Fanfiction: Visitors, Part Four (Assassin's Creed)
And finally we come to the end of this journey! Somehow this fic ended up being 400% of the length I was expecting. At some point I became determined to write interactions for all twenty-eight possible pairs.
Keeping the chronology of this straight caused me such headaches towards the end. I thought I'd sworn off writing time travel after my 'Canton Everett Delaware III causes a billion ontological paradoxes' Doctor Who fic.
In this episode: tragedy, camaraderie, I accidentally give myself a ridiculous new 'ship. (To be honest, I think I've ended up 'shipping everything imaginable in the process of writing this.)
It's possible the final scene is too cute. I don't care. I've spent half this story making myself miserable about the Kenways and I'm allowed.
Title: Visitors, Part Four
Fandom: Assassin's Creed (I, II, III, Liberation, Black Flag, Rogue)
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3,400 (this chapter; 12,700 total)
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.)
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Ezio feels so detached from reality that it almost fails to surprise him when he finds himself in another place entirely. He is in an unknown room, built of metal and wood and brick and filled with strange objects, and it would probably fascinate or alarm him if he hadn’t just seen his family hanged in front of him.
He is standing beside a bed, partitioned off from the rest of the room by a low glass wall. The man in the bed stirs and opens his eyes, and then he scrambles away from Ezio, suddenly frightened.
“Oh, God,” the man says, half-laughing. “Ezio. Of course. So I’m seeing you as well.”
Ezio has not seen this man before. He has no idea how this stranger knows his name. He feels he should be curious, but somehow curiosity seems to be hovering out of his reach.
“Guess I should introduce myself,” the man says, drawing the covers back up around himself. He holds out a hand. “Desmond.”
Ezio takes the hand, mechanically.
Desmond has started to frown. “Hey, are you okay? I thought you’d be chattier.”
Ezio says nothing.
“When is it for you? I mean, what’s happened?”
He’s dreaming, Ezio decides.
When Desmond speaks again, his voice is much quieter. “It’s... it’s after the execution, isn’t it?”
Ezio goes tense. Desmond must feel it; somehow, Ezio’s hand is still in his.
“I’m sorry,” Desmond says. “I’m really sorry. I wish I could have stopped it.” He grasps Ezio’s forearm with his other hand and looks into his eyes. “It wasn’t your fault.”
For a long, long time afterwards, Ezio believes it was a dream. But he still thinks back to those words, when he needs them.
-
It’s interesting to be in the presence of such a significant historical figure, even if the two of them are on different sides, but Altaïr is still one of the less welcome visitors. Haytham and Ezio have an agreement: neither of them tries to interfere with the other’s time. Altaïr, however, refuses to make deals with Templars, and that means that Haytham must constantly be on his guard for attempts to seize his body.
Haytham is typically on his guard in any case, of course. But sometimes, when his concentration is taken up with something else - for example, stalking an Assassin through a settlement in the black of night...
Haytham finds himself suddenly outside his body, and he curses. Now he’s going to have to watch himself-
Hmm. He’s going to watch himself swing around to meet the surprise attack from his target, apparently. How did he fail to notice her there?
Altaïr, he’d assumed, but it can’t be. An ally. Shay?
Haytham watches himself choke the target unconscious and hide her in the undergrowth, and then he finds himself back in his body. He looks around at once to see who came to his aid.
Altaïr is standing before him, looking insufferably smug.
“You do remember I’m your enemy, don’t you?” Haytham asks, wiping blood from his lip.
“But you’re also one of us,” Altaïr says. “Whatever we are.”
“I didn’t realise you’d grown fond of me.”
“I do not do this for nothing. In return, you will spare the Assassin.”
Haytham looks down at his insensible target, lying half-concealed by thick ferns. “She has been a thorn in our side for a very long time.”
“And she will be one for longer,” Altaïr says. “The trade is your life for hers. I have offered you your life. If you don’t want it...”
They watch each other for a moment.
“Very well,” Haytham says, eventually. “She may live.” He gives Altaïr his hardest look. “Stay on your guard, or perhaps I’ll save your life in return.”
-
“Yeah, I know how you feel,” Desmond says, running to keep up with Connor. “My dad’s pretty much a dick as well.”
Although his dad never actually caused the Boston Massacre. That’s something.
“Where are we going, anyway?” He’s not sure he’s got this far in the Animus yet.
“There is a shipment of tea in the harbour,” Connor says. “Its sale will fund William Johnson, who intends to buy my village’s land. And my... allies” - he sounds as if he chooses the word uncertainly - “wish to send a message to the British government. We are going to destroy the tea.”
