Fanfiction: Visitors (Assassin's Creed)
Here is a Sense8 AU for Assassin's Creed, because of course I ended up writing a Sense8 AU for Assassin's Creed. THERE ARE SO MANY CHARACTERS IN THESE GAMES WHO NEED TO MEET EACH OTHER AND THEY NEVER WILL. By writing this, I feel I've settled my soul a little.
(I decided to go just with playable characters, which is why this story is unfortunately short of the majesty of James Kidd. I'm probably not going to write a side-character sequel, but it's fun to speculate on the lineup. James Kidd, Malik Al-Sayf, Claudia Auditore, Ziio, Achilles Davenport, Élise Lafleur, Shaun Hastings, Leonardo da Vinci? Actually, that sounds incredible. Why didn't I write that instead?)
Title: Visitors
Fandom: Assassin's Creed (I, II, III, Liberation, Black Flag, Rogue)
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3,200
Summary: Who are we, who have been so blessed to share our stories like this? To speak across centuries? (Altaïr, Ezio, Edward, Haytham, Shay, Connor, Aveline, Desmond: eight people strangely bonded, able to meet and converse and occasionally attempt to murder each other across the boundaries of time and space. Inspired by Sense8.)
Notes: Major spoilers for Assassin's Creed III.
Altaïr has paused to watch the novices training, newly a novice again himself. He’s debating whether to join them - humiliating, but in working on the basics he can show Al Mualim that he’s taking his demotion seriously - when he notices that someone is watching him. A young man. A stranger. He wears a hooded cloak of some sort, but not in the Assassin style.
“Who are you?” Altaïr asks.
The stranger starts and looks down at himself, as if surprised to find his own body there. “Uh,” he says, after a moment. “You’re talking to me?”
“I know the others,” Altaïr says. “Tell me who you are.”
“Desm- uh, Desmond... wait, no, this can’t be happening,” the man - Desmond - says. “You’re not really here. I’m just living through your memories. And you definitely can’t remember having a conversation with me.”
Altaïr has met Assassins so practised at moving unnoticed that they slip through one’s memory like water. He himself, as certain brothers are fond of reminding him, is too arrogant to hope to achieve such invisibility. Still, the idea that history might remember him is not one he finds particularly troubling.
It’s hard to decipher Desmond’s words, but he seems to believe himself one of the invisible ones. Desmond is far from invisible. Desmond, in fact, with his strange accent and stranger clothing, would have trouble being more noticeable if he opted to walk on his hands.
Which is why...
“Nobody else is looking at you,” Altaïr says. The Assassins around them have cast looks at Altaïr himself, something he’s more than used to, but nobody has spared a glance for the curious intruder before him. “Why? Are you known here?”
“No, this is what I’m saying. This isn’t real. This conversation never happened.”
“Speak sense,” Altaïr advises him. “I am not known for my patience.”
“I don’t think they can see me,” Desmond says. “Or hear me. You shouldn’t be able to either. I think maybe I’m having a dream.”
The man is unwell, Altaïr concludes. Or feigning illness to infiltrate Masyaf.
“I have been ordered to Damascus,” Altaïr says, grabbing Desmond’s elbow and steering him firmly towards the gates. “I will escort you there, if you don’t annoy me into throwing you off my horse. They have more skilled doctors than you will find here in Masyaf.”
Desmond initially flinched as if expecting to be stabbed when Altaïr grabbed him, but now he’s allowing himself to be led, staring at Altaïr’s hand.
“You can touch me?” Desmond asks. “You can touch me? I can feel that! How the hell-”
And Desmond disappears.
Later, when Altaïr is riding to Damascus, an unknown woman will appear on his horse. Later still, as he stands on a rooftop in Jerusalem, he will find himself instead in a room with a man named Ezio, who will fall to his knees and kiss his hands. Much, much later, when he is knocked off the Acre docks by a drunkard, the man he will know by then as Edward will possess his body, just for a moment, and swim him to safety.
For now, Altaïr stands there, his hand still raised, staring at nothing.
Can he be sure he didn’t die when Al Mualim stabbed him?
-
Shay is a promising young recruit Ezio has ‘visited’ a couple of times, during his training. Ezio has been looking forward to meeting him again, hoping to see him as a full-fledged Assassin at last.
Their third meeting, in the Assassin headquarters in Rome, probably isn’t what either of them expected.
“Shay?” Ezio asks.
Shay is shaking.
“I just escaped Lisbon,” he whispers.
