Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ezio can't keep up. What the golden spectre is saying goes completely beyond his understanding – the words are familiar, but what she's saying is not. Old gods and ancient civilisations, betrayals and wars and the heavens burning the world. It is too much, all too much, and he cannot understand.

For such a strange revelation to await him at the end of his long quest for revenge, revenge which he had not even carried out in the end…

Then the golden spectre stops, staring at nothing somewhere beside Ezio. He looks, but there's nothing there – but as he goes to ask, she speaks again. "Something has changed," Minerva whispers, her eyes narrowing, her glowing form shuddering. Then, all of sudden, she goes still.

There is a strange hum in the air, like sound of distant wind, but aside that it is suddenly silent. Ezio waits, but Minerva is still, her form utterly motionless – and when he moves, she doesn't react.

"What is this – I don't understand this," Ezio says, stepping closer to her. "Please, can't you explain this clearer? What kind of warning is it, if I can't understand it? And when is this happening, when will the heavens burn us again?"

Minerva doesn't answer; her eyelids do not as much as twitch. Uncertain Ezio waves a hand over her face to no result and then, more hesitant, he reaches out to touch her.

There is nothing there – his fingers sink into her glow, but touch nothing. She is a being of light and light alone – there is nothing there to feel. Frightened and confused, Ezio steps back, looking at his hand, but nothing about it has changed. He's touched what amounts to a god – and she was not truly there.

A minute passes, then another – by the fifth minute of silence, Ezio begins to doubt that she would speak to him again. Still the image is there, and the strange temple hums with power around him – it is as if it is holding its breath. So, increasingly nervous and frustrated, he waits… and waits…

Ten minutes passes before any change occurs – and when it does, it's strange. A ripple runs through Minerva's glowing form and then, suddenly, she changes. Her crown disappears, leaving behind a woman with her head bared, her hair trailing down her shoulders. Her clothing changes, growing simpler, plainer. Her feet, formerly bare, gain sandals and on her shoulder there is a cape, draped over her. And her face…

It has aged decades.

"It is done," she whispers and looks up – not at Ezio but at something he can't see. "I have changed it. Desmond, do you hear me – I have changed it."

"What are you talking about?" Ezio asks. "Who is Desmond? Who are you talking to?"

"Desmond, hear me – I have changed it, I have changed the Eye," Minerva says urgently, stepping forward as if to reach for this invisible someone. Her hands, Ezio notes, are wrinkled. "You can use it now and it will be different – you will not die, Juno will not have her way. I have changed it – only you can…"

She trails off, her eyes searching nothing. "He is not here anymore, you no longer anchor him," she murmurs and turns to Ezio. "He has already lived through this and left – I have missed him."

"What are you talking about?" Ezio demands. "Who is Desmond?"

The golden spectre doesn't answer, clasping her chin, thinking. "I have changed the Eye but I cannot leave it like this," she mumbles, strange, softer than before – all of her splendour stripped she looks less like a god now and more like an old woman, her back slightly bent under some unseen burden. "Juno might still take him and twist him to her purposes. I cannot let her; that is too much power in her hands."

Ezio shakes his head, confused afresh. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says, helpless, and doubts she will explain.

And she doesn't – instead, she reaches out her hand. "The Apple, Prophet," she says. "Please. It is the only way."

For a moment Ezio hesitates – there is so much going on here that he doesn't understand, the consequences of which might be worse than he can imagine. But the urgency in Minerva's face decides it for him, and he takes out the Apple of Eden again.

She lays a hand on top of her, and the air around her thrums.

"Now come, come here," she murmurs and closes her eyes. "Follow the signal and come – you know how, you've done it thousands of times in simulation. I am laying out a teleport point for you to fast travel – now come!"

Now she's no longer even pretending to be speaking the same language, Ezio thinks in bewilderment – and then the Apple lights up between their hands, the power within it winding and building and then exploding out in beams of golden light, that cast sharp cuts of illumination in the strange, golden hued space around them. It feels draining and Ezio can feel his knees wobble and he strives to stay on his feet even as the Apple pulses, and does it again, and again, continuously exploding between their hands.

It happens several times and by the time Ezio is sure the next pulse will send him to the floor, the pulsing stops and instead the light stays, grows, becomes blinding and overwhelming until he can't see anything, the Apple or Minerva or even the room around them. Ezio cries out as his eyes burn, tries to pull his hand back but he can't, it is trapped in an invisible grip, still holding the Apple.

And then, as if a candle had been blown out or a heavy curtain had been pulled over a window, the light simply vanishes.

It takes a long while for Ezio to be able to see after it, his eyes flashing with blinding lights even in the darkness – but he's somehow aware that something has changed.

"I don't have much time, I drained the temple's power to send the signal," Minerva says. "Desmond, hear me –"

"Minerva?" someone speaks and it's not Ezio. The voice is male – and full of pain. "What is this? What – what is happening – to me?"

"I saw Juno and what she would become, and I changed the Grand Temple – I changed the Eye, to keep it from her. It is yours now, only yours – you have fused with it," Minerva says. "It was the only way to keep it safe. Had I left you there, she would have taken you and used you – here, she has no power over you. And you need time, to adjust."

"I – I don't understand," the male voice says as Ezio rubs at his eyes and tries to see. He can see shapes, golden shapes, and little more. His eyes feel scorched through.

"The nature of the Eye has not been altered – it is still the culmination of my work. Only it's form different. I am sorry, Desmond, but I could not trust it in any hands but yours – now it is a burden you must endure forever. With it, you can save the world."

The male voice doesn't answer, just keens in pain. In desperation, Ezio activates his Sight, letting the world shift into darker, sharper shades. The pulsing light of his eyes fades and he can still see Minerva as she was, golden and suddenly aged and plain – and at her feet there is another shape, radiant and odd. Ezio blinks again, and the Sight fades and his vision is once more normal.

On the floor there is a bleeding angel.

"W-why?" the angel gasps, one had scrabbling at his bleeding back, at the golden protrusions that stick out from the bloody mess of it, sharp, almost metallic looking feathers sticking everywhere.

"The world she would have made would have been one of monstrous design," Minerva says and slowly crouches down in front of the angel. "You will protect it as it is, not remake it in your image. It is better this way, Desmond."

The angel struggles to look up. His face, now that Ezio sees it – it's familiar. "What happens now?" the angel demands through gritted, blood stained teeth. "What will – what will happen to me? To the – the world? Do you know?"

"You will adjust," Minerva says quietly. "It will take time, but you have as much as you need, now. You will grow strong. You will learn to use the Eye. And the world will be saved."

The angel stares at her shakily for moment and then he collapses down, the gold wings rustling and scraping against the floor as he falls. He doesn't get up – he's fallen unconscious.

Minerva looks up from the angel and to Ezio. "If you care for the world, you will care for him," she says and nods. "And he will save you all."

And then she's gone, leaving Ezio gaping after her and then at the fallen angel on the floor, his back a mess of torn cloth and blood, his golden feathers bloodstained.

"Shit," Ezio then mutters and hurriedly kneels down to check on the angel. Whatever happened to the man happened just now – whether it was someone trying to tear or cut the wings off or if it was the wings that caused the damage in the first place, he can't quite tell – but the wound is around their strange metallic joints, the skin bleeding at all sides.

No time to think about how this might be possible, how it might make sense – Ezio hurriedly rummages through his pouches until he gets his hand on a roll of bandages. Relieved to find it clean, Ezio quickly starts unwinding it and then awkwardly wrapping it around the bleeding – task made both easier and harder by the presence of the golden wings. He doesn't have to wrap the bandage around the angel's whole body, but the wings are in the way.

They are also softer than they look – the feathers rustle and give, like actual feathers, not like something made of metal. Strange and utterly irrelevant now.

Cutting the bandage off near the middle of the roll, Ezio goes to wrap the other wing joint as well. The bleeding isn't bad, it's not soaking immediately through the bandages – but who knows what kind of damage there is under the skin. The wings protrude from under the man's shoulder blades, near mid-back – still near enough to his lungs to do damage, if they go in that deep. But what does he know about angel anatomy? Human anatomy alone goes beyond his understanding if Leonardo's strange studies are anything to go by.

The angel is still breathing, though, his breath raspy and thin but Ezio has heard worse. If he was human, Ezio would be likely to think his chances of survival good. If he was a human.

First gods, now angels. What next – would he have a devil waiting for him when he stepped out of this strange place? Thinking back to Rodrigo Borgia, whom he left in the hall… it is frighteningly likely. Thinking back what to Minerva said, about keeping the angel away from someone who would use him, Ezio comes very quickly to the conclusion that Templars shouldn't get their hands on him either.

Once done bandaging the wing joints, Ezio carefully pushes at the angel's shoulder, to turn him to lie on his side. The angel's clothes are odd but recognizably clothing – white doublet with a hood and strange blue breeches that reach his ankles. Their fastenings are odd, seem to hold together for now – however… they do little to hide the wings.

Ezio needs to get the angel out of here, somehow, and with the wings…

Muttering curses, Ezio starts taking off his robes. They're not much, a cloak or a full cape would be better, but it's better than nothing. Undressing down to his shirt and brigandine alone, Ezio considers the wings. Then, grimacing, he takes the sash from under his belt.

It feels sacrilegious, to bind the man's wings, but it has to be done – there would be no controlling them if left loose and he has terrible amount of climbing to do. So, uneasy, wraps the red sash around the golden wings and slowly pulls it taunt, bringing the wings in and against the bloodstained back before wrapping the sash around the man's waist, binding the wings down. Once done, he takes the black robe he wore, and spreads it out over the wings, hiding them as well as he can out of view. It makes the angel look misshapen… but little less like a messenger from the heavens, at least.

"Well then, my lord Desmond," Ezio murmurs, pulling his chest guard back on and quickly wrapping his belt – sans the sash – back around his waist. "Time to go. My apologies for this…"

There is no way to carry the man comfortably in his arms with the wings, he'd end up doing only more damage that way. So, with a grimace, Ezio hoists the unconscious angel up and to his shoulder, to hang there like sack of potatoes. There's no helping it – though how he's going to scale a wall with this burden, he isn't sure. It would have to be done though.