Desmond stops short. Technically, he doesn’t need to run to keep up with Connor; Connor’s the only one really running, and any visitors will be drawn along with him. They can’t stray too far from the person they’re visiting. Desmond just likes to move his legs, or the illusion of his legs, so he doesn’t feel like he’s being dragged.
Connor stops as well, all the same, and turns to face him.
“Destroy the tea?” Desmond asks. “By throwing it in the harbour? The Boston Harbour?”
“Yes,” Connor says.
This is... actually really cool. Desmond didn’t know much about the history of the Holy Land or Italy or Istanbul before he actually lived through it, but this is something he knows.
“Can I dump one of the crates?” Desmond asks.
Connor frowns slightly. “There will most likely be trouble. I will need to be in my own body to fight.”
“C’mon,” Desmond says. “If you get a quiet moment. Please.”
Connor hesitates a moment longer.
“If there is a quiet moment,” he says. “Perhaps.”
Desmond grins.
-
“Connor!” Edward exclaims. His voice is strangely hushed, but he’s grinning. “Been waiting for one of you to show up. Come over here. I’ve something to show you.”
Connor looks around as he approaches. He is used to visiting Edward on his ship, not in buildings. “What is this place?”
“This? This is my home,” Edward says. “Ended up settling in London. No more murdering. Well, less murdering, and for a new cause. You know I joined the Assassins?”
“You told me before,” Connor says. “When we gathered to say farewell to Desmond.”
“That sounds grim,” Edward says, after a moment. “Still have that to look forward to, I suppose. I’ll be sure to remember to tell you again.” He shakes his head. “But let’s think of happier things. Come on!”
Connor follows him to the doorway of a darkened room. Edward disappears inside it for a moment, and when he emerges he is holding something in his arms.
A baby.
“This is Haytham,” Edward says.
Connor feels as if he is watching himself from a very long way away. No. He killed his father only last week. Fate cannot do this to him.
Connor feels that the whole sorry story must be written across his face, but Edward is too absorbed in his son to notice.
“He’s perfect, isn’t he?” Edward asks. “The image of his mother. You’ll have to see her.”
He doesn’t know, Connor reminds himself. This is an Edward who has not yet seen Desmond’s sacrifice. This is an Edward who has no idea that the child in his arms will grow to father Connor and wipe out the Assassins of the colonies.
This is an Edward who has no idea that the man before him will kill his son.
The baby Haytham smiles and laughs and reaches out towards Connor, as if trying to catch hold of his cloak.
“Look at that,” Edward says, smiling fondly. “Could swear he sees you.”
-
“Monsieur Cormac,” Aveline says, wary. One of the visitors she knows to be the Templar Grand Master, and she thinks she has managed to conceal herself from him on the occasions when she has found herself visiting. But she first met Shay in his Assassin days. She spoke to him, thinking nothing of it. Now he is a Templar, and he knows who she is.
Shay nods. “Miss.”
She can see her own unease in his face, Aveline realises. He doesn’t feel the information he has gives him power over her; he’s busy thinking about the information she has on him. In their last conversation, Shay didn’t know they would end up on different sides either.
She feels herself relax a little. If they both have the same disadvantage, they’re facing each other on level ground.
Actually, Shay might be the person she needs to speak to just now. She folds her arms as a gesture of peace; this way he knows she won’t be able to attack suddenly, as it’ll take her a second longer to access any of her weapons. Shay, after a moment’s hesitation, does the same in return.
“You left the Assassins,” she says.
“Happens I already know that.”
“Did you know it was the right decision?”
Shay looks carefully at her. “Felt I didn’t really have a choice,” he says. “They made me do something that went against my conscience. And any chance of tearful reconciliation went when they nearly murdered me.”
“But you felt you were on the wrong side with them.” She was hoping to conceal her doubts from him, but she feels sure he’s already guessed. She’s spent her whole life hiding things, but maybe this uncertainty inside her is too much to bury. “You look back and you’re sure of that.”
“I don’t know about that. I know I did some good when I was with the Assassins.” He bites his lip. “Worked with some good people. Maybe another mentor wouldn’t have sent me to Lisbon and I’d still be with them, but I can only see from where I’m standing.”
Maybe, with another mentor, she wouldn’t be feeling like this. “Do you regret leaving?”
“I regret losing my friends,” he says. “I’d regret leaving more if I thought the Assassins were what they pretend to be. The Creed’s noble enough. Problem is people don’t follow it.”
He hesitates.
“I don’t know if I can say the Templar way is the right way for all of humanity,” he says. “But it was the right way for me.”