There must be something more to this. “I’ve been chased from my share of cities myself.”
Shay looks up at him. “I destroyed it. I destroyed Lisbon.”
What?
“Shay, one man cannot destroy a city.”
“It was a Piece of Eden. Achilles sent me to get it.”
A Piece of Eden? Ezio has seen the power of the Apple. But an entire city?
“Achilles knew,” Shay mutters. “He must have known.”
“Achilles is your mentor, yes?” Ezio asks. “How could he have known?”
“Same thing happened in Haiti. Four years ago.”
“And you’re sure he knew this would be the same?”
“He must have known it was a risk,” Shay says. “And that means he cared more about the artifact than all those innocent lives.”
Ezio looks at Shay, who showed such promise in his training, who couldn’t quite hide how awestruck he was when he first met Ezio after hearing so much about him, who looks sickened by himself and his cloak and the blades on his wrists.
“I know you still believe in our Creed,” Ezio says. “If you think your Brotherhood is corrupt, fight to reform it. Do not abandon your calling. You are an Assassin.”
“I’m a killer,” Shay says. “I used to think there was a difference.”
-
“Oh,” Edward says. “It’s you.”
Ezio was his first visitor; he showed up all the way back when Edward killed that Assassin, Walpole, and was very disapproving. Now, standing in the ruins of his life amongst the ghosts of his friends, Edward really isn’t in the mood to hear it.
“You still wear our costume,” Ezio says.
“It reminds me of a friend,” Edward says. “Seems like reminders are all I’ve got left.”
Ezio considers him. “You are not alone, Edward.”
“What, because I’ve got you?” Edward asks, with a bitter laugh.
“You have all of us,” Ezio says, spreading his hands. “And you have an entire Brotherhood waiting for you, if you wish to join it.”
It’s true that Edward still has his motley collection of visitors, but he doesn’t actually get on that well with half of them; most of them seem to disapprove of the pirate life. One of the few who doesn’t seem to judge him is a strange, secretive man in a cocked hat, who is courteous enough but refuses to tell Edward his name or anything about himself. Hard to make friends under those circumstances. Edward can talk easily with Shay, but he’s suspected for some time that Shay’s and Ezio’s loyalties lie at odds.
Not that he especially cares what Ezio thinks. But that means that Shay’s loyalties also oppose Kidd’s, and Kidd matters.
“Here’s the thing,” Edward says. “You want me to believe in your Creed myself? I don’t know if I’m there yet. But it meant a lot to a friend of mine.”
“People come to the Creed for many reasons,” Ezio says. “That would not be the worst.”
“Then maybe.” Edward picks up a stick from the shore, starts tracing patterns in the sand. “I’m running out of dreams. Might as well chase someone else’s for a while.”
-
Eventually, you come to recognise the tingling sensation that usually accompanies a visitation. Haytham looks around, hoping for anyone but his father. His father is less inclined to tedious moralisation than most of the host in his head, at least, but something about his presence makes Haytham stray strangely close to shame. It is not a feeling Haytham experiences often, and not one to which he plans to become accustomed.
Nobody seems to be around. The slaves work the plantation; the night is still. This has happened a couple of times before. Phantom visitations, he supposes.
He strides away, making for the harbour, and suddenly one of the slaves has him pinned against the barn door and her hidden blade is at his neck. He barely manages to grab her wrist in time.
Not a slave, he realises, too late. An Assassin. And not just an Assassin...
“You’re one of the visitors,” he says, straining to keep the blade at bay. “Aren’t you?”
“There will be time enough for questions once I cut your throat,” she says.
Haytham wonders, fleetingly, what this must look like from the outside. Is he struggling to stab himself with his own hidden blade?
An undignified death. He won’t have it.
In one sudden movement he forces her away from him and drops his weight, flicking out both his hidden blades. He doesn’t know whether it’s possible to harm a visitor, rather than someone you’re visiting - her body isn’t physically here, is it? - but it seems the perfect opportunity to find out.
But she disappears almost in the same moment. Planning to return for another attempt later on, he assumes.
Attempting to murder a fellow visitor is a temptation he’s known himself, of course; he’s found himself within striking distance of Ezio Auditore and Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad, for goodness’ sake. But these are extremely famous historical figures, whose lives and deaths are well documented. The Assassins and the Templars are so closely entwined that killing one of the major Assassin leaders before their time, changing history that drastically, could have unforeseen consequences for the Templars as well.