Smuggling an unconscious angel from the heart of the Vatican, the very heart of the church… that would be interesting.

Standing up with his unconscious burden, Ezio casts another look at the chamber and then turns his back to it. As he does he pulls out his sword, just in case – Rodrigo Borgia was just there, after all.

Behind him, the chamber grows dark once more; the pillars that lit it sinking back into the floor and out of sight.

It's a relief to find that Rodrigo Borgia is no longer here – only shred of golden clothing remains, but the man himself has made a run for it. The Staff still stands in the middle of the room, waiting – but when Ezio goes to take it, it too sinks into the floor and out of sight, the door to the chamber of Minerva closing, and the temple shuddering around him.

"Better in the hands of the Earth than in the hands of man," a voice speaks from above and Ezio looks up.

"Uncle?" he asks, surprised. Mario hadn't come with him to Vatican – it had been his mission alone. "What are you doing here?"

"What can I say, we sent a single man against an entire army – I was worried," Mario says and then nods down to him – to the angel Ezio is carrying over his shoulder. "Is it done then? Is that him, is that Rodrigo?"

Ezio looks at the form hanging on his shoulder and then shifts the weight to a better position over his shoulder guard. "No, this is something else – we need to get him out of here," Ezio says and looks up. "Do you know a way we can get out of here undetected?"

Mario frowns. "My idea was to go through the front doors, the same way I came in. Who is that?"

"Uncle, you wouldn't believe me if I told you – and I daren't show you now. We need to get him out of here, quickly, before anyone sees him." And before they found out that the Assassins were stealing an angel from the Sistine Chapel.

Mario frowns and then nods. "Come on then, up you get. I've heard that there are tunnels all around Roma, and catacombs under the Vatican – get up here and we'll see if we can find them."

Ezio nods, considers the walls around him, and then goes to climb – no easy task with the body of the unconscious angel weighing him down. Mario ends up reaching up to aid him the last bit of the climb. Though he's obviously curious and worried about Ezio's burden, Mario makes no mention of it, just pulls him to his feet, pats him on his free shoulder and nods.

"We must get through the chapel before we can even look for the catacombs," Mario says, considering the shape on Ezio's shoulder. "And it was full of priests and monks the last I passed through it, none of them too happy to see me. Doubt they will be happy to see you either."

"Then," Ezio says and hands the man all of his smoke bombs. "Let us limit what they do see."

Together they make their way out of the last leg of the temple, which falls in darkness section by section as they leave it – it is from darkness they emerge finally, to a chapel truly full of black-robed clergymen.

"Assassins!" one of them shouts. "God will see you pay for your crimes!"

"You have desecrated the sanctity of this holy place!"

Oh, if only they knew, Ezio thinks and swallows – and then, without further ado, Mario takes out a smoke bomb and throws it on the floor.

The crack of it going off is sharp and loud in the large, echoing chapel, and it's accented by the shouts of the clergy as they recoil from the brief explosion – and then from the spread of smoke it leaves behind, hiding the Assassins in its grey curtain.

"Ezio, hurry, this way," Mario snaps, and letting the Sight bleed into his eyes, Ezio wraps an arm around the angel's body, and follows. There are more explosions ahead as Mario covers their exit in smoke, leading Ezio out of the hall and into the corridors.

It's chaos, pure chaos, to run through the narrow corridors in search of way below. By the time they find it, it feels as if half of the whole church is behind them, running after them with swords and spears – there's even crack of guns.

It's not quite the escape Ezio had in mind, but eventually they do find a stair leading down and into the catacombs – though it takes bit of lock picking by Mario to get the door leading down open. Down there they are still being chased, but at least there's less likely to be soldiers up ahead.

"Have you ever been down here before?" Ezio asks as they run, trying not to wince at the way it must jostle the angel. All he can do is hope that the man will be happier to be safe than angry about the rough handling – heavenly wrath seems very likely possibility here, now.

"Can't say I have," Mario answers, jogging ahead of him, sword in one hand and smoke bomb in another. "Just follow the most used route and we should get somewhere."

It's a long time until they do, as they take many wrong turns and run into several dead ends. It's a task and a half to keep ahead of the pursuit following them, but they are just as confused in the catacombs as are the assassins and in the end it's not impossible to avoid them. Every false start in the tunnels is tiring through – and the burden of carrying a fully grown man through such place is not getting any lighter.

It's a relief when they finally find themselves in sewers in stead and finally through them, and in the sunlight. The Tiber River opens up before them and Ezio breathes deep and weary – it's not the sweetest smell, but it beats the sewers.

Sweeter still is the sight of the ship, waiting for them.

"Good, finally," Mario says. "Not quite the triumphant jaunt through the Vatican I had in mind, but more suitable for an Assassin, I think. Come, Nephew – time to get away from this place."

"Aye," Ezio sighs and jostles the weight on his shoulder to keep it from slipping. "And not a moment too soon."

He still doesn't set his burden down, not until they're on the ship and well on their way away from the Vatican. Behind them the district is in turmoil of chaos, as soldiers run about, checking sewer entrances – but it doesn't look they've kept an eye on the ships on the river's surface. Good, Ezio thinks and as Mario turns to talk to the captain, Ezio makes his way below decks where he finds a cabin to claim as his own.

There, finally safe and behind closed doors, he sets the angel down and goes to check the man's condition. Under the black robe Ezio had thrown over him, the bleeding has neither stopped nor gotten worse, it looks – the bandage has grown red in the middle, but it hasn't soaked through. The man is still breathing and it doesn't look like Ezio managed to batter him too badly during the escape – though the man might have bruising around his stomach, where Ezio's shoulder guard had dug in.

Outside the strange, ethereal light of the temple, the angel looks surprisingly human. He seems young, twenty to thirty years of age perhaps, with hint of a beard on his chin and a… scar on his lips, cutting through the side of both upper and lower lip. A familiar scar.

Confused, Ezio traces his own scar with a thumb, tracing the streak it cuts through his beard – it is nearly identical as the one on the angel's lips. How odd – if far from the oddest thing about this whole thing. All of this is incredibly strange.

Ezio looks nervously over the mess of golden feathers over the man's back, now so badly ruffled they're nearly unrecognizable. They are still stained with the angel's blood – it is now drying, turning dark and tacky. Uneasy Ezio turns away, checking the cabin – there, a pail and cloth for washing. Pouring half of his water skin into the pail, Ezio then sits down beside the angel and for a moment hesitates.

Well, of all the sacrilegious acts he's performed today, mortal combat with the Pope and séances with ancient pagan Gods, and then stealing away with subject of scripture of all things… surely this is the least thing from a sin.

Shaking his head, he dips the cloth in the water and then eases his fingers into the feathers – and slowly begins cleaning the blood off.

The water in the pail is turned red by the time there is knock on the door. "Ezio, it's me," Mario says. "We're well on our way from Rome – with good wind at our back, at that. With luck we'll reach Florence tomorrow evening."

"That is good news, Uncle," Ezio says, hesitating with the bloodstained rag. Then he sets it down and gets up, to open the door which he'd barred. After checking that there is no one outside but Mario, he holds the door open. "Come in and see what we rescued."

"What we rescued, Nephew?" Mario asks, frowning, and steps inside. Then he sees what lies on the cot, sees the array of half cleaned feathers, their metallic gleam in the sunlight screening through the dirty porthole, and stops in shock.

Ezio closes the door and bars it again. "Uncle, I have quite the story to tell," Ezio says grimly, and sits back down to continue his task of brushing the golden feathers clean.

It's a short story made longer by the sheer disbelief it sparks – not only in Mario but in Ezio too. He lived through it all, he has the proof right there and still it feels like a fantasy, a story someone might have come up to make a maiden swoon – or church gathering fear. To rescue a wounded angel, that is an anecdote to be shared between amazed believers, not by heretics like them.

Not gods, Minerva had said, they simply came before – and yet…

"Maybe people like this Desmond also came before," Mario says.

Ezio shakes his head. "I couldn't tell. It was all so strange, Uncle," he says and frowns. "She was young and beautiful at first, but then it was as if decades passed for her in minutes and then she was an old woman. It was as if time itself twisted around her, and the way they spoke of it…"

"Perhaps for Gods time isn't quite as unbending and unforgiving as it is for us," Mario mutters and runs a hand through his greying hair. "And what of this Eye? What was it, did you see it?"

Ezio shakes his head. "No, there was only him – and the Apple of Eden, of course, which I think she used to bring him here," he says and takes the said Apple out of his satchel. It lights up in his hand and he winces – but there is no drain this time, the Apple doesn't pulse.

It does however shine – and where its glow falls on the angel he shines in turn. Under his skin and across the golden feathers shining yellow fractals bloom, like there is metal under the thin veneer of his skin and it reflects the Apple's light only.

For a moment Ezio and Mario stare at the flicker of light on the man's skin and feathers – then, shuddering, Ezio puts the Apple away again. "We are dealing with things now that go far beyond my understanding, Uncle," he admits uneasily.

"Mine as well," Mario agrees, grim. "But our kind has had dealings with these artefacts before – and if the Goddess Minerva herself tasked you with the care of this heavenly creature, then care for him we must. We will take him to Monteriggioni and see what becomes of it then."

Ezio nods slowly. "Yes, of course," he says and then hangs his head. "I did not kill him. Rodrigo Borgia – he got away."

Mario sighs at that. "I see," he says. "Well, so as long as he did not gain a weapon from the temple, we are still good. And he lost the Staff, which might be considered a victory at least."

"I doubt Machiavelli will see it like that."

"He will agree that getting the angel away from the Templars takes priority," Mario says and lays a heavy hand on Ezio's shoulder. "You did well, Nephew. Better than many others might have, in your place. And perhaps the mercy you showed to Rodrigo is the reason you were given this task – perhaps it was a test to prove your worth. Who can tell?"

Ezio rather doubts it had anything to do with this – if Minerva even knew of Rodrigo Borgia's existence, she certainly didn't mention it. But it's a nice way of looking at it. "Who can tell," Ezio agrees.

