The Adventure Never Ends | By : A.K.O.Shifting-Shadow Category: +A through F > Assassin's Creed Views: 2269 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0 |
Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed. I make no profit posting this fanfiction. |
Chapter Twelve: Responsibilities
The little assassin was Ezio’s current term for him, something Desmond didn’t like, he was hardly little but compared to his three ancestors he was small. And Desmond certainly didn’t feel warm inside at Ezio’s teasing endearments. He did however enjoy being called an assassin, something Ezio rarely called him and the word told him Ezio considered him skilled enough to be an assassin and hopefully skilled enough to be his equal. Not that Desmond did not like being under Ezio’s tutelage but he disliked being scolded like a child, something that happened rarely these days but each scolding was as embarrassing as the first.
Needless to say Desmond had a heart full of pride when he was left to his own devices and allowed to hunt their enemies on his own. He took his duties seriously and that was why he was crouched on the scaffolding around a large tower watching the Templars as they walked below unaware of their unwanted guest. Desmond followed with quiet steps and sharp eyes. His ears picked up the slightest sound, though they had not yet become as sensitive as his ancestors who seemed to be able to hear whispers from a fair distance away.
Out of the corner of his eyes a feather floated into sight. He knew the species the feather belonged to, the eagle but more interestingly enough was that the tip was painted red with blood. A glance up with his special sight in play revealed no one above him and yet the feather could not have come from nowhere. Cautiously he caught the feather and stared at the quill and fine strands seeking any evidence of whom this feather had belonged to. Weighing his options Desmond considered leaving the Templars and seeking the source of the feather. He listened closely to the Templar words and realised that the Templar’s were more paranoid, speaking of their business only when in the safety of a secure building. He’d have to break into the Templar base at a later date, for now he’d seek the origins of the feather.
The climb to the top was a short one, made easy by his training and Ezio’s unlimited patience and encouragement. Soon he was upon the roof to see a sight he had not expected. One of the Templar thugs, someone who the Templars considered expendable, was dead and left as an offering to the assassin’s. Desmond knew this because upon the corpse was a roll of parchment, a feather secured to the roll. With a nervousness that was born of knowing too much about poisons Desmond carefully unrolled the parchment and eyed the text, his eyes widening as he did so.
Hurt is coming.
And I am unable to protect those I hold dear.
But perhaps through words I can reach those I cannot touch.
I only pray you heed my words.
Burrow deep to find the truth.
Instincts will lead you, just trust in them as I trust in you.
The words were so delicately written in a hand skilled with calligraphy. Desmond knew without a doubt that the man who wrote these words was one he held dear to his heart. The English words were shakily written as if the author was unsure he had spelt the words correctly and yet there was no error or spillage of ink. His eyes easily picked out the message within the words. It wasn’t hidden, it was blaringly obvious. Habibi. The whole thing spelled out Habibi, Arabic for ‘my love’. There was only one man who spoke these words but the meaning of the words he had written worried Desmond immensely.
Hurt is coming. And I am unable to protect those I hold dear.
What did he mean? What danger and why was Altair unable to help? If Altair was able to write this note and to kill the thug then he must be corporeal and active in this time zone. Why had Altair not sought them out and joined forces with his lovers and descendant?
Desmond rose to his full height and stared at the horizon eyeing each tower with suspicion and some fear. He had no doubt that Altair was nearby ensuring Desmond received the message he had so kindly laid out. It did not take long for him to wonder if the Templar assassin he had so often observed was actually his eldest lover and the idea worried him, had Altair betrayed them? Was that the hurt he spoke of in his note? Had Altair turned on the Assassin Order and to the Templars? If Altair was a Templar the Assassin’s had lost a powerful figurehead and earned a powerful foe. For hundreds of years it was the Assassin’s that hunted the Templar’s but Desmond knew the tide would turn with Altair on the other side, the Templar’s would hunt them to extinction, damning the world to be ruled by the power hungry sadists who would turn each free person into a mindless slave with the Piece’s of Eden. Surely Altair could not condone this?
But the note was clear. Altair was going to harm them, intentionally or not Altair had become a traitor.
Wasting no more time Desmond dove off the tower and into the hay barrel waiting belong. Barely considering stealth he quickly climbed into his mare’s saddle and immediately turned and cantered through town to the wilderness beyond the protective walls. His mare rode straight and true, her earlier misbehaviour absent as she sensed the urgency in her rider. Her steps whilst loud did not reach Desmond’s mind which was still pondering the note and its meaning.
Burrow deep to find the truth.
Why did that cause Desmond to hesitate? Was Altair trying to tell him something without being blatantly obvious?
Instinct will lead you.
Altair’s words whilst seemingly simple and unimportant were stuck in his mind. Burrow and instinct were the more irritating of the letter, they felt important and yet he could not understand why.
Suddenly he pulled his mare to a halt, she whinnied loudly skidding to a stop and throwing her head to show her fury to her rider but Desmond merely patted her neck absentmindedly as he thought. Burrow, instinct. Altair had always enforced that assassinating wasn’t just a skill, it was an instinct. After all an eagle was a superb hunter but it did so because it needed to, they were born with the innate instinct to hunt and kill. But what did Altair mean?
His eyes strayed to the mountaintops and his eyes widened as he realised that the truth may very well be before him. But should Altair be a traitor then this could be a trap. Did he dare stray to where he thought the message led or consult his remaining lover for advice?
Desmond closed his eyes, listening to the breeze, feeling it brush soothingly over his skin as he considered his options. His heart bade that he go seek Ezio’s protection and guidance but something else warned him that this was not the right choice. Altair and Ezio had told him of this before, they spoke of gut feelings and the seemingly perfect instincts that led to their continued survival, they spoke of it as a warm instinct, like a mother’s soothing touch that would guide them when they were unsure. If their descriptions were true then he was feeling what they had felt. There was warmth in his belly, a surge of confidence that seemed to give him energy and make him straighten his spine. And then he knew the answer as if he had always known it and it felt right.