The other visitors... well, he won’t kill his father. He might kill his son - that remains to be seen - but he would prefer not to; there’s still something of Ziio in Connor. Desmond seems to think he’s trying to save the world; it’s probably best to gather more information, be absolutely certain that he isn’t right, before disposing of him. Shay is an ally.
But it turns out there’s another of them. This young woman.
Haytham finds himself smiling. It’s been a while since he last had a truly interesting opponent.
-
Altaïr is older than Shay has seen him before, and he speaks less rashly. Shay can see, now, something of why the Assassins talked of him so reverently. But it won’t change anything. His path is set.
“I understand your doubts.”
“They aren’t doubts,” Shay says. “I know what I’m doing at last.”
“My mentor tried to betray humanity. I had a hand in it. Like you, I felt my Creed had led me to evil acts.”
“And what did you do afterwards?” Shay asks.
“I tried to set things right,” Altaïr says. “I can see you are doing the same. But it seems we have different ideas of the right course. The Brotherhood is not itself evil.”
“Maybe not in your day.”
“It has always needed guidance. You could change it from within.”
“Surprise!” comes a shout above them, and Shay reacts almost without thinking; he twists, extending his hidden blade into the air to meet the stalker’s throat as she drops.
“Ezio tried to tell me the same,” he says, toeing her body. “Don’t know if they’d want me back, really.”
Altaïr stands frowning down at her. “In my day,” he says, “shouting ‘surprise’ before an assassination attempt was strongly discouraged.”
“In your day, maybe an Assassin was something worth being. Things change.”
Altaïr is silent for a moment, then looks up at Shay. “You’re afraid you’ll have to kill your old brothers.”
Shay hesitates, thinking of Hope, thinking of Liam.
“Yes,” he admits.
“Listen to them,” Altaïr says.
“If I have to do it, I’ll do it,” Shay says. “Words won’t stop me. You didn’t see Lisbon. The power we’re talking about, all the good intentions in the world won’t mean a thing.”
“I didn’t tell you not to kill them,” Altaïr says. “I told you to listen. When you take a man’s life, you owe it to him to hold him in your arms and look into his eyes as he dies. You don’t have to believe his last words, but you have a responsibility to hear them.”
-
Connor has been haunted by his father for most of his life. His vision of the Assassin symbol awoke something in him, he supposes. He can still hear the words Haytham hissed in his ear as he went to seek training from Achilles: “Connor, I absolutely forbid this. I am your father. Do you understand?”
The name ‘Connor’ meant nothing to him at the time, of course. It was their first meeting from Connor’s perspective, but evidently not from Haytham’s.
Somehow, when he stood over his father’s body, he thought that would be the end of it. The others would still visit, but his father would be out of his life.
Of course, that’s traditionally when the haunting begins. He’s met men who died centuries ago; did he really think death would free him?
He sees Haytham on the homestead and he thinks dark-haired, younger, visiting, not really here before he remembers that Haytham, in his time, is dead. He’ll never really be here again. It’s a strange combination of regret and relief; he still can’t sleep for thinking about his blade in his father’s throat, but he can’t pretend that he didn’t fear for the homestead’s residents for just a moment, seeing that familiar stance.
“Don’t stare, Connor,” Haytham says. “And what have you done to your hair? Do you expect to pass unnoticed on the streets of New York? I hope you keep your hood up.”
Connor looks away.
“I killed you,” he says, quietly.
There is a pause.
“Right,” Haytham says. “Well, I can’t say I didn’t know you were an ungrateful boy.”
“I’m telling you now,” Connor says, turning again to look at his father. “So you must have known. Why didn’t you try to kill me earlier?”
Haytham considers him.
“I can’t say why I will or won’t make a decision in my future, Connor,” he says, eventually. “But, if I had to guess, I’d suppose perhaps some sentimental part of me still felt you might one day be saved. It’s pleasant to know ahead of time that my faith will be so richly rewarded.”
“It was a mistake,” Connor says.
“An accident? I find that hard to believe.”
“Not an accident,” Connor says. “But a mistake.”
“Gratifying,” Haytham says. “If you could take the trouble to go back and unmurder me, your words might have more meaning.”
-
Aveline doesn’t have to turn her head to know that Edward is there, leaning against the fence next to her and looking out over the workers.
“Never had much taste for slaving,” he says.
“Only the murder and looting, then?” she asks.
“You’re an Assassin!” he protests. “Why are you Assassins all so bloody uptight about killing people?”