Mario nods and then stands. "I will go speak to the captain, see if we might muster up some more speed. With cargo like this, I'd like us out of these waters and beyond the reach of the Papal forces sooner, rather than later."

"As would I," Ezio nods. "Thank you, Uncle."

"Send a word if he wakes," Mario says, squeezes his shoulder again, and then leaves. Ezio rises to lock the door after him and then sinks back down to sit beside the angel, sighing.

What a task to be given, what a terrible task.

"I am an Assassin," Ezio murmurs to the angel. "How can anyone trust me to protect a creature of heavens?"

If that even is what this creature is. If ancient gods chalk themselves up as those who simply came before then perhaps there is no divinity to be found in angels, either, just misunderstanding so ancient it's become myth and scripture. The man's clothes are material enough, if strange, and his blood is as red as Ezio's own. His clothes tear, just the same, and have torn, badly, around the wings on his back.

Ezio examines the torn edge of the white cloth, under which there is thinner black shirt – also torn. The weave of the white cloth is…unusual, but the black cloth is more familiar, something one might have made on a normal loom. Their seams are strange, the stitching overly complicated and then there is the strange fastening at the front, though it's hard to see now – he set the angel lying on his stomach, to avoid putting weight on the wounds.

The shoes the angel wears are certainly beyond this world. Or perhaps… time.

Ezio sets that thought aside for further contemplation and continues his examination – and finds something he definitely did not expect. First, large tattoo on the man's left arm, which wraps around the entire length and forms a sort of face from spirals and curls. A female face, artistically stylised – Minerva's? And then, on his right arm…

An Assassin's hidden blade.

"What is going on here?" Ezio asks helplessly. "What are you?"

The angel, of course, has no answer to give.

Chapter Text

At Ezio's behest, they are let off the ship outside the actual harbour that is it's destination. The ship takes thus anchor by a stretch of empty shoreline, where it sits until they manage to procure a cart from a nearby village to transport the angel with. It would be the only way to get the angel to Monteriggioni safe and unseen – in a hay cart, covered up and thus out of sight.

The angel has yet to wake, remaining utterly lost to the world for the entire duration of the short ocean voyage. Though Mario had at one point suggested using smelling salts on the angel to bring him to, Ezio had in the end decided against it. Considering the damage to the wing joints, though the bleeding has at least stopped, the creature seems to need it's rest. As it is, he doesn't feel like waking the angel until they were in better conditions, and much safer.

If the angel should object to his treatment, a small little merchant sloop would be a very bad place to have to bear the brunt of it.

"Nephew, the longboat is ready," Mario says, coming to his cabin door with a length of sailcloth hanging from his arm. "Here – something to wrap him with."

"Thank you, Uncle," Ezio says, looking the cloth over and then sighing. Getting the angel down from a ship to a longboat would be trickier than carrying him in from a pier had been – his robe would be nowhere enough to hide the splendour of the angel's wings. Wrapping him fully would have to be done.

It would make him look like a dead body, in all likelihood. Maybe it would be better that way though – assassins transporting a corpse was much more in line with their work than what was actually going on. And far less likely to rouse suspicion and promote questions, ironically enough.

So, Ezio binds the angels wings again, carefully folding them into the man's back and tying his sash as gently around them as he may, before spreading the sailcloth over the man and then fastening that in with ropes, trying desperately not make it too tight. The angel makes for a very ugly and misshapen burden, with the wings covered, and it fills Ezio with strange sort of misery to do this to him. It feels wrong.

It gets them out of the ship without comment though, the captain carefully looking away even as the deckhands stare with great interest – there'd be mutterings among them, but the captain was paid well enough to silence those. Some rumours might spread, but there'd be nothing to be done about that. Sailors gossip worse than old women.

So as long as those stories fell nowhere near the truth in their target of speculation, Ezio didn't care.

Mario accepts the angel down to the boat waiting for them in the water line, and the sailors on it quickly row them to the shore, where the hay cart waits. That is the end of it – the moment Ezio and Mario are off the boat, it turns tail and returns to the sloop, which is already weighing anchor and loosening sail. In no time at all, it would be gone and that would be that.

Still, Ezio makes sure to get the nearby bushes and trees between them and the ship as he lies the angel down and quickly loosens the sailcloth around him. Still unconscious – still breathing.

"We won't make it to Monteriggioni before nightfall," Mario says, while quickly climbing onto the cart to shift the hay it's filled around carefully, to make a space. Then he spreads out a blanket among it, making a sort fold in it "Better aim for a place where can weather the night."

"Yes – but nowhere populated," Ezio sighs and gathers the angel up again, looking down on him. He can't say if the angel looks better or worse as far as his complexion goes – the creature is slightly darker in tone than they are – but his breathing is easier.

Carefully he eases the angel into the fold in the blanket, and together with Mario they arrange the hay around him carefully – not so much as to put weight on him, just cover him.

Soon after that, they're on their way, Mario taking reins while Ezio peers around with Sight to make sure they have no followers. No one could possibly know they are here but…

"You will have to decide what to do with him once we make it home," Mario says. "Should we empty the mansion? The help gossips, the word would get out of him to the rest of the fortress within the hour."

"It would," Ezio agrees, pushing his hood back and running his hands through his hair. It feels grimy under his fingers – a bath would not go amiss. "Might be best we do empty it – or at least the section of it where he is. The fewer people see him, the better."

"And once he wakes?"

Ezio shakes his head. "There's no knowing what'll happen then," he admits. "What he will think or do. No point planning for something impossible to predict – for now, I just want to get him somewhere safe and do what Minerva asked of me – care for him. I can't think of anything else."

"I can't imagine the burden of it," Mario snorts. "Requests from gods. It's a strange world we live in, Nephew."

"And it's likely to only get stranger," Ezio agrees, glancing behind them and at the hay where the angel is hidden.

They make their way through the winding paths of the western countryside of Florence until it grows too dark to continue safely. Ezio scouts a little ahead then, to find them a place to stay – and finds it in form of what looks like rundown farmhouse, with a bent roof and weather worn stables and barns, all of them abandoned. It looks like once upon a time war had moved over the region, ruined what was there and left the rest to fallow – no one has stayed in the place in years.

It would shelter them for the night

Mario settles the cart in the shadow of the rundown barn house and takes a moment to tend to the horses and feed them while Ezio checks the house. It's far too water damaged and rundown to be called livable and he loathes to stay in such a place – but it is in better state than rest of the farmstead's buildings and little less likely to collapse on them. So, once he's made sure there would be no surprises waiting for them inside, he goes to recover the angel once more.

Still unconscious – still breathing.

"Safe to build up a fire, do you think?" Ezio asks while Mario examines the fireplace in the best preserved room of the house – the sitting room. It has no windows which had preserved it from the elements, it looks like.

"I wouldn't risk it – doubt the chimney is viable anymore at any rate," Mario says, rubbing his hands together. "It's going to be a cold night."

"Better indoors than out," Ezio says, and settles the angel to the floor, with his cape for a pillow. There is hay sticking out of the man's hair and wings now, and after moment of hesitation, Ezio crouches down to clean them again, picking the hay from between feathers and flicking it aside.

Mario takes seat in a worn down old armchair and sighs. "It really had an impact on you, what you saw," he comments.

Smoothing down one bent feather between his fingers, Ezio shakes his head. "Wouldn't it startle anyone?" he mutters and then sits back on the floor with a sigh. "Lord, I'm tired," he mutters and rubs at his neck. He's still stinging from the fight too – though he'd came out of it without spilling his own blood, Rodrigo Borgia had not gone easy on him.

Mario looks at him over and then leans back, taking out his sword and examining it's blade. "Sleep, Nephew," he says. "I'll take the night's watch."

"You sure, Uncle?"

"I got some sleep on the ship and you look like you need it," the elder Assassin says and then takes out a rag to clean his sword with. "I'll wake you if something happens."

Ezio doesn't bother objecting – though he could have and has stayed up for days on end, he's not in his twenties anymore, and Mario is far more stubborn than he is. It's not worth arguing at any rare – and he is tired.

So, with a sigh, he lays down on the floor beside the angel, and does his best to get some rest. He'd need it for tomorrow, when they returned to Monteriggioni. His sister and mother were waiting – and so would no doubt most of the Assassins, eager to hear of what occurred in Rome. It would be one hell of a report to make.

Ezio wakens from uneasy dreams of godly visions of bleeding angels to the feel of light on his face. Sunlight, he thinks at first, he must be facing towards window – but no, that isn't it, can't be it. With Assassin's alertness he knows the room he is in has no windows. And yet, there is light, golden light, shining to his face.

Ezio snaps his eyes open and then scrambles up and to his knees. It all crashes back down on him with the weight of a landslide – Rome, Rodrigo, Minerva, and their getaway from the Vatican – and all of it is inconsequential because beside him, the angel is glowing.

He's glowing.

Flashes of light radiate out through the golden feathers and light flickers over the man's skin, like reflection on a blade. It's moving, the light, roaming through the man's now tightly wound-up form and flashing out here and there, casting sharp beams of light through the room.

"What is – " Mario starts to ask, waking up from what looks like a light doze, but Ezio hardly cares, he is too busy staring.

The angel is awake and obviously in pain, his body shuddering as he curls in on himself, his knees bending to his chest and his fingers clawing at his head, groaning. The light radiating from him has a sound, a terribly familiar sound – that strange rising tone that like nothing any earthly thing can make. Ezio knows it – it's the same sound the Apple of Eden makes, right before –

"Mario – run," Ezio says, scrambling to his feet. "Run!"

The angel's eyes open, shining from under his brows with liquid golden light – Ezio thinks he sees his eyes widen with shock, realisation, maybe horror – then the angel keens and twists, pressing his forehead to the wooden floor and clawing at his head. His jaw works, Ezio can almost hear him groaning, "No, no, no," as he light builds – the terrible sound climbs and then –

They don't get out of the room in time before the build up of power reaches crescendo – and explodes. Mario is caught by the doorway, Ezio step behind him – and then the light lashes out throughout the room, lashing at the walls with whips of molten heat and breaking through them.