“The Templars exist to impose their views on humanity,” Aveline says.
Shay laughs. “And the Assassins don’t? Both sides, there’s all this trying to change the world. I’ve always found it easier to think smaller.” He pauses, whisks his hand in quick tight circles, like he’s trying to pull his thoughts into something he can express. “The way I saw it, New York was suffering under those gangs. Take them down, and things change for the people. It’s not the world, but it’s enough for me.”
“So you think I should do whatever helps the people I can see?”
“Do what you think’s right.” He shrugs. “Sorry. I know that’s unhelpful.”
“No,” she says. “No, I think it’s what I needed to hear. Thank you.”
-
“You never struck me as sentimental, Connor.”
“There are many things you do not know about me.”
He’s found himself in a churchyard, and both Haytham and Connor are standing a few feet in front of him, facing away. His son and his grandson. It’s still so strange.
Perhaps it would be best for Edward to stay out of sight.
But Haytham turns and sees him, and the fleeting expression that crosses his face - guilt? fear? pain? - is enough for Edward’s curiosity to hold him where he is, against his better judgement. Haytham nudges Connor, who turns and instantly takes a step backwards.
“A proper family reunion, I suppose.” Edward says it lightly, trying to dispel the uncomfortable atmosphere, but the sense of unease only deepens.
“We should go somewhere else,” Connor mutters, not looking at him.
“Are you both truly here?” Edward asks. “Or is someone visiting?”
“I am here as a visitor,” Haytham says. “But I suppose we are both here, in a sense.”
Connor looks strangely terrified. “Father, don’t-”
“In a sense?” Edward asks. “What do you mean?”
Haytham pauses a moment. “Speech without thought,” he says. “It means nothing.”
But Edward’s eyes have already moved to the name on the grave behind them. Haytham Kenway.
It’s a vicious blow to the gut. Of course he never thought his son was going to live forever, but the difference between knowing your child is mortal and actually seeing the place he’s laid to rest...
He has to turn away, so he won’t see the dates. His legs feel unsteady.
“How did it happen?” he asks, even though he knows that knowing will destroy him.
“I cannot tell you.” He’s never known Connor to sound so upset. “I can’t tell you. Please don’t ask me.”
A hand on his shoulder. Haytham’s. Edward brings up his own hand to grip it, tightly.
After a moment, Edward holds out his other hand to Connor. “Come on,” he says. He’s managing to keep his voice steady, at least. “You’re one of us, too. If ever a man needed his family around him...”
Connor doesn’t take his hand. But he touches it, briefly, with his own.
When Edward is returned to his own time, he goes at once to check on Haytham, who is sleeping peacefully. He hardly lets the boy out of his arms for the next three days.
-
It’s often an uncomfortable experience, meeting the Assassins he’s somehow linked to. Shay tends to look for anchors to put him at his ease. If they’re visiting him, that’s all right, especially when he’s at sea; it might mean he’s at risk of being controlled, but he feels most secure when he’s on the deck of the Morrigan. If he finds himself in a group of visitors, he’ll look for a friendly face in Haytham or Edward.
Finding himself in the headquarters of Ezio’s Brotherhood, with Ezio, Aveline and Desmond? There’s no comfort to be had there.
Whatever the three of them were talking about, they’ve fallen silent at his appearance.
“Sorry,” Shay says. “Didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll...” He falters on his offer to go. It’s not a promise he can actually put into practice, and they all know it. It must be possible to control these visits, to some extent - he’s suspected for a while that Aveline is able to choose when she leaves - but Shay isn’t at that point yet.
Ezio gestures to a free seat, between Desmond and Aveline. “Sit down.”
Cautiously, Shay sits, and then he stands up again. Sitting here, being stared at by one of the most legendary figures of the Assassin Order? He can’t do it. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d sooner lie in the corner and cover my ears.”
“Are we such poor conversationalists?” Ezio asks, mock-affronted.
“I’ve killed any conversation just by being here.”
“Because we were talking about you,” Aveline says. His discomfort must show on his face, because she laughs. “I was just telling them how you helped me when I was uncertain.”
He looks at her. “You stayed with the Assassins,” he says, half to check.
She nods. “But you put me at ease with my decision.” She reaches up to take his hand and pulls him back down onto the chair, and he’s so surprised that he lets her. “I think I misjudged you when I heard you’d joined the Templars.”
“You thought I was a traitor,” he says, shrugging, although the words don’t come easily. “I am.”
“Yeah, but it kind of sounds as if you had to be,” Desmond says. “If the Assassins in my time made me destroy a city, I don’t think I’d be able to just let that go.”