She tries not to smile. “You have to weigh the price of a life against what it buys, I think. A ship full of men in exchange for a hold full of rum?”
“Good rum’s worth many more lives than I’ve spent to obtain it, I’ll have you know,” Edward says. “And what if the cargo’s of slaves?”
“Lives to free lives,” she says. “A fair exchange.”
Edward laughs. “You should talk to my first mate. I think you’d get on.”
“Your first mate cannot see or hear me.”
“Well, yes, but other than that you’d get on splendidly. Are you going to let me see your blades in action today?”
“As it happens,” she says, “I’m not sure ‘showing off’ is a cause worth killing for.”
“A pity,” he says. “Do let me know if you change your mind.”
-
“What is troubling you?”
Desmond stares at the orb.
“A lot of things,” he says, and then, “Shaun and Rebecca, I guess. They didn’t even say goodbye.”
“Goodbyes are difficult,” Connor says. “They still care for you.”
Desmond gives him a half-smile. “Thanks.”
He lifts his hand above the orb. Hesitates.
“It’s not even really a choice,” he says. “I mean, me versus the world? It’s just...” He shifts, uncomfortably. He’s so aware of every sensation, the rough denim of his jeans, the stillness of the air against his skin, now that he knows he’s about to lose it all. “I don’t want to die alone.”
“You are not alone,” Connor says.
“You’re not real,” Desmond says. “No offence. But you’re just the Bleeding Effect. Aren’t you?”
He reaches out to touch Connor’s shoulder, to check if he feels solid, even though he knows he will already; the visions always do. He remembers too late, when he sees Connor’s expression, how much Connor hates being touched.
“Sorry,” Desmond says, drawing back his hand. He feels more alone than ever.
And then someone slaps him on the back, and he almost has a heart attack, and that’d be fucking stupid, wouldn’t it, dying just before he can sacrifice himself for the good of the world?
“Looked like you needed company,” Edward murmurs in his ear. “Or at least slightly more cheerful company than this one here.”
Connor takes a wary step back.
On Edward’s last visit, he let slip that his surname was Kenway. Desmond asked Shaun if they knew anything about a pirate named Edward Kenway afterwards, trying to make it seem casual. Turned out he was Haytham Kenway’s father. Connor’s grandfather.
Do they know they’re grandfather and grandson? Should he tell them?
For fuck’s sake, they’re his hallucinations.
“You always give me that look,” Edward says to Connor. “I’ve given up piracy, you’ll be pleased to hear. Settled down. Joined that ‘higher cause’ most of you kept pestering me about.”
Connor nods. “I am glad to hear it,” he says. “But my father will be displeased. He asks me often if I’ve seen you. I think he hoped to have you for his own cause.”
“Your father?” Edward asks. “Who is your father to me?”
“Haytham Kenway,” Connor says. “You will have met him; he is also a visitor.”
Edward stares at him.
“Haytham Kenway is a babe, too young to walk,” he says. “And I’ve met no visitors by that-”
He freezes, the look in his eyes changing.
“A different one,” he murmurs. “Surely. But then why would he hide his identity?” He focuses again on Connor. “What do you mean, ‘his own cause’?”
Well, time to touch the orb. Desmond will die, but at least he’ll be getting away from the world’s most awkward family reunion.
A hand catches his wrist.
“I know what you’re about to do,” Ezio says. “I couldn’t let you go without seeing you one last time. It seems I was not the only one.” He gestures around them.
Connor is still there, of course, and Edward, but Aveline has appeared as well, and Altaïr, and, looking uncomfortable, Shay. Even Haytham is there, although he seems to have taken one look at Connor and Edward’s conversation and decided to stay well back in the shadows.
“The Templars might not just be here to say goodbye,” Desmond says, eyeing them warily.
“The Templars want to reshape the world in their own image,” Ezio says. “They do not want it to end. And, if they attack, you have the powers of five Assassins to protect you.”
Protect him for death, Desmond thinks.
“It’ll be harder, having all of you here,” Desmond says. “Knowing that I’m leaving it all behind.”
“We all died centuries before you,” Ezio says, with a shrug. “In a sense, perhaps you’re joining us.”
Desmond doesn’t know if he can really take comfort in that, but he no longer feels like he’s dying alone. Altaïr, Ezio, Connor, even Haytham: he knows these people so intimately, from his time in the Animus, from visitations. And then there are the others, the visitors he’s never completely been able to explain away with the Bleeding Effect, the ones he never met in the Animus. Edward. Aveline. Shay.