Around them, everything ripples like reflection on water's surface or a heat mirage, waving like suddenly world had turned liquid all around them. Moment later it is as if a rock had been thrown into the surface of the world – and it splashes and breaks.

Ezio falls, flailing for something to hold onto – for a moment he's terrified he's going to fall through the world itself and into some unfathomable abyss that exists under the thin veneer of what your eyes can see. There is nothing there, nothing under his feet, no floor to catch him, and if he falls –

And then, with a sharp grinding noise like shattered glass being put together, everything… rebuilds itself. Suddenly, the floor is back there, spreading out in a flash under his feet just to catch him as he collapses down onto his knees. Mario falls first through nothing – then the doorway is back where it was, and he catches a hold of it. Light runs through the building, and walls reconstruct themselves, the ceiling grows above them piece by piece and like a child's puzzle, the house comes together, bit by bit.

Only it's different now.

No longer run down and smelling like damp wood, the house is renewed. The floor is smooth with fresh polish, and the paint on walls is vivid and bright like it had only dried. Out in the corridor, the carpet is suddenly new and clean and beyond it the windows are repaired, their windowsills once more whole and smooth. Suddenly, everything looks new.

Ezio gasps for air that tastes like metal dust and then whirls around to look at the angel. The angel is panting against a new carpet under him, clawing at it with convulsing fingers and behind him the fireplace is as if new, with nary smoke stain on it. It even has a set of fresh logs set within it, ready to be lit. The unnatural light is gone – it's last flickers running through the golden feathers before sinking in beneath them and disappearing.

"God almighty in Heaven," Mario whispers.

The grinding sound of glass is gone, and everything is solid once more. And around them the whole house has been made anew.

Ezio's jaw works for a moment, as he tries to speak and can come up with nothing to actually say. Every hair on his skin is standing on its end and his whole body is shuddering with what feels like horror, only he isn't afraid. It's too much for fear.

The angel groans and falls flat on the floor, still panting for breath, trying to push himself up again and failing, leaving him writhing weakly on the floor.

Slowly, Ezio stands up – testing the floor under him just in case it will become liquid again. It remains solid – it feels more solid than before, really, it feels like best of hardwood, perfectly cared and maintained.

"Nephew –" Mario says warningly, as Ezio takes first tentative step towards the angel. Ezio waves a hand at him to be quiet and then takes another step-

The angel turns his head, grinding his short hair against the new carpet and then gives up his struggle against gravity. His body falls lax, the shuddering wings spread limply over him and he just breathes against the floor, staring at Ezio one eyed and weary.

"Thank god, you're alright," the angel murmurs – which is far from what Ezio expected to hear.

"I – my lord –" Ezio tries to say, but he doesn't know what to say, doesn't know to how to even being formulating some sort of understanding. "Are you…?"

The angel just sighs and closes his eyes, his breathing still heavy but slowly growing easier. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry – I'm sorry –"

Ezio throws a desperately confused look at Mario, who looks just as confused as he feels. Mario slowly straightens himself by the doorway and then clears his throat. "I – I'll go see how far it reached," he says, blinking, staring at the angel. Then he turns and stumbles off, his face pale and eyes wide.

Ezio turns his eyes back to the angel and then, slowly, kneels down beside him. "Are you… alright?" he asks helplessly, his fingers convulsing – but he daren't touch, not anymore.

"Give me a moment," the angel sighs. "That – took a lot out of me."

Ezio feels the most ludicrous urge to laugh at that, hysterically and loudly. Around them decades have been stripped off the farmhouse – the angel had performed a miracle. "Why?" Ezio asks, helplessly confused, as he stares at the walls. There's even paintings on the walls now – they too look new.

The angel doesn't answer, only closes his eyes and just breathes, still heavy but slower now. Ezio waits warily, throwing uneasy glances around them in the room, until the angel's breathing slows down further and it becomes obvious – the man has fallen asleep.

Ezio barely dares to breathe for the fear of waking him up again.

By the time Mario comes back, Ezio's knees are starting to ache, and the shock has settled enough for his hands to start and also stop shaking. Mario peers in carefully and then steps in, quiet as a cat despite his heavy boots. "It's the whole house," he says quietly. "The whole house has been remade."

Ezio swallows and then, very carefully stands up and backs away from the sleeping angel. "How visible do you think it was?"

"If that light shone throughout the whole place – very," Mario says grimly. "It's getting light outside, half an hour to sunrise, I think – but it's nowhere light enough to hide that."

Ezio glances down to the hall, to the newly repaired window there – it is getting lighter outside. Maybe even light enough to travel.

"We need to move before anyone comes to investigate," Mario says, looking around them nervously. "Do you think he…" he trails off, glancing at the angel with new unease.

Ezio doesn't blame him – the idea of moving the angel now, knowing what he is capable of… "You're right, we need to move," Ezio murmurs and looks away, at the house around them. "The house…"

Anyone who would see it would know something unnatural happened there. If they get away before anyone comes to investigate, the chances of it being linked to them are small, but it is still event easily strange enough garner attention, suspicion – and should someone start throwing the word miracle around, and it's very likely… church intervention will become very real possibility.

And church would bring with it the Templars – who would only need a rumour to know that something more than the powers of men were involved.

Ezio looks at newly created curtains by the windows, and wonders idly how flammable they might be. If they burn the house… all of it would become a moot point. There'd be no investigation of there'd be nothing to investigate – and thus, no Templars on their tail.

But… the angel had remade the place, using unknown powers to do it. He'd all but re-created the place. What would he think, what would he do if Ezio now went and destroyed what he'd just created?

Ezio swallows and looks to Mario. "Bring the cart around," he says grimly. "Let's get out of here."

"And the house?" Mario asks warily.

Ezio grits his teeth and shakes his head. "We'll leave it," he says. "I don't dare to do anything to it, not… we'll leave it."

Mario casts a look at the angel and then nods, and leaves – leaving Ezio, again, alone with the angel. Ezio takes a moment to steel himself and then turns to face the being on the floor by the renewed fireplace. He looks deceptively human again, his metallic wings aside – he looks weak and vulnerable. Somehow, it makes the whole event seem worse.

It takes Ezio a moment, before he dares to go to the angel – and a moment longer before he dares to touch him again. The angel doesn't stir, though, his breathing is even and heavy in sleep now, his wings drooping as Ezio carefully gathers him up and to his arms. It's bit more awkward this time, but… Ezio no longer dares to simply throw him over his shoulder.

So, with the loose wings trailing on the floor, Ezio carries him out, through the impossible house and finally out, down the steps of the freshly repaired porch and towards the cart as Mario brings it in. It is nerve wrecking to ease the angel into the hay again, but it must be done.

"Let's go," Ezio says, hopping onto the cart to sit beside Mario, who nods and lashes with the reins – and then they're on the move again. Few more hours until Monteriggioni.

What on earth are they going to do with the angel once there?

Monteriggioni has always been a source of conflicting emotions for Ezio. It is home but at the same time it isn't and never will be. "Home" is a concept lost in time, it's innocent of a seventeen year old layabout and days happier and brighter than he's known since that fateful day, when the very world was pulled from under him. And Monteriggioni, for all it's new splendour and comfort, is a very poor second to that memory, that safety and happiness, lost along with the old Auditore Palazzo.

Still the Villa in Monteriggioni is as much a home as man like Ezio thinks he can have – one he'd even hoped he could perhaps even settle down in, finally, with Rodrigo Borgia gone and the Templar threat and all their plots thwarted. It had been a vague and distant dream; of hanging out his robes to dry and setting his armour on a stand instead, and leaving behind the burdens of an Assassin and finding what comfort he can behind the fortress walls. Perhaps even have a family and for a while forget his bloodstained life.

Wouldn't that be something?

It had been a comforting thought when hiding in sewers or risking sleep in the back of an alleyway, when the rain poured down on him and a swig from a stolen bottle could hardly keep him warm. Home and hearth and comfortable bed. What more can you ask?

Only his home comes with the shreds of his family – a sister forced to isolation by the disgrace of their family and mother drawn wan and distant by now over two decades of mourning. Seeing them is as much a pain as it is a pleasure and sometimes it is too much for Ezio to handle. Sometimes, for all his strength, he isn't strong enough to face it.

And it hardly helps that usually when he returns, he brings little more than trouble and bad news with him, life of an Assassin being what is is.

So it is often with feeling of mingled relief and dread he returns there – only now it is more so. Now, he is bringing bad news and something infinitely worse.

Before bringing the angel to the Auditore Villa had been matter of security and protection – it was the only place he could think where the angel would be safe. Now he fears what it is that he's bringing. Their doom? With what had happened at the farmhouse…

The angel still sleeps – but for how long, and would another explosion of impossibility follow his awakening?

"Here," Mario says and hands him the reins. "I'll run ahead and arrange a sedan chair, or if I can't find it then at least a stretcher, to carry him up to the villa. Drive the cart to the bottom of the stairs – I'll meet you there."

"Yes, Uncle," Ezio says, and takes the reins as Mario hops down from the cart. "Make it a curtained one," Ezio adds and watches his uncle hurry ahead.

He can see the confusion on the stablehand's face when the man sees them – usually they arrive on horseback, not on a cart – but the man bids them a cheerful welcome home, asking, "Do you want me to take the cart, Ser Ezio?"

"No, I have to get what's on it to the Villa – come and fetch the cart in an hour or so," Ezio says.

"Er, right, of course," the stablehand answers, giving an odd look at the cart – which as far as he knows has only hay on it. "I'll do that, then."

Ezio nods and then urges the horse in and through the gates of the fortress.

Normally he'd get a small sense of pride, entering Monteriggioni after period of absence. The place had been all but rebuilt in the last twenty years, and it's not far different from what it looked like when he first entered it, a boy of seventeen and fresh in his mourning. There are nearly five times as many people in the town now, and more businesses are running as well – the blacksmith has expanded, they now have a proper doctor in the town, the art shop is busy at work… they even have a brothel, which for such a small commune is rather grandiose. The people seem happy, they walk the streets easily and without fear.

