shared half of his blood with. He loosened the grip on his stick. He would only do what was necessary. And only if it came to that, would he deal out the last judgement.

Suddenly, The Monster raised her hand, a magical force wrapping around The Princess' throat. The Queen and The Savior screamed in protest, but she waved her hands, throwing them backwards.

"NOOO!" The Reaper cried. He would not lose another life today. It could not happen.

"I understand, Aunt Ingrid." The Princess gasped, choking for air. I understand now why you cast this curse." She coughed. "But you can come back from it."

"Understand me?!" The Monster snarled. "How could you?!" She turned her gaze to The Reaper. "You are nothing like me! NEITHER OF YOU ARE! YOU UNDERSTAND NOTHING!"

The Reaper was being pushed back with the force of Ingrid's hand, but he pushed back, something within him resisting her strength. "You're right." He strained. "My father wasn't like you."

"My mother wasn't like you." The Princess continued his sentence, fighting for air. "But if she was able to love you for who you are, then so can I. You're a part of our family, no matter what. And family never gives up on each other."

"You…LIE!" The Monster shrieked.

She waved her other hand, striking The Princess in the face. The Reaper lunged forwards, pushing the button on the stick. Instantly, it expanded into its staff form. He swung it around, striking Ingrid in the cheek.

As she staggered backwards, The Reaper knelt down, picking up the stone that The Princess dropped. He began to see more memories swim before his eyes. He felt the energy pulse from the stone as he gazed inwards.

Three girls, all close to the age of ten, running through fields.

These same girls, now young women as they sat in their rooms, living their happy lives together.

A brief flash, and The Reaper saw Ingrid standing before a young man of shaggy black hair and a stubble, wearing a white hood. But it was a different time. She smiled at him, as did he. They were old friends, one who kept her secret.

Father?

The memories stopped, and The Reaper could see all around him. He could feel a shifting in the air as Ingrid sat before him on the ground, recognition filling her face.

"I… I remember." She gasped.

The Reaper felt a brief second where everything changed. He wore a black cloak, and stood in front of a similar looking blonde, his dagger drawn. The dagger drawn. This was a fracture. A tear along the very foundation of time. This reality was linked to him in some way that he would never know, and somehow, he remembered everything that this other "him" had been through. Somehow, he had sent the dagger to him, with the box.

Ingrid looked up at him, the room back to the way it had been.

"Oh… my dear nephew…"

The Reaper was not sure what to say to that.

Ingrid closed her eyes tightly, and her expression softened again. "Please!" She cried. "I have made a terrible mistake. I need to reverse this."

The Reaper was taken aback, a bit in surprise. "There's only one way." He said. "Only one way."

"Yes… and it appears some part of me does not want to go…" She began to tear up, closing her eyes again, and whispering to herself. "Helga… I'm sorry…"

The Reaper held tight to his scythe. This was what it had come to. Here she was, and he was about to finish everything that he had fought thirty years for. He was hoping for more of a fight, but he wasn't getting it.

Ingrid fell to her knees, looking up at The Reaper.

"…do it." She sobbed.

The Reaper looked her directly in the eyes. She felt like she had a nephew for that brief moment. One who would finally put her out of her misery.

The Reaper made no sound as he raised his scythe, and struck it downwards into Ingrid's chest.

Ingrid screamed with pain as I pulled the scythe out, slicing open her chest. Blood began to flow out; blue like what came out of her hand when Jason shot her. She fell backwards into the snow.

"I-I…" She gasped. She raised her hand to her chest, feeling the wound.

I tossed my scythe aside, staring down at her. She was dying in front of me. Finally, I had done it.

"It's... it's alright, Asgeir." She said. "I want this. I'll see my sisters, now. I'll play with them, run with them, and finally be at peace with them."

From deep within me, I wanted nothing more than for her to burn in hell for everything that she had done. She did not deserve peace after murdering Jason and everyone else at Cormac's. But I did not say anything.

"You fought so hard to get here." She said, reaching her hand out to me. I felt her hand cup my cheek. I recoiled, looking away. Whenever she touched me before, it was to hurt me.

Ingrid nodded. "You are angry. You killed me as an Assassin, but you are still human. I understand your anger. And I forgive it."

She sighed, breathing heavily as her life faded more and more away with each second.

"Would there ever be a chance that you could forgive me? Ever?"

I looked down at her. I had seen events unfold before me that I never knew I could have. I saw Altair save the Brotherhood from a madman infected with hate and vengeance. I saw Ezio spare the man who ordered the death of his father and brothers after killing so many other conspirators. I saw Edward hold Mary in his arms as she died from exhaustion after delivering her baby. I saw Connor finally end the life of Charles Lee, taking no happiness or satisfaction from it all. Why was I shown this? What could I learn from it?

Forgiveness lay in the hearts of those who knew such kindness in their lives. I didn't say these things to her, because I was at a complete loss to think of what I could say to her. I was branded on the hand by my mother's husband for simply existing. I was marked for dead by many Templars because of what I am. I was marked a threat by this woman who lay dying in front of me because of something that my parents did, a year before I was even born. Could I ever forgive her, after knowing no such kindness from so many others? Altair could have. Ezio could have. Edward could have. Maybe even Connor, deep down within his own conviction, could find the strength to forgive those who opposed him. But I was not strong. I was tired and had been tested for decades. Could I ever forgive the person who kept me alive for so long while I saw everyone I cared for ripped away from me?

She shook her head. "Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But I do hope one day you may rid yourself of the anger that has ate so many of us up from within. You brave boy." She smiled. "You truly are your father's son."

Ingrid died.