“Well?” Ezio asks. “Will you sit with us?”
Shay looks at Aveline. This doesn’t feel real. “I suppose I’ve nowhere else to be.”
Aveline lives around the same time as he does, he remembers. He wonders if they’ll ever meet in person.
If they do, they’ll most likely have been tasked with killing each other.
-
Altaïr sleeps poorly, dreaming of the Apple, and Al Mualim, and being forced to slay his own empty-eyed brothers. At one point he becomes aware that someone is in the room with him.
He opens his eyes.
Desmond is sitting with his back against the wall. In a way, Altaïr is pleased to see him, although he tries not to show it. Sometimes a man needs company. And Desmond often knows the things he has been through without being told, because of his ‘Animus’; it makes Altaïr uncomfortable, the concept of having his life spied on, but at this moment he wants his sorrow understood without having to speak it aloud.
Altaïr sits up.
“When is this?” Desmond asks.
“Al Mualim. The Apple.” It’s all he has to say, and Desmond’s eyes widen.
“Oh, man, Altaïr, I’m sorry.” He hesitates. “I didn’t know if I should tell you before.”
“I do not wish to know my future,” Altaïr says. He’s actually had to ask Ezio to stop telling him things.
Speaking of Ezio...
“Have I come at a bad time?” Ezio asks, looking back and forth between them.
“Al Mualim just used the Apple,” Desmond says.
Ezio crosses the room at once to lay his hand on Altaïr’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Mentor.”
“I’m not your mentor,” Altaïr mutters, knowing it will make no difference. But the touch of Ezio’s hand is warm, and somehow it seems to make him feel less detached. Strange, that it takes a man who is not really here to anchor him to the world again.
Edward is the next, and Desmond draws him aside to explain what has happened. Or try to.
“What? What’s an Apple? Well, I know what an apple is, but what are you talking about?”
Desmond simplifies things, it seems, and a moment later Edward is approaching Altaïr.
“I don’t know exactly what’s happened here,” Edward says, “but Desmond tells me you’ve suffered some loss, and that I understand.” He looks around. “You should have come to me. There’s rum, and song, and women. Of course, you’d have to experience the rum and women through me, but I’ll nobly drink all day if it helps a friend.”
“An intriguing offer,” Ezio says. “But we can still have song, surely?”
“Well, they’re not the same on land,” Edward says, with clearly feigned reluctance, “but I could teach you a few shanties.”
Aveline shows up when Edward and Ezio are halfway through a heartfelt rendition of ‘Lowlands Away’. She looks with a perplexed smile at Desmond, who shrugs. Aveline listens for a moment longer, and then, hesitant only at first, starts to join in on the repeated lines. Edward breaks off briefly to give her a cheer.
Shay appears during the next song, and Altaïr sees the unease flicker across his face - he’s in a room full of Assassins - before it’s swiftly followed by recognition. He launches into ‘Randy Dandy-O’ without a second thought. By this point Desmond is singing as well, a little selfconsciously. Altaïr keeps his silence, but he listens. It is far from a beautiful sound - Ezio and Desmond, in particular, are not great singers - but it does something to ease his sense of emptiness.
“Now,” Ezio announces, during a break in the shanties, “as you have been deprived of the pleasures of the minstrels of Italia-”
“Oh, Christ,” Shay mutters.
“Ah, yes,” Ezio amends. “Shay was fortunate enough to visit when I was cornered by three of them. But I feel it unfair that the rest of you have lived your lives bereft of Italia’s finest musicians.”
He sings until they beg him to stop. Haytham and Connor show up around the time Ezio apparently resorts to lyrics of his own invention (“It really is quite tricky to undertake these rhymes/with seven other minstrels in my head from different times”), and neither looks as if they know what to make of this situation.
“What is going on here?” Haytham asks, when Ezio is eventually silenced.
“It’s a bit of fun, Grand Master,” Shay says. “We have the rest of time to clash. Let’s spend an evening as friends.”
Haytham looks sceptical, but he sits.
Aveline sings a little for them. Connor and Desmond will not be prevailed upon to sing them the songs of their own people, but Altaïr finds himself hoping that at some point they will be; he’s starting to get a sense of how many different styles of music there must be, all these varied times and places, and he would like to hear more.
By common agreement they return to the shanties, as they’re easy to pick up and sing. It’s not until the door to his bedchamber creaks open that Altaïr realises he’s been singing as well.
“Altaïr?” Malik asks, frowning sleepily at him. “What are you doing?”
The singing has stopped abruptly. Altaïr can hear Edward and Ezio struggling to suppress their laughter.