It was his money that rebuild the place – his work. It's only just he feels proud.

Now he can't spare more than a nod and few words to the people greeting him – so distracted he is with the burden the hay cart bears.

The short trip from the gates to the foot of the Villa's stairs seems impossibly long, and every encounter seems to make it slower. He's unspeakably relieved to find Mario waiting there with La Volpe – and a stretcher, with a heavy sheet draped over it.

"La Volpe, this is a surprise," Ezio says, while pulling the cart to a stall in front of them. "It's not often you're seen in Monteriggioni."

"Considering the recent events, it shouldn't be so surprising," La Volpe says, peering at him curiously from under his hood. He casts a look at the hay cart. "This is a strange look for triumphant return," he comments, and his tone is sarcastically knowing.

Ezio sets the reins down and then gets up. "Word has reached you already then?"

La Volpe inclines his head, smiling wryly. "Machiavelli doesn't know yet – I will leave the pleasure of informing him to you," he says. "I am curious though. Word has it you came away from the Vatican with – something. Assumption was that the something was Rodrigo Borgia, until the Pope attended mass, so what on earth could be…"

"Leave your curiosity for later," Ezio says and goes to check the hay, shifting it around enough to find a hand first, and then follow it to its owner. As light hits the angel's face, he jolts slightly and his brows twitch to a involuntary frown – he's on the brink of waking.

"Shh, please, stay asleep for a moment longer," Ezio whispers to him, terrified that the man might waken fully – and light up again, right there, in heart of the town. "It is safe, you are safe – please, sleep."

"Ezio?" the angel murmurs, his eyelids twitching and parting slightly, squinting against the light.

"Sleep, please," Ezio says, even as shiver of unease runs through his spine. The angel knows his name – knows him judging by the way he says it. "Please, it's safe. Don't wake up."

The angel peers at him sleepily for a moment, his eyes blessedly dark and not lit up. At his side Ezio can feel Mario, moving to block what he's doing from view – his body casts a shadow on the angel's face and he blinks.

"Sleep," Ezio begs him. "It's alright."

The angel blinks, glances away and then sighs. "If you say so," he murmurs blearily and closes his eyes. Ezio holds his breath and then lets it out shakily as the angel's breathing slows and he drifts off again.

"Nephew?" Mario whispers.

"Shush," Ezio answers. "Give it a moment."

With La Volpe looking in curiously, Ezio waits vigilantly  until he's sure the angel has fallen into a deeper sleep, and then moves to ease the man out of the shelter of the hay. There is no way to do it so that his wings don't show, but with the cart between them and most of the town, Ezio gets the angel down and lays him down on the stretcher as quick as he can, and Mario immediately covers the man in the sheet, hiding him and his wings under it.

It's not fast enough to keep La Volpe from seeing.

"Well now," the thief murmurs, his eyes wide. "I can tell there is an incredible story behind this one."

"La Volpe, my friend, you have no idea," Ezio mutters and with Mario he grabs the stretcher, slowly lifting it up. Together, they carry the angel up the stairs and finally into Auditore Villa.

Chapter Text

As much as he dislikes it and as much as it fills him with guilt… Ezio takes the angel to the sanctuary below the Villa. The sanctuary is secret enough that the servants probably don't know about it – or if they do, they at least know better than to talk about it or to go there. It's also deep enough that if something… strange occurred down there, probably wouldn't affect the Villa above, wouldn't damage it's foundations. At least, that is what Ezio hopes.

With Mario he sets up a divan down there, with pillows and blankets and other things for as much comfort as they can manage in the stone hall – they even set a table beside it, laden with dry fruits and a pitcher of rosewater, just in case. It still feels like meagre accommodations to offer to a creature of heaven – borderline prison. But what else can he do?

What remains of his family is up in the Villa itself – he can't risk Mother, Claudia, and their servants and guests. Never mind the fact that the Villa stands elevated from the town of Monteriggioni – should something unnatural occur, it would be seen throughout the village.

"He can speak, he can reason – so we can explain this to him and hope he understands," Mario says while Ezio carefully spreads a blanket over the angel's still form as it rests, wings splayed out, on the pillows. "We have only done what we think is for the best for everyone – surely a heavenly creature would find sympathy for that."

"Yes, surely," Ezio says – but how can they be sure? So far the angel has only been out of it, what little moments of consciousness he has had have been confused and bleary. Who knows what kind of man he really is, when in full control of his faculties.

"Nothing to it now but wait," Mario says and claps him on the shoulder. "Go, Nephew, go wash off your trip and then speak with the others. They must be eager for answers now."

"Yes," Ezio says, running his hands through his hair. It really is in terrible need of a wash – he still has the sweat from his battles through the Vatican and under the Sistine Chapel on his skin. "And I have less and less of them to give the more time passes."

"Then better start quickly, before the last of them fade," Mario says and then pulls up the armchair they'd brought in as well, sitting down on it with a sigh. "Go – I'll keep vigil in the meanwhile."

Ezio nods, looks over the angel one more time to make sure he is as comfortable as he can make him, and then he goes.

La Volpe had been kind enough to distract the others away from the office, to let Ezio and Mario carry their burden in without being hindered – they are there now, as he comes up the stairs and to the Villa proper. La Volpe stands by Paola and Teodora, talking with them quietly – and if it's strange to see La Volpe travel, to see them on the road and at Monteriggioni is almost beyond belief. Antonio is there also – he is talking with Leonardo and Machiavelli, their heads bent together. Claudia and Mother are standing by the wall where the Codex hangs in it's frame – judging by the way Mother stands, it's one of her better days.

They all turn when he enters and with something like grief Ezio realises all the windows are curtained, all the doors locked. The whole damn Brotherhood is present, and just when he'd like to see them the least. A bath would have to wait, then.

"Judging by your mode of arrival and the word that you came in, carrying something…" Machiavelli says. "I assume it is done then? You located the Vault – and the weapon Templars were seeking – before Rodrigo Borgia did?"

"I found the Vault, yes. It had no weapon," Ezio says, though considering the things the angel seems capable… one might see it differently. "Though to open it the Papal Staff and the Apple were both needed, and once done the Vault claimed the Papal Staff, so perhaps that is the origin of the belief – perhaps that is where it came from in the first place. The Apple I still have."

"I see," Machiavelli says. "And what did you find in the Vault, then?"

A message from gods, Ezio thinks and shakes his head. "I cannot begin to describe it. A moving painting that floated in air, woven from light, perhaps. She told me her name was Minerva and then she gave me an impossible vision – told me of a terrible tragedy that would come one day, how the Sun itself would burn the Earth –" he trails off and takes out a piece of paper he'd procured and written down during the ocean voyage. "I have written it down with as much accuracy as I could later remember, but most of it was complete nonsense to me. Leonardo –"

"Yes, please, let me see," Leonardo says, quickly stepping forward and sitting down to read it, Machiavelli and Teodora not so subtly peering at the page over his shoulder. Leonardo takes no time at all to read it in full. "The accounting ends in the middle – is there more?" he asks, lifting his head.

"No, that is where she stopped – as if interrupted, halting her speech mid-sentence. She said something had changed – and then she… stopped. I waited for good ten minutes, until she spoke again, and as she did, she changed," Ezio says, running a hand through his hair and then telling the rest of it.

And then he gets to the angel, and understanding begins dawn on many faces – they might have yet to see the angel, but they must have seen them carry the stretcher, guess that it housed on it a body.

"And you brought this being here?" Machiavelli asks, stroking his chin.

"An angel," Maria Auditore whispers. "God in Heaven…"

"Ezio," Teodora asks, stepping forward. "Are you sure of this?"

"I am not finished with the story," Ezio says quietly and looks at his hands. "It took care of his wounds and brought him with me when we escaped the Sistine Chapel – with Mario I took him through the sewers and to our ship and eventually away from Rome entirely. We made all speed to Florence, eventually disembarking near Livorno, after which we travelled in a cart. It was late and so had to shelter from the night at road and chose abandoned farmstead for it."

He stops there. Though he's been turning the event in his head, he can't begin to put it into words. Miracle in it's most devastating biblical sense, seems suitable – and even so, falls short of the actual horror of it.

"During the night, the angel awoke – and proved power," Ezio says to the attentive silence of the audience around him. "I cannot say how much of he intended, whether it was somehow instinctual on his part. It seemed uncontrolled. He took the rundown farmhouse – and he made it new." No, that is not suitable at all. "I can't describe it. It was as if world blended like paints on water and once it cleared, everything about the house was… different. New again."

The silence that follows his words is tense. Ezio looks up to see how much scepticism he's facing – but surprisingly, no one seems immediately doubtful. Just confused and alert, Machiavelli eying the pathway down the sanctuary while Maria is clasping a hand over her chest and Teodora has her hands clasped, as if in prayer. Leonardo is starting at the paper, his expression peculiar.

"Can we see him, Ezio?" Machiavelli finally asks.

Ezio hesitates, glancing at the pathway. "He sleeps and I daren't wake him," he admits.

"I think I have a right to it," Teodora says quietly and lowers her clasped hands. "My house might not be the most socially acceptable as houses of the Lord go, but I serve and I believe and I have Faith… something which I know cannot be said of all of us here."

"Teodora, so harsh," Leonardo murmurs.

She smiles faintly. "I mean no judgement," she says and looks to Ezio. "I will go quietly and I will not disturb him. Please."

Ezio draws a breath and then nods. "Yes, of course, Sister Teodora – go right ahead," he says and then watches warily as she heads for the stairs leading outwards. She's not a conventional nun, no – but she still is one, in her heart and beliefs. Maybe she will be stronger in face of the creature than he feels.

"This a most peculiar turn of events," Machiavelli murmurs. "And this Minerva – I assume you mean the Goddess of the ancients, Minerva?"

"She disclaimed the title," Ezio says, shaking his head. "I asked if she was, but she said that no, she wasn't god – her people simply came before, that they were more… advanced in time."