He catches Altaïr’s eye. Their first meeting seems so long ago, now.
Whether they’re real or not, they’re here. That means something, doesn’t it?
Part Two
(I decided to go just with playable characters, which is why this story is unfortunately short of the majesty of James Kidd. I'm probably not going to write a side-character sequel, but it's fun to speculate on the lineup. James Kidd, Malik Al-Sayf, Claudia Auditore, Ziio, Achilles Davenport, Élise Lafleur, Shaun Hastings, Leonardo da Vinci? Actually, that sounds incredible. Why didn't I write that instead?)
Title: Visitors
Fandom: Assassin's Creed (I, II, III, Liberation, Black Flag, Rogue)
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3,200
Summary: Who are we, who have been so blessed to share our stories like this? To speak across centuries? (Altaïr, Ezio, Edward, Haytham, Shay, Connor, Aveline, Desmond: eight people strangely bonded, able to meet and converse and occasionally attempt to murder each other across the boundaries of time and space. Inspired by Sense8.)
Notes: Major spoilers for Assassin's Creed III.
Altaïr has paused to watch the novices training, newly a novice again himself. He’s debating whether to join them - humiliating, but in working on the basics he can show Al Mualim that he’s taking his demotion seriously - when he notices that someone is watching him. A young man. A stranger. He wears a hooded cloak of some sort, but not in the Assassin style.
“Who are you?” Altaïr asks.
The stranger starts and looks down at himself, as if surprised to find his own body there. “Uh,” he says, after a moment. “You’re talking to me?”
“I know the others,” Altaïr says. “Tell me who you are.”
“Desm- uh, Desmond... wait, no, this can’t be happening,” the man - Desmond - says. “You’re not really here. I’m just living through your memories. And you definitely can’t remember having a conversation with me.”
Altaïr has met Assassins so practised at moving unnoticed that they slip through one’s memory like water. He himself, as certain brothers are fond of reminding him, is too arrogant to hope to achieve such invisibility. Still, the idea that history might remember him is not one he finds particularly troubling.
It’s hard to decipher Desmond’s words, but he seems to believe himself one of the invisible ones. Desmond is far from invisible. Desmond, in fact, with his strange accent and stranger clothing, would have trouble being more noticeable if he opted to walk on his hands.
Which is why...
“Nobody else is looking at you,” Altaïr says. The Assassins around them have cast looks at Altaïr himself, something he’s more than used to, but nobody has spared a glance for the curious intruder before him. “Why? Are you known here?”
“No, this is what I’m saying. This isn’t real. This conversation never happened.”
“Speak sense,” Altaïr advises him. “I am not known for my patience.”
“I don’t think they can see me,” Desmond says. “Or hear me. You shouldn’t be able to either. I think maybe I’m having a dream.”
The man is unwell, Altaïr concludes. Or feigning illness to infiltrate Masyaf.
“I have been ordered to Damascus,” Altaïr says, grabbing Desmond’s elbow and steering him firmly towards the gates. “I will escort you there, if you don’t annoy me into throwing you off my horse. They have more skilled doctors than you will find here in Masyaf.”
Desmond initially flinched as if expecting to be stabbed when Altaïr grabbed him, but now he’s allowing himself to be led, staring at Altaïr’s hand.
“You can touch me?” Desmond asks. “You can touch me? I can feel that! How the hell-”
And Desmond disappears.
Later, when Altaïr is riding to Damascus, an unknown woman will appear on his horse. Later still, as he stands on a rooftop in Jerusalem, he will find himself instead in a room with a man named Ezio, who will fall to his knees and kiss his hands. Much, much later, when he is knocked off the Acre docks by a drunkard, the man he will know by then as Edward will possess his body, just for a moment, and swim him to safety.
For now, Altaïr stands there, his hand still raised, staring at nothing.
Can he be sure he didn’t die when Al Mualim stabbed him?
-
Shay is a promising young recruit Ezio has ‘visited’ a couple of times, during his training. Ezio has been looking forward to meeting him again, hoping to see him as a full-fledged Assassin at last.
Their third meeting, in the Assassin headquarters in Rome, probably isn’t what either of them expected.
“Shay?” Ezio asks.
Shay is shaking.
“I just escaped Lisbon,” he whispers.
There must be something more to this. “I’ve been chased from my share of cities myself.”
Shay looks up at him. “I destroyed it. I destroyed Lisbon.”
What?
“Shay, one man cannot destroy a city.”