“I am beginning to heal, Malik,” he says.
Visitors (Gratuitous Wish-Fulfilment Edition)
Keeping the chronology of this straight caused me such headaches towards the end. I thought I'd sworn off writing time travel after my 'Canton Everett Delaware III causes a billion ontological paradoxes' Doctor Who fic.
In this episode: tragedy, camaraderie, I accidentally give myself a ridiculous new 'ship. (To be honest, I think I've ended up 'shipping everything imaginable in the process of writing this.)
It's possible the final scene is too cute. I don't care. I've spent half this story making myself miserable about the Kenways and I'm allowed.
Title: Visitors, Part Four
Fandom: Assassin's Creed (I, II, III, Liberation, Black Flag, Rogue)
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3,400 (this chapter; 12,700 total)
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.)
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Ezio feels so detached from reality that it almost fails to surprise him when he finds himself in another place entirely. He is in an unknown room, built of metal and wood and brick and filled with strange objects, and it would probably fascinate or alarm him if he hadn’t just seen his family hanged in front of him.
He is standing beside a bed, partitioned off from the rest of the room by a low glass wall. The man in the bed stirs and opens his eyes, and then he scrambles away from Ezio, suddenly frightened.
“Oh, God,” the man says, half-laughing. “Ezio. Of course. So I’m seeing you as well.”
Ezio has not seen this man before. He has no idea how this stranger knows his name. He feels he should be curious, but somehow curiosity seems to be hovering out of his reach.
“Guess I should introduce myself,” the man says, drawing the covers back up around himself. He holds out a hand. “Desmond.”
Ezio takes the hand, mechanically.
Desmond has started to frown. “Hey, are you okay? I thought you’d be chattier.”
Ezio says nothing.
“When is it for you? I mean, what’s happened?”
He’s dreaming, Ezio decides.
When Desmond speaks again, his voice is much quieter. “It’s... it’s after the execution, isn’t it?”
Ezio goes tense. Desmond must feel it; somehow, Ezio’s hand is still in his.
“I’m sorry,” Desmond says. “I’m really sorry. I wish I could have stopped it.” He grasps Ezio’s forearm with his other hand and looks into his eyes. “It wasn’t your fault.”
For a long, long time afterwards, Ezio believes it was a dream. But he still thinks back to those words, when he needs them.
-
It’s interesting to be in the presence of such a significant historical figure, even if the two of them are on different sides, but Altaïr is still one of the less welcome visitors. Haytham and Ezio have an agreement: neither of them tries to interfere with the other’s time. Altaïr, however, refuses to make deals with Templars, and that means that Haytham must constantly be on his guard for attempts to seize his body.
Haytham is typically on his guard in any case, of course. But sometimes, when his concentration is taken up with something else - for example, stalking an Assassin through a settlement in the black of night...
Haytham finds himself suddenly outside his body, and he curses. Now he’s going to have to watch himself-
Hmm. He’s going to watch himself swing around to meet the surprise attack from his target, apparently. How did he fail to notice her there?
Altaïr, he’d assumed, but it can’t be. An ally. Shay?
Haytham watches himself choke the target unconscious and hide her in the undergrowth, and then he finds himself back in his body. He looks around at once to see who came to his aid.
Altaïr is standing before him, looking insufferably smug.
“You do remember I’m your enemy, don’t you?” Haytham asks, wiping blood from his lip.
“But you’re also one of us,” Altaïr says. “Whatever we are.”
“I didn’t realise you’d grown fond of me.”
“I do not do this for nothing. In return, you will spare the Assassin.”
Haytham looks down at his insensible target, lying half-concealed by thick ferns. “She has been a thorn in our side for a very long time.”
“And she will be one for longer,” Altaïr says. “The trade is your life for hers. I have offered you your life. If you don’t want it...”
They watch each other for a moment.
“Very well,” Haytham says, eventually. “She may live.” He gives Altaïr his hardest look. “Stay on your guard, or perhaps I’ll save your life in return.”
-
“Yeah, I know how you feel,” Desmond says, running to keep up with Connor. “My dad’s pretty much a dick as well.”
Although his dad never actually caused the Boston Massacre. That’s something.
“Where are we going, anyway?” He’s not sure he’s got this far in the Animus yet.
“There is a shipment of tea in the harbour,” Connor says. “Its sale will fund William Johnson, who intends to buy my village’s land. And my... allies” - he sounds as if he chooses the word uncertainly - “wish to send a message to the British government. We are going to destroy the tea.”