"If what I can discern from this is accurate, it is likely her people were the ones to create the Apple of Eden, the Staff as well," Leonardo says, waving the paper Ezio had written lightly. "It would make sense, for the Apple to fit the Staff and for the Staff to serve as Key to their vault."

"I'll leave the reasoning of it gladly to you, Leonardo," Ezio says with a quiet laugh and leans back. "I'm afraid I haven't the wits for it." And what wits he had, he's found him at their very end at this point.

"This is incredible," Claudia murmurs. "An angel. An angel here, in Monteriggioni!"

"Did you learn of his name, Son?" Maria asks quietly.

Ezio nods. "Minerva called him Desmond," he says and frowns. "She spoke to him before he was even there, called to him – before she used the Apple to do whatever it was, she said… I anchored him."

Leonardo looks up. "Anchored?" he asks.

"I don't know what she meant by it, but she did say she wasn't speaking to me, but through me," Ezio admits and sighs. "To him, I suppose, to the angel. I don't understand it, Leonardo, I don't understand any of this."

"Anchoring him, speaking through you," Maria whispers, watching Ezio, her expression thoughtful and pained. "Perhaps he is your Guardian Angel, my son."

Ezio frowns at that. "I'm an Assassin," he mutters awkwardly. "Why would an Assassin be given a Guardian Angel?"

"It is not our nature or our titles that defines us, but our deeds and actions. Creature you might call evil in nature can do the kindest things, and it is the choice to do so that matters," Teodora says, coming up the stairs once more, her hands clasped together again. They all turn to him and she nods her head slowly. "Ezio speaks the truth – he is an angel."

Sigh runs through the room, heavy and shocked. Leonardo strokes a hand over his beard, looking away while Maria makes the sign of the cross with a muttered prayer and even Claudia, never the most religious one in their family, murmurs what sounds like half a prayer.

Antonio looks between them, his arms folded. "Divinity and theology aside," he says. "What does this mean for us, for the Assassins – and for our war against the Templars?"

For that, Ezio has no answer to give. And neither, it seems, has anyone else. "Right now I'm just happier knowing he's here, and not in Templar hands," Ezio mutters and stands up with a sigh.

"Yes, that can only be for the better," Machiavelli agrees grimly. "Tell me, how did it end with Rodrigo Borgia? Did he make promises before the end, did he offer you power, wealth?"

Ezio frowns and then realises – he hasn't admitted to that failing yet. And he has no energy left to make excuses. "I let him live," he says simply.

"The Spaniard lives?" Machiavelli demands, stepping closer to him. "You let him live?"

"Yes, I let him live," Ezio agrees. "I left him in the fore chamber of the vault when I went inside and by the time I came out, he was gone."

"He also held a mass just the following morning," La Volpe comments. "I got the pigeon about it just before Ezio arrived – had he not arrived I would've been inclined to believe he failed and died in the attempt."

"Your confidence in me astounds me, La Volpe, truly," Ezio mutters and the Thief inclines his head, amused.

Machiavelli scoffs at them. "Do not make light of this," he snaps and looks to Ezio. "You should have killed him – we're sure to pay for it. Especially now, with what you have brought. Did anyone see you escape with the angel – do the Templars know about him, does the Church?"

"There was no hiding him during our escape, but I did my best to cover his wings. I don't think anyone saw, or realised what he truly was," Ezio says. "In the confusion I doubt anyone was truly looking for proof of angels."

"But they know you brought something from the vault, and like us they thought the vault housed a weapon," Machiavelli says flatly. "And do they know you have the Apple?"

Ezio smothers a sigh. "It's likely," he admits.

"And so they will come for that, if not for him," Machiavelli mutters, waving a hand at the entrance to the hideout. "You should have killed the Spaniard, Ezio, I can't imagine what you were thinking."

Ezio had been thinking that he was tired of murder, but he doesn't say that out loud. "What is done is done, Machiavelli, words can't make it otherwise now," Ezio says and looks away. "There is still much to discuss and likely more once the angel wakens. There is a new future for us to consider."

Machiavelli eyes him and then looks away. "That task was entrusted to you," he says. "Not to the rest of us, and angels and ancient gods aside, we still have work. I will be heading straight for Rome to see what the fallout from this will be."

"If you feel it necessary," Ezio mutters.

"You won't even stay to speak to the angel?" Teodora asks.

Machiavelli hesitates. "I will travel tomorrow," he decides and then whirls on his heel and walks off.

"Well that was dramatic," Antonio says and comes to Ezio's side, clapping him on the shoulder. "Never a boring moment with you, my friend. I will stay also, but I cannot for long – do you think your angel will wake today?"

"It's likely," Ezio admits and looks at the others. "I imagine all of you are staying also, to meet him?"

"Of course," Paola says calmly. "It is not everyday you meet a divine being. But Ezio – you fear him," she says, perceptive as always, and the others turn to look. "Why is that?"

Ezio swallows and shakes his head. "He is very powerful," he says quietly. "Powerful beyond my understanding. And I am not sure it is a power he is in full control of."

Ezio does get his bath in the end, though it is a rushed and not quite as enjoyable as one might wish after long journey. It is pleasure to get out of his armour at least, to send his weapons to the smith to be tended to before doing his best to clean off the grime of travel – but he cannot relax. The thought keeps nagging at him – he is not where he should be.

So his bathing is somewhat hurried and he is already drying off and pulling on a clean shirt when there is a knock at his door. "Ezio," it's Claudia, judging by the voice. "Mario calls for you – the angel is awake."

Ezio swallows. "Thank you, Sister," he says and quickly urns to finish dressing up, pulling on fresh set of breeches– and then, after moment of hesitation, grabbing his still travel dirty robe and pulling that on as well. It is a little more ceremonious than appearing in his shirt sleeves alone, he muses and gets his sash and belt as well, before pulling on cleaner pair of boots.

Claudia is still waiting for him outside his room when he steps out. "Sister," Ezio greets him.

"An angel, Brother," Claudia says, full of confused meaning. "You must take care – Mother is… she is thinking of things."

"What sort of things?" Ezio asks quietly as they head for the stairs.

"She's been mumbling of guardian angels and leafing through her bible again. She is praying now," Claudia says and closes her eyes. "And I can guess what she might be thinking. Why, if you have an angel at your side… why the rest of us do not."

Ezio swallows. "Claudia, I don't think he's an guardian angel," he murmurs. "At this point, I'm not sure such a thing exists, or ever has."

Claudia sighs. "I don't have the patience or the heart for this," she murmurs wretchedly. "Just take care about what you say about him to Mother, whatever he is – and if she wants to see him… I don't know."

Ezio nods slowly and looks ahead. "I'll… keep that in mind." Not that he was that comfortable with the idea of Mother approaching the angel in the first place – though before that had less to do with her ailing spirit and more to do with the danger the angel represented. Perhaps both had their own horrible merit.

Together they head down stairs and while Claudia goes the other way – to attend to Mother most likely – Ezio heads for the office. Mario isn't there – Leonardo is, standing by the wall where the Codex pages hang, peering up at them.

"My friend," Ezio greets him.

"Ezio," Leonardo nods and smiles. "You look refreshed."

"I don't feel it, yet," Ezio admits with a sigh. "It has been an increasingly long few days, I have to admit."

"I can only imagine," Leonardo says and looks down, at the page in his hand – the one Ezio had written. He hands it over. "I think I should perhaps find other accommodations in Monteriggioni, if you still need my services here."

Ezio blinks. "What – why? Has someone said something – was it Teodora's remark? I doubt she was truly judging you, Leonardo and even if she was, you know you are always welcome here –"

Leonardo smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "It's not that," he says and looks at the Codex. "You know I break more than few laws of the Church," he says. "With my studies and my thoughts and my interests… Your house has become one of angels, my friend. How does a heretic like me belong?"

Ezio grabs him by the shoulder, turning Leonardo to face him. "Leonardo, my friend – I have lost count of the lives I've taken, and ruined," he says quietly. "Nothing about the commandments forbids strange studies or interests – or thoughts. It does forbid murder, however. There is no devil in this house worse than me."

Leonardo snorts at that, shaking his head. "You do it for a good cause," he says. "My infractions are ones of selfishness and greed and pride."

"And yet they hurt no one else," Ezio reminds him, looking at his face. Then he admits, quiet and guilty, "I… don't tell this to Teodora, but I don't… think religion has much to do with all of this, anyway."

"Ezio?" Leonardo asks, frowning.

"Minerva disclaimed the title of god," Ezio says and shakes his head. "And when a god who claims she is not one conjures an angel, I… there was a moment there, when I thought how a misconception might have become myth and legend and eventually scripture. Who knows how old these beings are, who knows how far back their stories reach. How those stories might have been changed over the years?"

Leonardo blinks at him. "I did… wonder about that myself," he admits. "The Apple of Eden is a device and if a device is the origin of the tale of Eden, then how much has the tale changed in the telling, for the device to become edible at some point? And if the Apple of Eden is a device, then… what was the garden like?"

Ezio shakes his head in wonder. "This is why I need you here," he says. "Why you belong, more so than many others. So please, no more talk of leaving. My home is yours for as long as you need it, Leonardo. Always."

Leonardo smiles at that and nods. "Yes, of course. Thank you, my friend."

Ezio clasps his shoulder comfortingly and then turns. "Now I'm sorry – I believe I am already late."

Leonardo nods and glances at the door to the sanctuary. "Good luck," he says, and with a nod, Ezio heads forth.

The way own has never felt shorter or longer than it does now.

Mario is up and by the stone baluster that stands between the way in and the main hall of the sanctuary, keeping a careful distance – and the angel is up and on his feet, standing in front of the statue of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, staring up at it. With his wings trailing the stone floor loosely and his white doublet still ragged and bloodstained at the back, he doesn't look precisely magnificent – but he does look completely otherworldly and alien standing there, winged and strange, in the heart of the Assassin Brotherhood.

Ezio clears his throat and while Mario quickly bows out, looking uneasy, the angel turns.