“It was a Piece of Eden. Achilles sent me to get it.”
A Piece of Eden? Ezio has seen the power of the Apple. But an entire city?
“Achilles knew,” Shay mutters. “He must have known.”
“Achilles is your mentor, yes?” Ezio asks. “How could he have known?”
“Same thing happened in Haiti. Four years ago.”
“And you’re sure he knew this would be the same?”
“He must have known it was a risk,” Shay says. “And that means he cared more about the artifact than all those innocent lives.”
Ezio looks at Shay, who showed such promise in his training, who couldn’t quite hide how awestruck he was when he first met Ezio after hearing so much about him, who looks sickened by himself and his cloak and the blades on his wrists.
“I know you still believe in our Creed,” Ezio says. “If you think your Brotherhood is corrupt, fight to reform it. Do not abandon your calling. You are an Assassin.”
“I’m a killer,” Shay says. “I used to think there was a difference.”
-
“Oh,” Edward says. “It’s you.”
Ezio was his first visitor; he showed up all the way back when Edward killed that Assassin, Walpole, and was very disapproving. Now, standing in the ruins of his life amongst the ghosts of his friends, Edward really isn’t in the mood to hear it.
“You still wear our costume,” Ezio says.
“It reminds me of a friend,” Edward says. “Seems like reminders are all I’ve got left.”
Ezio considers him. “You are not alone, Edward.”
“What, because I’ve got you?” Edward asks, with a bitter laugh.
“You have all of us,” Ezio says, spreading his hands. “And you have an entire Brotherhood waiting for you, if you wish to join it.”
It’s true that Edward still has his motley collection of visitors, but he doesn’t actually get on that well with half of them; most of them seem to disapprove of the pirate life. One of the few who doesn’t seem to judge him is a strange, secretive man in a cocked hat, who is courteous enough but refuses to tell Edward his name or anything about himself. Hard to make friends under those circumstances. Edward can talk easily with Shay, but he’s suspected for some time that Shay’s and Ezio’s loyalties lie at odds.
Not that he especially cares what Ezio thinks. But that means that Shay’s loyalties also oppose Kidd’s, and Kidd matters.
“Here’s the thing,” Edward says. “You want me to believe in your Creed myself? I don’t know if I’m there yet. But it meant a lot to a friend of mine.”
“People come to the Creed for many reasons,” Ezio says. “That would not be the worst.”
“Then maybe.” Edward picks up a stick from the shore, starts tracing patterns in the sand. “I’m running out of dreams. Might as well chase someone else’s for a while.”
-
Eventually, you come to recognise the tingling sensation that usually accompanies a visitation. Haytham looks around, hoping for anyone but his father. His father is less inclined to tedious moralisation than most of the host in his head, at least, but something about his presence makes Haytham stray strangely close to shame. It is not a feeling Haytham experiences often, and not one to which he plans to become accustomed.
Nobody seems to be around. The slaves work the plantation; the night is still. This has happened a couple of times before. Phantom visitations, he supposes.
He strides away, making for the harbour, and suddenly one of the slaves has him pinned against the barn door and her hidden blade is at his neck. He barely manages to grab her wrist in time.
Not a slave, he realises, too late. An Assassin. And not just an Assassin...
“You’re one of the visitors,” he says, straining to keep the blade at bay. “Aren’t you?”
“There will be time enough for questions once I cut your throat,” she says.
Haytham wonders, fleetingly, what this must look like from the outside. Is he struggling to stab himself with his own hidden blade?
An undignified death. He won’t have it.
In one sudden movement he forces her away from him and drops his weight, flicking out both his hidden blades. He doesn’t know whether it’s possible to harm a visitor, rather than someone you’re visiting - her body isn’t physically here, is it? - but it seems the perfect opportunity to find out.
But she disappears almost in the same moment. Planning to return for another attempt later on, he assumes.
Attempting to murder a fellow visitor is a temptation he’s known himself, of course; he’s found himself within striking distance of Ezio Auditore and Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad, for goodness’ sake. But these are extremely famous historical figures, whose lives and deaths are well documented. The Assassins and the Templars are so closely entwined that killing one of the major Assassin leaders before their time, changing history that drastically, could have unforeseen consequences for the Templars as well.
The other visitors... well, he won’t kill his father. He might kill his son - that remains to be seen - but he would prefer not to; there’s still something of Ziio in Connor. Desmond seems to think he’s trying to save the world; it’s probably best to gather more information, be absolutely certain that he isn’t right, before disposing of him. Shay is an ally.