His mare made a sound as he turned towards the mountain. Desmond merely pet her before gathering his reins and encouraging her forward. “This is something I have to do alone.” He confided in her. She eyed him a little warily but obediently sped up to a canter leading him to where Altair’s note seemed to tell him to go.
Almost immediately there was danger as wolves swarmed him and his mare, there were too many to shoot and Desmond had a lot of reluctance when it came to killing innocent animals whose only ‘sin’ was trying to hunt to survive. Instead a sharp kick to his mare’s side and her own terror made her fly, her hooves carrying them faster than the wolves could keep up with. Soon she had flown over meadows, through forests and into the valley where a beautiful waterfall and river lay undisturbed by the greediness of man. Only once the river was crossed did Desmond slow knowing the wolves would not be so eager to follow and so for a few brief moments he allowed his mare a rest and let her lower her head so she could drink some of the precious fluid around her legs.
Seeing no pursuit Desmond dismounted and with a gentle pat to her side he bent to his knees and took his own share of the water before refreshing his supply for what might be a long journey before him. He checked his mare over, searching for signs of injury or distress but finding her healthy and ready. He remounted then with a fond smile and turned her back onto their route. His sharp eyes caught sight of what appeared to be a tight path into the mountainside, barely big enough for his mare and certainly small enough to be un-noticeable, which explained why Ezio and Connor had yet to find it. Desmond knew he had only found it by chance and because he knew there had to be a route up.
His mare ambled over the rocky surface with caution and Desmond did not try to hurry her knowing the rocks were sharp enough to do some damage. Her hooves whilst large were placed delicately; her nose was lowered so her eyes could take in her hooves and the ground to make a choice about where to put her hoof next. Slowly but surely they reached the firmer safer rock of the mountain side and she leapt up and Desmond had to laugh at how gracefully she did so before laughing harder as she eyed the gravel behind her with distaste. Anyone who said animals had no personality should meet this mare, she’d set them straight.
Calming himself Desmond guided her to the narrow path and encouraged her into a light trot. He listened carefully as they navigated the curving pathway cut into the mountain. It was clearly natural and rarely used but there was signs of animals coming through the narrow path, old footprints, a rare pile of animal poo and fur caught in dead and dying branches of plants that had tried to grow in this difficult area. Fortunately other than a fox, a snake and a few rabbits there was no other life on the long winding path but it was indeed a long journey, it took a good few hours forcing Desmond to stop on more than one occasion to give his mare a rest and to give her a drink.
By the time they reached the top his mare’s coat was covered with dust and she was clearly tired, her head lowered and her stops slower than normal. Desmond was in a little better condition but that was because his clothing shielded him from the sand and dirt and his small size meant he did not require as much nourishment. He was on foot by this time, leading his horse by her reins and walking slow to allow her a chance to rest. He checked her regularly, ensuring he had not made her lame on the journey. She was healthy but tired; it seemed she was just not used to long journeys. Not surprising since she had lived in a stable all her life and never strayed far from her home until Desmond had been given her.
Atop the mountain was a plateau of grass and a pool of fresh water, obviously the result of rain. He left her there knowing she would be safe. She immediately drank her fair share of the water and settled on the grass. He pet her head and she nuzzled his hand clearly forgiving him for forcing her to travel so far. Desmond chuckled before turning back to his task.
And there it was, in plain sight. A cave right atop the mountain and open to all who would travel up the path. Desmond could see that the Native American’s at one point had come and visited the cave; their paintings whilst dulled by age were still remarkably well preserved. He entered slowly wary of disrespecting what might be sacred land.
He travelled deep with the cave, slowly losing light making him think he would soon need fire to see. But he turned a corner and gasped at the sight. For upon the walls was the answer he sought. As if their lives had been predestined and planned. He saw it all, the past and the present and perhaps even a hint of the future in the obscure diagrams that glowed as bright as the sun. How these glyphs were made was beyond him, he knew of no man who could create these marks without machinery and yet the hum of machines was absent.
He followed each picture with attentive eyes, read each story to the best of his ability and slowly stumbled upon a clue on what to do next. He eyed the images with a wary expression, an expression that turned to surprise, horror and then fear. Their next step would require a sacrifice, a sacrifice that may cost them more than they are prepared to pay. It was clear to Desmond that to destroy the enemy they may have to destroy themselves.
It didn’t bear thinking about but this could be the only option they had left.
It didn’t mean Desmond had to like it, however. There had to be an alternative. But they were running out of time. If there was a solution they had best find it fast or be prepared to pay the ultimate price.
As if sensing his mood or understanding the glyphs dimmed, vanishing into the darkness. The only source of light was the dim glow of sunlight still seeping into the cave from the entrance. Only Desmond did not welcome it in his enlightened state. It was tempting to stay in the darkness to ignore the world outside. He knew straying back out meant facing an unenviable task, one that would blacken his soul and condemn him to hell if God and Satan truly existed.
But Altair was never wrong. Arrogant, yes but idiotic, no, so if Altair believed this to be the only option, chances were it was indeed the only option they had left. Curse the Templars, curse the ones who came before, curse them all for forcing Desmond to bear such weight upon his shoulders.
Suddenly Desmond didn’t want to be a full-fledged assassin; he wanted to be the student whose only want was to please his tutor’s and to be sheltered in the protective embrace of his lover’s. But the time for innocence had long since passed and Desmond had a duty to complete.
God help them all.
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