And oh, Ezio sees it now – the likeness, what he'd felt before but hadn't quite been able to put a name to. The angel's face had from the first reminded him of someone but he couldn't tell who – now, with the statue of Altaïr standing at the angel's back, looming over him, he sees it.

It's uncanny, how much they look alike.

"Ezio," the angel says, confused.

"My – my lord," Ezio says hesitantly and then goes around the baluster, to meet with the angel without it in the way. He has no idea what to say, what to do, but he has to say something. "At the behest of Minerva, I brought you here, to my home – you are in the fortress Monteriggioni, in the sanctuary under my family Villa."

The angel stares at him, and for a moment Ezio isn't sure the angel comprehends him. "You brought me here," he repeats then and looks away, frowning, lifting a hand and brushing it over his forehead. He shifts where he stands and then winces – looking down and to the wing that had swung somewhat limply to the forward, the feathers scraping against the floor.

"Are you – well?" Ezio says, helplessly scrabbling for something, anything, to latch onto. "You were injured when you – when you arrived. I bandaged your wounds as best I could but –"

The angel shakes his head, looking at his hands, spreading out his fingers and then clenching them to a fist, once, twice, as if testing they worked right. Then he looks down to the wing trailing the floor – and reaches to grab it.

A shiver of golden light runs through the abundance and unable to help himself, Ezio steps back, nervous. The angel, not noticing, lifts the wing manually by hand, grasping it by a joint and holding it up. He looks even more confused than before.

"What the hell is this," the angel murmurs – which is perhaps the last thing one might expect an angel to say.

"My lord –"

"What?" the angel snaps and looks up, frowning. A spark of gold runs down his face, from suddenly gleaming eye down his cheek like teardrop of light. "Why are you calling me that?"

Ezio opens his mouth, helpless, but isn't sure what to say. "What – what should I call you then?" he asks, confused and little nervous. There is more gold flickering under the angel's skin now – he can't hear it yet, but the angel is beginning to glow.

"I – my name," the angel says, growing quiet and confused again. "Just… just use my name. It's Desmond."

"Desmond," Ezio repeats slowly and warily.

Somehow that only makes the angel look more confused, shaking his head and turning away – and back to looking up and at Altaïr. Then he looks down at the wing again, and gives it a tug – and then hisses with pain. "What the fuck," he mutters and reaches back to touch the wing's joint, his fingers tangling in the bandages. "Ow – son of a – "

"My lo – Desmond," Ezio says helplessly. "Please, you were injured, don't – you'll make yourself bleed again –"

The angel hesitates at that and then laughs. "What the fuck is going on?" he chuckles incredulously and collapses to sit on the floor, tugging at the wings confusedly. "What is this, a mod? Rebecca, what the hell?"

There is more gold gleaming through the angel now, sparkling under his feathers like lightning, like golden fireworks – ready to burst out. The angel lets out a yelp and jerks his hands from the feathers, staring at the sparks of gold running down his palms and wrist.

"Oh?" he asks, lifting his hands to examine the flickers in confusion. Then his eyes widen as the light begins to pool on his palm, making his fingers shine through. There's a hum in the air, rising. "O-oh."

Ezio backs away a step and the angel looks up, his eyes shining with liquid golden light again. "Oh, I get it now," the angel whispers in horrified realisation as that unearthly note grows louder and Ezio turns and runs.

Behind him the light explodes again and the world blurs into void.

Chapter Text

The aftermath of the explosion is… strange. Not quite as striking as having a rundown, abandoned building suddenly return to a time long gone when it was freshly built and livable, but yet somehow it is worse.

The sanctuary is a mess. There is no other way to put it. The floor is cracked, the ceiling collapsed in places, and there is moss and vines growing on the walls. As if an age and a half had passed in seconds, the sanctuary goes from well-tended and pristine to old and decrepit – only the statues survive the devastation, but even on them new age shows.

But that is not all of it, not by far.

The sanctuary is now strewn with… things. Tables, chairs, some sort of odd pedding, those he can recognize. There are shelves too, made in terribly simple fashion from oddest of materials – metal and something that does not looks more like glass than wood but is neither – but what's on those shelves completely escapes his understanding. Angular things made of dark and grey material, like metal boxes but he can tell they're not. On the tables too there are strange things, angular ugly things he cannot begin to understand.

In the middle of the sanctuary there is a red chair, or a divan perhaps, its shape strange, an odd translucent cradle for the head on top. Beside there are more off things, a table laden with more strange things, like paintings or mirrors but dark and larger dark boxes with odd protrusions that do not seem to be for aesthetic reasons. Everywhere, strange smooth ropes run the floor. It's all very, very strange.

In the middle of it all there is the angel, sitting on his knees amidst all this odd devastation, hanging his head.

"I can't – I can't control it," the angel murmurs. "Shit."

Ezio teeters on the edge of staying and escaping. Again the change had run over him like water without substance – it had left him unchanged and by god he's grateful for that at least – but the result is hardly less startling because of it.

The angel lifts his head and draws a rattling breath. For a moment he just sits there, the golden wings – lightless once more – resting loose and limp on the floor. Then he turns his head, and Ezio stills in mid breath, under his gaze. His eyes are dark once more.

"I'm sorry," the angel says, sounding tired. "You should probably get out of here. I don't think I'm safe to be around right now."

"My lord – Desmond," Ezio says, wary, glancing around. "What is this?" It's really the only thing he can think to say or ask.

The angel lets out a sound that's half a sigh, half a laugh. "Hell if I know," he mutters and hangs his head again, leaning his hands onto his knees, his elbows straight. The wings at his back shudder and he slumps down. "Minerva turned me into a literal deus ex fucking machina. For a moment, I – I thought I understood it but –" he draws a rattling breath. "Shit," he mutters again.

Deus ex machina – god from the machine? Ezio frowns and then very carefully stays still as the angel sways forward and then to his feet, his wings flopping first forward and then back. A cold and hot shiver of fear runs through Ezio as the angel turns to face him and steps forward – but he is only going to the strange red seat in the middle of the room, sitting down on it, almost sitting on his wings in the process.

"There – there was a machine," the angel says, hanging his head down, scrubbing his fingers over his eyes. "A temple – the Grand Temple – where it was housed. It was supposed to save the world from the Sun – it was going to but, but they were betrayed. Minerva and Jupiter – Juno betrayed them. Plotted behind their backs. So Minerva, because she saw it coming, she went behind Juno's back and changed the machine so that Juno couldn't use it. And now the machine is me." The angel laughs, wretched and broken. "Now the machine is me," he repeats in faint whisper.

Ezio swallows. "And what does the machine do?" he asks, wary, glancing around them, at the odd items and tools and furniture strewn about. None of it looks like anything he's ever seen – even the chairs are alien, and how you can turn chair so strange, he has no idea.

The angel, Desmond, looks up. "It manipulates the universe," he says quiet and terrified. "And I can't fucking control it."

Ezio flinches as another flicker of gold shudders through the angel, raining like raindrops of fire down his wings. The angel, noticing what he's staring, looks down and lets out a hiss, grabbing at the wing, at the feathers – only making the flicker of light worse.

Then he looks up and to Ezio. "Run," he says – and Ezio runs.

Whatever happened below the ground in the sanctuary, Ezio is immensely relieved it has a limited range. There is length of strange ropes running up the stairs, odd mental platforms set on top of the steps to make the way up smooth – but at certain elevation they stop, withering to nothing until there is only normal stairs left. Above that arbitrary line, everything is as it was before – the sanctuary steps are new and untouched by age again.

And thank god, the villa itself is as it was, whole and perfect and unchanged.

"Ezio," Leonardo calls when he steps out of the secret entrance, itching to close it and lock it behind him. "We saw a flash of light – what happened down there?"

Mario is there also, looking nervous and pale.

"He – it happened, the light," Ezio says, and he can feel his hands shake as he turns to look at the entrance, down the stairs. Quick he squeezes his hands into fists. "He told me to run – it's going to happen again. He has no control over it."

"What happened?" Mario asks. "Did the sanctuary…?"

"It changed – it became… older, like an ancient ruin," Ezio says and shakes his head in confusion. "Things appeared, furniture and odd tools and things – I couldn't understand them, they were so strange."

Shakily he goes to the desk by the bookshelves and sinks to sit down, feeling shaky and strange. Still he keeps an eye on the entrance, waiting for the flash, wondering about how it would look up here – if it would reach here.

"Is he angry?" Mario asks warily.

"I don't – I don't know," Ezio admits and shakily runs his hands through his hair. "He was frustrated. Confused. Yes, maybe angry also." But he told Ezio to run, told him to get away – he wasn't looking to intentionally harm. "But I think if he could stop it, he would – only he can't. It looked like it happened on it's own."

"But what is it?" Leonardo asks, stroking his beard. "How does it work."

"I don't know, Leonardo, I doubt I would understand it even if I did," Ezio sighs and shakes his head again before telling them what little new information he learned, what little he understood about what the angel said. It's not much. "The effect stopped near the middle of the staircase – it doesn't reach this far, I think."

"Hmm," Leonardo answers, narrowing his eyes. "Deus ex machina, hm?"

And then there is a flash of golden light at the entrance to the sanctuary, faint at this distance but definitely noticeable. Ezio flinches, unable to help himself now – but whatever happens, he can't even hear the noise of it, not the destruction or the strange reconstruction. It doesn't reach this far.

It is still far too close for comfort.

"My god," Mario mutters, backing from the door slightly. "Is this going to keep happening, on and on? It didn't happen when he was asleep."

Ezio leans back a little, frowning. It didn't, no, he thinks. When the angel was asleep and when he was still unconscious, there had been no sign of the power. It only emerges when he's awake…

He looks to Mario who looks back – the thought occurs quietly, and horrifyingly. If it would be possible to knock the angel unconscious again, or force him to sleep.

Leonardo narrows his eyes at them. "If it only happens when he is awake, then it must be somehow tied to his conscious will," he muses, warily. "Which might indicate he can have control of it, but he does not know how."

"And in the meanwhile, he will periodically change things by this… this power," Mario says and runs hands over his face and up to his hair. "I haven't the spirit to understand this," he murmurs.