But it turns out there’s another of them. This young woman.
Haytham finds himself smiling. It’s been a while since he last had a truly interesting opponent.
-
Altaïr is older than Shay has seen him before, and he speaks less rashly. Shay can see, now, something of why the Assassins talked of him so reverently. But it won’t change anything. His path is set.
“I understand your doubts.”
“They aren’t doubts,” Shay says. “I know what I’m doing at last.”
“My mentor tried to betray humanity. I had a hand in it. Like you, I felt my Creed had led me to evil acts.”
“And what did you do afterwards?” Shay asks.
“I tried to set things right,” Altaïr says. “I can see you are doing the same. But it seems we have different ideas of the right course. The Brotherhood is not itself evil.”
“Maybe not in your day.”
“It has always needed guidance. You could change it from within.”
“Surprise!” comes a shout above them, and Shay reacts almost without thinking; he twists, extending his hidden blade into the air to meet the stalker’s throat as she drops.
“Ezio tried to tell me the same,” he says, toeing her body. “Don’t know if they’d want me back, really.”
Altaïr stands frowning down at her. “In my day,” he says, “shouting ‘surprise’ before an assassination attempt was strongly discouraged.”
“In your day, maybe an Assassin was something worth being. Things change.”
Altaïr is silent for a moment, then looks up at Shay. “You’re afraid you’ll have to kill your old brothers.”
Shay hesitates, thinking of Hope, thinking of Liam.
“Yes,” he admits.
“Listen to them,” Altaïr says.
“If I have to do it, I’ll do it,” Shay says. “Words won’t stop me. You didn’t see Lisbon. The power we’re talking about, all the good intentions in the world won’t mean a thing.”
“I didn’t tell you not to kill them,” Altaïr says. “I told you to listen. When you take a man’s life, you owe it to him to hold him in your arms and look into his eyes as he dies. You don’t have to believe his last words, but you have a responsibility to hear them.”
-
Connor has been haunted by his father for most of his life. His vision of the Assassin symbol awoke something in him, he supposes. He can still hear the words Haytham hissed in his ear as he went to seek training from Achilles: “Connor, I absolutely forbid this. I am your father. Do you understand?”
The name ‘Connor’ meant nothing to him at the time, of course. It was their first meeting from Connor’s perspective, but evidently not from Haytham’s.
Somehow, when he stood over his father’s body, he thought that would be the end of it. The others would still visit, but his father would be out of his life.
Of course, that’s traditionally when the haunting begins. He’s met men who died centuries ago; did he really think death would free him?
He sees Haytham on the homestead and he thinks dark-haired, younger, visiting, not really here before he remembers that Haytham, in his time, is dead. He’ll never really be here again. It’s a strange combination of regret and relief; he still can’t sleep for thinking about his blade in his father’s throat, but he can’t pretend that he didn’t fear for the homestead’s residents for just a moment, seeing that familiar stance.
“Don’t stare, Connor,” Haytham says. “And what have you done to your hair? Do you expect to pass unnoticed on the streets of New York? I hope you keep your hood up.”
Connor looks away.
“I killed you,” he says, quietly.
There is a pause.
“Right,” Haytham says. “Well, I can’t say I didn’t know you were an ungrateful boy.”
“I’m telling you now,” Connor says, turning again to look at his father. “So you must have known. Why didn’t you try to kill me earlier?”
Haytham considers him.
“I can’t say why I will or won’t make a decision in my future, Connor,” he says, eventually. “But, if I had to guess, I’d suppose perhaps some sentimental part of me still felt you might one day be saved. It’s pleasant to know ahead of time that my faith will be so richly rewarded.”
“It was a mistake,” Connor says.
“An accident? I find that hard to believe.”
“Not an accident,” Connor says. “But a mistake.”
“Gratifying,” Haytham says. “If you could take the trouble to go back and unmurder me, your words might have more meaning.”
-
Aveline doesn’t have to turn her head to know that Edward is there, leaning against the fence next to her and looking out over the workers.
“Never had much taste for slaving,” he says.
“Only the murder and looting, then?” she asks.
“You’re an Assassin!” he protests. “Why are you Assassins all so bloody uptight about killing people?”
She tries not to smile. “You have to weigh the price of a life against what it buys, I think. A ship full of men in exchange for a hold full of rum?”
“Good rum’s worth many more lives than I’ve spent to obtain it, I’ll have you know,” Edward says. “And what if the cargo’s of slaves?”