Desmond stops short. Technically, he doesn’t need to run to keep up with Connor; Connor’s the only one really running, and any visitors will be drawn along with him. They can’t stray too far from the person they’re visiting. Desmond just likes to move his legs, or the illusion of his legs, so he doesn’t feel like he’s being dragged.
Connor stops as well, all the same, and turns to face him.
“Destroy the tea?” Desmond asks. “By throwing it in the harbour? The Boston Harbour?”
“Yes,” Connor says.
This is... actually really cool. Desmond didn’t know much about the history of the Holy Land or Italy or Istanbul before he actually lived through it, but this is something he knows.
“Can I dump one of the crates?” Desmond asks.
Connor frowns slightly. “There will most likely be trouble. I will need to be in my own body to fight.”
“C’mon,” Desmond says. “If you get a quiet moment. Please.”
Connor hesitates a moment longer.
“If there is a quiet moment,” he says. “Perhaps.”
Desmond grins.
-
“Connor!” Edward exclaims. His voice is strangely hushed, but he’s grinning. “Been waiting for one of you to show up. Come over here. I’ve something to show you.”
Connor looks around as he approaches. He is used to visiting Edward on his ship, not in buildings. “What is this place?”
“This? This is my home,” Edward says. “Ended up settling in London. No more murdering. Well, less murdering, and for a new cause. You know I joined the Assassins?”
“You told me before,” Connor says. “When we gathered to say farewell to Desmond.”
“That sounds grim,” Edward says, after a moment. “Still have that to look forward to, I suppose. I’ll be sure to remember to tell you again.” He shakes his head. “But let’s think of happier things. Come on!”
Connor follows him to the doorway of a darkened room. Edward disappears inside it for a moment, and when he emerges he is holding something in his arms.
A baby.
“This is Haytham,” Edward says.
Connor feels as if he is watching himself from a very long way away. No. He killed his father only last week. Fate cannot do this to him.
Connor feels that the whole sorry story must be written across his face, but Edward is too absorbed in his son to notice.
“He’s perfect, isn’t he?” Edward asks. “The image of his mother. You’ll have to see her.”
He doesn’t know, Connor reminds himself. This is an Edward who has not yet seen Desmond’s sacrifice. This is an Edward who has no idea that the child in his arms will grow to father Connor and wipe out the Assassins of the colonies.
This is an Edward who has no idea that the man before him will kill his son.
The baby Haytham smiles and laughs and reaches out towards Connor, as if trying to catch hold of his cloak.
“Look at that,” Edward says, smiling fondly. “Could swear he sees you.”
-
“Monsieur Cormac,” Aveline says, wary. One of the visitors she knows to be the Templar Grand Master, and she thinks she has managed to conceal herself from him on the occasions when she has found herself visiting. But she first met Shay in his Assassin days. She spoke to him, thinking nothing of it. Now he is a Templar, and he knows who she is.
Shay nods. “Miss.”
She can see her own unease in his face, Aveline realises. He doesn’t feel the information he has gives him power over her; he’s busy thinking about the information she has on him. In their last conversation, Shay didn’t know they would end up on different sides either.
She feels herself relax a little. If they both have the same disadvantage, they’re facing each other on level ground.
Actually, Shay might be the person she needs to speak to just now. She folds her arms as a gesture of peace; this way he knows she won’t be able to attack suddenly, as it’ll take her a second longer to access any of her weapons. Shay, after a moment’s hesitation, does the same in return.
“You left the Assassins,” she says.
“Happens I already know that.”
“Did you know it was the right decision?”
Shay looks carefully at her. “Felt I didn’t really have a choice,” he says. “They made me do something that went against my conscience. And any chance of tearful reconciliation went when they nearly murdered me.”
“But you felt you were on the wrong side with them.” She was hoping to conceal her doubts from him, but she feels sure he’s already guessed. She’s spent her whole life hiding things, but maybe this uncertainty inside her is too much to bury. “You look back and you’re sure of that.”
“I don’t know about that. I know I did some good when I was with the Assassins.” He bites his lip. “Worked with some good people. Maybe another mentor wouldn’t have sent me to Lisbon and I’d still be with them, but I can only see from where I’m standing.”
Maybe, with another mentor, she wouldn’t be feeling like this. “Do you regret leaving?”
“I regret losing my friends,” he says. “I’d regret leaving more if I thought the Assassins were what they pretend to be. The Creed’s noble enough. Problem is people don’t follow it.”
He hesitates.
“I don’t know if I can say the Templar way is the right way for all of humanity,” he says. “But it was the right way for me.”
“The Templars exist to impose their views on humanity,” Aveline says.