I felt the air escape my chest as I saw the last bit of light leave her eyes. With an empty gaze from her dead face, I ran my hand down from her forehead to close her eyes.

"Hvil I Fred…"

It was just as Connor felt he slid the dagger into Charles Lee's chest.

Nothing…

I had gotten justice for everyone that Ingrid had murdered. Helga, Jason, Marc, and so many other Assassins. I had saved this town and everyone in it, and I had done it all for the greater good.

But I felt nothing.

"Asgeir?"

I turned, seeing Elsa and Anna look over at me. Emma also looked on at me, with concern painting all of their faces.

"There was no other way." I said. "This town would have died."

"We know, Asgeir." Elsa said, though uncomfortably.

Anna began to smile. "Asgeir… you saved this town and everyone in it. Look."

She pointed at me, and I ran my hand through my hair. I didn't see my relfection anywhere; every mirror in the room had been shattered when the Curse was unleashed. But I understood what Anna was talking about.

"Only an act of true love can thaw a freezing heart." Anna said. "You did it because you care about this town, and the people in it."

I did, indeed. But did I care about them enough to kill Ingrid to save them? I wasn't sure if I had really learned anything in those visions. I spoke the words with the voice of my father's, but did that mean that I knew what they meant? I wasn't sure.

Something began to come down. We looked up, and saw that it was snowing. Inside the cave, it was snowing.

Elsa knelt down, picking up the discarded scroll. "We must follow through on Mother's last wish." She said. "We must bring back the memory of Helga and Ingrid to the people of Arendelle."

Anna nodded. "And we will." She said, throwing her arms around her sister.

Emma smiled at the two of them. I did not. I felt out of place there. I could feel the blue blood of Ingrid still all over my hands, which were beginning to warm up. I did not belong.

I looked over at the mirror in the corner. It was now completely destroyed, with nothing more than a few stray shards laying about. It was all gone. Everything was done. Ingrid was dead.

Ingrid was dead…

Anna pulled away for a moment from her sister.

"Asgeir?"

She looked around the cave, but there was no use. I was already gone.

People frolicked and cheered in the streets. The snow was thinning out, now becoming a gentle flurry for them to laugh and play in. Elsa and Anna were among those celebrating down in the streets, below. Once again, Storybrooke was saved. I wondered, as I sat on the roof of Granny's watching them from below, if they knew who truly saved them. Some would say Ingrid sacrificed herself for the town. But she was marked by us before she had her epiphany. I got up from my seat, and jumped down from the building.

I had seen the teachings before me as I had pushed through the blizzard to Ingrid's cave. Altaïr and his return to Masyaf to finish Abbas off. Ezio, and how he turned away from his chance for revenge against the Templars. Edward, seeing Mary die in his arms, and finally, Connor killing Charles Lee, and feeling no satisfaction or remorse for it all. Was there anything that I could really take from any of it?

I walked. I walked slowly towards Cormac's. How many of us were dead in there? How many did not survive Ingrid's curse, after she killed so many of us? Would we ever be able to recover from what she did?

More than two months ago, I arrived in this strange town on the shores of Maine. Before then, seven years in British Columbia. Where would we go next? Arendelle? The Enchanted Forest? I was not sure.

Ingrid was dead. Ingrid was dead… and for the first time in a lifetime, I had no aim or direction. I suppose, I should have considered that a luxury. But I just couldn't. Not when it cost me so many people that I cared for on the way. Ruthe, Scott, Neil, Jason, and so many others.

I slowly walked up the hill that Cormac's sat on. This pub where it served as the last safe haven for all Assassins within the borders of this town. I saw the large wooden sign that hung above the doorway, carved with the large red shamrock, meant to look like the Templar cross. The door was still smashed open, snow now beginning to pile up within the room.

No one was in the pub. The bodies had been cleared away as quick as it could, but there was still blood, snow, and ice left from Ingrid's attack; There was no time to clean everything before the Curse descended on the town.

"Hello?" I called.

Someone walked out of the kitchen. Matthew.

"Asgeir…" He breathed.

I wasted no time. "Who made it?" I asked.

Matthew sighed, smiling. "Everyone. Everyone who survived Ingrid's attack on us survived the night." He took a step forwards. "Your hair is back to normal, lad."

I nodded. "Yeah."

"And Ingrid…?"

"Dead. She's dead."

Matthew sighed, as though the entire world was finally lifted off of his shoulders. "Thank you." He said.

I turned to the door, and began to walk back out.

"Where are you going? Everyone will be looking to shake hands with the one who saved us. Our new Mentor."

I didn't reply.

"You did as I told you, Asgeir. You were the only one who could do it with everyone else about to tear each other's throats out. I see no reason to delay the inevitable."

I didn't turn back. "I'll need a minute before all of this, Matthew." I said. "Anna and Elsa will likely come back to the pub. I'll be back soon."

I didn't hear anything. I could only imagine Matthew understood what I was getting at, and let me go. I walked back out into the snow.

Everyone had lived through Ingrid's curse. She killed so many of us personally, but everyone else had lived. I felt the weight of this, along with her death with each step that I took towards the beach.

Wooden steps led down from the sidewalk at Cormac's down to the beach, which was still covered in snow, leaving no sand to be seen down to the water.

The waves gently lapped against the snow on the beach. I breathed in slowly, taking in the scent of the chill in the air. I wondered how long the snow would stay.

I felt my hand go over the Assassin insignia on the armor, and press it. The armor opened up, letting me fall forwards into the snow at the edge of the water.

I had won. Ingrid was dead. I was now free of it all. Free of my frozen heart. Free of the Curse. Free of my immortality, of my inability to die. But I didn't feel like I had won.

I raised my face up to the skies, and screamed.