“Lives to free lives,” she says. “A fair exchange.”
Edward laughs. “You should talk to my first mate. I think you’d get on.”
“Your first mate cannot see or hear me.”
“Well, yes, but other than that you’d get on splendidly. Are you going to let me see your blades in action today?”
“As it happens,” she says, “I’m not sure ‘showing off’ is a cause worth killing for.”
“A pity,” he says. “Do let me know if you change your mind.”
-
“What is troubling you?”
Desmond stares at the orb.
“A lot of things,” he says, and then, “Shaun and Rebecca, I guess. They didn’t even say goodbye.”
“Goodbyes are difficult,” Connor says. “They still care for you.”
Desmond gives him a half-smile. “Thanks.”
He lifts his hand above the orb. Hesitates.
“It’s not even really a choice,” he says. “I mean, me versus the world? It’s just...” He shifts, uncomfortably. He’s so aware of every sensation, the rough denim of his jeans, the stillness of the air against his skin, now that he knows he’s about to lose it all. “I don’t want to die alone.”
“You are not alone,” Connor says.
“You’re not real,” Desmond says. “No offence. But you’re just the Bleeding Effect. Aren’t you?”
He reaches out to touch Connor’s shoulder, to check if he feels solid, even though he knows he will already; the visions always do. He remembers too late, when he sees Connor’s expression, how much Connor hates being touched.
“Sorry,” Desmond says, drawing back his hand. He feels more alone than ever.
And then someone slaps him on the back, and he almost has a heart attack, and that’d be fucking stupid, wouldn’t it, dying just before he can sacrifice himself for the good of the world?
“Looked like you needed company,” Edward murmurs in his ear. “Or at least slightly more cheerful company than this one here.”
Connor takes a wary step back.
On Edward’s last visit, he let slip that his surname was Kenway. Desmond asked Shaun if they knew anything about a pirate named Edward Kenway afterwards, trying to make it seem casual. Turned out he was Haytham Kenway’s father. Connor’s grandfather.
Do they know they’re grandfather and grandson? Should he tell them?
For fuck’s sake, they’re his hallucinations.
“You always give me that look,” Edward says to Connor. “I’ve given up piracy, you’ll be pleased to hear. Settled down. Joined that ‘higher cause’ most of you kept pestering me about.”
Connor nods. “I am glad to hear it,” he says. “But my father will be displeased. He asks me often if I’ve seen you. I think he hoped to have you for his own cause.”
“Your father?” Edward asks. “Who is your father to me?”
“Haytham Kenway,” Connor says. “You will have met him; he is also a visitor.”
Edward stares at him.
“Haytham Kenway is a babe, too young to walk,” he says. “And I’ve met no visitors by that-”
He freezes, the look in his eyes changing.
“A different one,” he murmurs. “Surely. But then why would he hide his identity?” He focuses again on Connor. “What do you mean, ‘his own cause’?”
Well, time to touch the orb. Desmond will die, but at least he’ll be getting away from the world’s most awkward family reunion.
A hand catches his wrist.
“I know what you’re about to do,” Ezio says. “I couldn’t let you go without seeing you one last time. It seems I was not the only one.” He gestures around them.
Connor is still there, of course, and Edward, but Aveline has appeared as well, and Altaïr, and, looking uncomfortable, Shay. Even Haytham is there, although he seems to have taken one look at Connor and Edward’s conversation and decided to stay well back in the shadows.
“The Templars might not just be here to say goodbye,” Desmond says, eyeing them warily.
“The Templars want to reshape the world in their own image,” Ezio says. “They do not want it to end. And, if they attack, you have the powers of five Assassins to protect you.”
Protect him for death, Desmond thinks.
“It’ll be harder, having all of you here,” Desmond says. “Knowing that I’m leaving it all behind.”
“We all died centuries before you,” Ezio says, with a shrug. “In a sense, perhaps you’re joining us.”
Desmond doesn’t know if he can really take comfort in that, but he no longer feels like he’s dying alone. Altaïr, Ezio, Connor, even Haytham: he knows these people so intimately, from his time in the Animus, from visitations. And then there are the others, the visitors he’s never completely been able to explain away with the Bleeding Effect, the ones he never met in the Animus. Edward. Aveline. Shay.
He catches Altaïr’s eye. Their first meeting seems so long ago, now.
Whether they’re real or not, they’re here. That means something, doesn’t it?
Part Two