Shay laughs. “And the Assassins don’t? Both sides, there’s all this trying to change the world. I’ve always found it easier to think smaller.” He pauses, whisks his hand in quick tight circles, like he’s trying to pull his thoughts into something he can express. “The way I saw it, New York was suffering under those gangs. Take them down, and things change for the people. It’s not the world, but it’s enough for me.”
“So you think I should do whatever helps the people I can see?”
“Do what you think’s right.” He shrugs. “Sorry. I know that’s unhelpful.”
“No,” she says. “No, I think it’s what I needed to hear. Thank you.”
-
“You never struck me as sentimental, Connor.”
“There are many things you do not know about me.”
He’s found himself in a churchyard, and both Haytham and Connor are standing a few feet in front of him, facing away. His son and his grandson. It’s still so strange.
Perhaps it would be best for Edward to stay out of sight.
But Haytham turns and sees him, and the fleeting expression that crosses his face - guilt? fear? pain? - is enough for Edward’s curiosity to hold him where he is, against his better judgement. Haytham nudges Connor, who turns and instantly takes a step backwards.
“A proper family reunion, I suppose.” Edward says it lightly, trying to dispel the uncomfortable atmosphere, but the sense of unease only deepens.
“We should go somewhere else,” Connor mutters, not looking at him.
“Are you both truly here?” Edward asks. “Or is someone visiting?”
“I am here as a visitor,” Haytham says. “But I suppose we are both here, in a sense.”
Connor looks strangely terrified. “Father, don’t-”
“In a sense?” Edward asks. “What do you mean?”
Haytham pauses a moment. “Speech without thought,” he says. “It means nothing.”
But Edward’s eyes have already moved to the name on the grave behind them. Haytham Kenway.
It’s a vicious blow to the gut. Of course he never thought his son was going to live forever, but the difference between knowing your child is mortal and actually seeing the place he’s laid to rest...
He has to turn away, so he won’t see the dates. His legs feel unsteady.
“How did it happen?” he asks, even though he knows that knowing will destroy him.
“I cannot tell you.” He’s never known Connor to sound so upset. “I can’t tell you. Please don’t ask me.”
A hand on his shoulder. Haytham’s. Edward brings up his own hand to grip it, tightly.
After a moment, Edward holds out his other hand to Connor. “Come on,” he says. He’s managing to keep his voice steady, at least. “You’re one of us, too. If ever a man needed his family around him...”
Connor doesn’t take his hand. But he touches it, briefly, with his own.
When Edward is returned to his own time, he goes at once to check on Haytham, who is sleeping peacefully. He hardly lets the boy out of his arms for the next three days.
-
It’s often an uncomfortable experience, meeting the Assassins he’s somehow linked to. Shay tends to look for anchors to put him at his ease. If they’re visiting him, that’s all right, especially when he’s at sea; it might mean he’s at risk of being controlled, but he feels most secure when he’s on the deck of the Morrigan. If he finds himself in a group of visitors, he’ll look for a friendly face in Haytham or Edward.
Finding himself in the headquarters of Ezio’s Brotherhood, with Ezio, Aveline and Desmond? There’s no comfort to be had there.
Whatever the three of them were talking about, they’ve fallen silent at his appearance.
“Sorry,” Shay says. “Didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll...” He falters on his offer to go. It’s not a promise he can actually put into practice, and they all know it. It must be possible to control these visits, to some extent - he’s suspected for a while that Aveline is able to choose when she leaves - but Shay isn’t at that point yet.
Ezio gestures to a free seat, between Desmond and Aveline. “Sit down.”
Cautiously, Shay sits, and then he stands up again. Sitting here, being stared at by one of the most legendary figures of the Assassin Order? He can’t do it. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d sooner lie in the corner and cover my ears.”
“Are we such poor conversationalists?” Ezio asks, mock-affronted.
“I’ve killed any conversation just by being here.”
“Because we were talking about you,” Aveline says. His discomfort must show on his face, because she laughs. “I was just telling them how you helped me when I was uncertain.”
He looks at her. “You stayed with the Assassins,” he says, half to check.
She nods. “But you put me at ease with my decision.” She reaches up to take his hand and pulls him back down onto the chair, and he’s so surprised that he lets her. “I think I misjudged you when I heard you’d joined the Templars.”
“You thought I was a traitor,” he says, shrugging, although the words don’t come easily. “I am.”
“Yeah, but it kind of sounds as if you had to be,” Desmond says. “If the Assassins in my time made me destroy a city, I don’t think I’d be able to just let that go.”
“Well?” Ezio asks. “Will you sit with us?”
Shay looks at Aveline. This doesn’t feel real. “I suppose I’ve nowhere else to be.”
Aveline lives around the same time as he does, he remembers. He wonders if they’ll ever meet in person.
If they do, they’ll most likely have been tasked with killing each other.
-
Altaïr sleeps poorly, dreaming of the Apple, and Al Mualim, and being forced to slay his own empty-eyed brothers. At one point he becomes aware that someone is in the room with him.
He opens his eyes.
Desmond is sitting with his back against the wall. In a way, Altaïr is pleased to see him, although he tries not to show it. Sometimes a man needs company. And Desmond often knows the things he has been through without being told, because of his ‘Animus’; it makes Altaïr uncomfortable, the concept of having his life spied on, but at this moment he wants his sorrow understood without having to speak it aloud.
Altaïr sits up.
“When is this?” Desmond asks.
“Al Mualim. The Apple.” It’s all he has to say, and Desmond’s eyes widen.
“Oh, man, Altaïr, I’m sorry.” He hesitates. “I didn’t know if I should tell you before.”
“I do not wish to know my future,” Altaïr says. He’s actually had to ask Ezio to stop telling him things.
Speaking of Ezio...
“Have I come at a bad time?” Ezio asks, looking back and forth between them.
“Al Mualim just used the Apple,” Desmond says.
Ezio crosses the room at once to lay his hand on Altaïr’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Mentor.”
“I’m not your mentor,” Altaïr mutters, knowing it will make no difference. But the touch of Ezio’s hand is warm, and somehow it seems to make him feel less detached. Strange, that it takes a man who is not really here to anchor him to the world again.
Edward is the next, and Desmond draws him aside to explain what has happened. Or try to.
“What? What’s an Apple? Well, I know what an apple is, but what are you talking about?”
Desmond simplifies things, it seems, and a moment later Edward is approaching Altaïr.
“I don’t know exactly what’s happened here,” Edward says, “but Desmond tells me you’ve suffered some loss, and that I understand.” He looks around. “You should have come to me. There’s rum, and song, and women. Of course, you’d have to experience the rum and women through me, but I’ll nobly drink all day if it helps a friend.”
“An intriguing offer,” Ezio says. “But we can still have song, surely?”
“Well, they’re not the same on land,” Edward says, with clearly feigned reluctance, “but I could teach you a few shanties.”
Aveline shows up when Edward and Ezio are halfway through a heartfelt rendition of ‘Lowlands Away’. She looks with a perplexed smile at Desmond, who shrugs. Aveline listens for a moment longer, and then, hesitant only at first, starts to join in on the repeated lines. Edward breaks off briefly to give her a cheer.
Shay appears during the next song, and Altaïr sees the unease flicker across his face - he’s in a room full of Assassins - before it’s swiftly followed by recognition. He launches into ‘Randy Dandy-O’ without a second thought. By this point Desmond is singing as well, a little selfconsciously. Altaïr keeps his silence, but he listens. It is far from a beautiful sound - Ezio and Desmond, in particular, are not great singers - but it does something to ease his sense of emptiness.
“Now,” Ezio announces, during a break in the shanties, “as you have been deprived of the pleasures of the minstrels of Italia-”
“Oh, Christ,” Shay mutters.
“Ah, yes,” Ezio amends. “Shay was fortunate enough to visit when I was cornered by three of them. But I feel it unfair that the rest of you have lived your lives bereft of Italia’s finest musicians.”
He sings until they beg him to stop. Haytham and Connor show up around the time Ezio apparently resorts to lyrics of his own invention (“It really is quite tricky to undertake these rhymes/with seven other minstrels in my head from different times”), and neither looks as if they know what to make of this situation.
“What is going on here?” Haytham asks, when Ezio is eventually silenced.
“It’s a bit of fun, Grand Master,” Shay says. “We have the rest of time to clash. Let’s spend an evening as friends.”
Haytham looks sceptical, but he sits.
Aveline sings a little for them. Connor and Desmond will not be prevailed upon to sing them the songs of their own people, but Altaïr finds himself hoping that at some point they will be; he’s starting to get a sense of how many different styles of music there must be, all these varied times and places, and he would like to hear more.
By common agreement they return to the shanties, as they’re easy to pick up and sing. It’s not until the door to his bedchamber creaks open that Altaïr realises he’s been singing as well.
“Altaïr?” Malik asks, frowning sleepily at him. “What are you doing?”
The singing has stopped abruptly. Altaïr can hear Edward and Ezio struggling to suppress their laughter.
“I am beginning to heal, Malik,” he says.
Visitors (Gratuitous Wish-Fulfilment Edition)