"Maybe there is something we can do to help," Leonardo offers. "Or maybe, maybe there is a way to direct the power, aim it like an arrow onto something harmless or – "

"Or maybe he should be simply be stopped," a new voice says as Machiavelli steps into the room. "Your voices carry," he says wryly. "And you aren't doing much to cover them – and your walls have ears. I think I chased your eavesdropping maids and menservants away, but you should take better care, Ezio."

Ezio grimaces, running a hand over his eyes. "Apologies," he mutters. "The event rattled me."

"Which is understandable," Mario says quickly, giving Machiavelli a look. "I went through it once – I'd rather not experience it again."

"Be that as it may," Machiavelli says flatly. "From what it sounds like, it is going to keep on happening unless something is done and this being is obviously dangerous."

"I will not kill him if that is what you're implying," Ezio says sharply. "Nor will I let anyone else try it either. Even if we could, I was tasked by Minerva to protect him and that is what I will do."

Machiavelli arches a brow. "And who is she to task Assassins with such missions? You said yourself she claimed to be no god. Why do her orders matter?"

"He is going to save the world from the same destruction that destroyed them," Ezio says through gritted teeth. "Would you risk it, just because he is troublesome now?"

"From what has been going so far, it's more than merely troublesome," Machiavelli says dryly and looks to the doorway. "He is dangerous – and in wrong hands, he might very well be a weapon."

"Well he isn't one now, and no one here will hurt him," Ezio snaps and stands up. "I will not stand by it. He is under my protection, Machiavelli, and that's end of it."

Machiavelli says nothing for a moment, eying him with a inscrutable expression. Then, after a moment, he looks to Mario. "And if you were given order by the Mentor of the Brotherhood, would your duty to a fake god eclipse it in importance?" he asks.

Mario folds his arms. "Right now the Mentor is perfectly satisfied with the course Ezio has taken," he says dryly. "We still don't know nearly enough to make decisions like that, Machiavelli. Dangerous or not, we must weather this and learn more, before we decide anything."

Ezio releases a breath while Machiavelli presses his lips tight together, looking displeased.

"Then I believe I will take my leave of Monteriggioni and head to Rome, to see what the Borgia are up to next," he says. "For I still aim to do my duty as an Assassin, rather as disciple of a god I do not believe in."

Ezio looks away at that but Mario only nods. "Go with the Brotherhood's blessings then," he says wryly. "Send word when you arrive."

Machiavelli nods, casting another glance at Ezio before turning heel, and walking off.

Ezio sighs and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Uncle, I don't mean to create a divide between us."

"You have not," Mario says and sighs. "Machiavelli will come around. You are not wrong to side with the angel, Nephew – it is important, probably more so than we think."

"But also dangerous, also probably more so than we think," Ezio sighs.

"It's likely," Mario agrees with a wry laugh and glances at the doorway. "But we're Assassins – it's not as if our lives are wrought with safety as it is."

Ezio lets out a small laugh at that, though it sounds mirthless even to his own ears. It's rather feeble excuse for this whole situation, for this terrible folly he's undertaken, and which he still cannot even understand. Lord help him.

At their side Leonardo looks between them, thoughtfully and curious, before turning to look to the entrance of the sanctuary. "What will we do about him, then?" he asks. "Only keep our distance and pray it stops?"

Ezio looks to him and then to the doorway. It's dark once more – but who knows, the light might be building up already. "I don't know, Leonardo," he admits. "I don't know what to do."

"Perhaps we should offer our aid," Leonardo suggests. "If he is trying to stop it but can't, then surely we should at least tell him that this… explosion does not happen when he is asleep."

Ezio frowns and hesitates, looking to the doorway. For a moment every fibre of his being screams against it.

Then he smothers that instinctive objection and rises to his feet. "Yes, I will tell him," he says. "And offer our aid, whatever we can offer him."

Leonardo nods, hesitant – giving him a worried look. "Perhaps someone else should go, my friend," he offers.

"No," Ezio says. He'd picked his burden for himself and himself alone.

He'd force no one else to bear it.

In the end he doesn't need to tell him – or rather, he can't.

When he goes down to the sanctuary, it's to find the place changed once more. All the strange things from before are still there, but they're ruined – every single piece of item and furniture has been knocked around, crashed into the floors and walls and left in ruin. The strange black mirrors are all cracked, the odd boxes crushed is a giant had grabbed them and squeezed them in mighty fists. Table legs are bent and chairs broken in pieces and nothing remains whole.

Except, perhaps, for the statues – the devastation had once more spared them, Ezio is immensely relieved to find.

Amidst the new strange destruction, the angel lays slumped on the strange red chair – the only piece of furniture still whole. With his wings drooping over one edge and his hands hanging over the other, he is completely lightless – completely dead to the world.

Ezio cautiously checks to see that he is still breathing, to note that it is the heavy breathing of the exhausted rather than the thin rasp of the unconscious. Then he backs away and examines the room and the odd things in it more detail.

There had been walls standing by one of the desks with it's strange windows - Ezio hadn't paid much attention to them, everything else was already so strange and attention grabbing, but he remembers seeing paintings on them. Now, as he tentatively goes around the sanctuary, the walls catch his attention where they lay, broken on the floor.

The strange walls are made of some sort of spongy material with metal frames, and onto the middle pieces of paper have been pinned with needles with colourful ends. On the some of the papers there are impossibly perfect paintings vivid in colour, pictures of ancient sights and distant places and blueprints of buildings, all of them perfectly smooth to touch as if no paint had been used at all on them. On other sheets of paper there is writing so even and clear that Ezio doubts even a monk could manage it. They must have been made with a printing press.

What's written there is mostly illegible to Ezio, but one of the papers catches his attention. The language of it is foreign, but there is painting on it, barely the length of his finger and yet perfectly clear and recognizable.

It bears his face, only it is a little strange. In the painting the image of him wears white robes he never has seen before, his hood slightly different shape, his collar more closed than he keeps it now – and his face is older, his beard thicker.

And beside the painting there is print of his name, Ezio Auditore da Firenze – and under that, two dates.

24.7.1459 – 30.11.1524.

The angel sleeps for good six hours, during which time Ezio waits, first nervously and then with strange sense of impatience. It would be better for something to happen than to live in the constant fear for it. It is better that the angel sleeps, but…

He can't stop thinking of it.

"I fear I've bitten far more than I can chew," Ezio admits to Claudia during dinner that night, as they still wait. Everyone is here, mother and Mario at the head of the table with Paola, Leonardo and Teodora – Machiavelli's seat is empty now, and La Volpe and Antonio sit together, murmuring under their breaths to each other. Too distracted to play the host, Ezio had taken seat by Claudia, leaving the task of entertaining their guests to Mario.

"You always do," Claudia agrees, daintily cutting into her food. "But I suppose this time even you have managed to outdo yourself. Tell me brother, honestly – are we in danger here?"

"I can't promise that we are not," Ezio admits quietly and sighs. "And if it is not our lives that are in danger then perhaps our spirits and minds. I certainly can't be sure of my own anymore."

Claudia harrumphs at that, and looks like she'd like to make a joke about it – but jokes about such things aren't exactly funny between them. "If the task is too much for you, then leave it," she says.

"I can't," Ezio sighs and reaches for the wine. "And even if could, I'd spend the rest of my life fearing. Whatever becomes of this, I must see it through."

Claudia sighs at that and for a moment says nothing, eating in silence and looking to the other end of the dining table, listening to the conversations. "It is a situation you've put yourself in, o Prophet," she agrees and gives him a look. "I've never seen you like this, Ezio. You really are afraid of him."

Ezio snorts, but doesn't bother to deny it. How can he not? He could put up a brave front and pretend, but it would be bluster in face of a hurricane, an earthquake, a devastating eruption of a volcano – it would upend the world just the same whether he stood up to it or not.

He doesn't think anyone could face the build-up of oncoming change and not fear it.

Claudia watches him silently and then hums. "I could go see him," she offers. "No, I want to see him. And I should – this is my house, more so than it is yours than even Mario's at this point. I run it, and as the Lady of the House I should welcome our important guest."

"Claudia," Ezio starts and stops at her narrow look. "It's not very safe."

"Yes, you've proven that abundantly," Claudia mutters. "But if you can face it, then so will I. It is not as if you can keep him imprisoned in the cellar forever."

"The sanctuary is not a cellar – and he is not imprisoned," Ezio objects.

"Would you let him leave?" Claudia asks.

Ezio hesitates. "I'm not sure I could stop him if he wished to," he says slowly.

"But you'd prefer he stayed down there – as would I, if the tales of his powers are at all accurate," Claudia mutters and shakes her head. "I will go see him – I want to see him. Don't argue with me, Brother – I need to know what I'm up against should Mother get worse notions to her head," she adds under her breath.

Ezio swallows and then nods. "I will come with you," he says then. And he'd get her out of there, if he had to.

Claudia rolls her eyes. "Obviously," she mutters and bites into a piece of pasta with a sort of annoyed finality that's her style. "Do you think he eats?"

Ezio shakes his head and sighs. "I have no idea, Claudia."

"Well, maybe you should find out. I'd hate to find out we're failing at our duty by not feeding him."

The angel is still asleep when they go down below, later. Ezio walks slightly ahead of Claudia, just in case – should there be the faintest flicker of gold, he'd grab her and run. But as far as he can see so far, the sanctuary is quiet and dark – nothing stirs.

The angel has moved, but only little – one of his legs now hands off the edge of the narrow seat. It does not look comfortable at all.

"I thought you brought a comfortable divan down here for him?" Claudia whispers, looking around in the sanctuary, now full of strange, broken things.

"We did," Ezio says and frowns. He hadn't paid attention to it before either – but it's gone now, as is the table and the treats and drinks they'd left for the man. They'd simply disappeared, possibly destroyed when the other things had been… created.

"Hmm," Claudia says and then carefully steps over a tipped over, metal framed bookshelf and all the things that had scattered on the floor around him. "What strange these are. Do you know what their purpose is?"

"I couldn't begin to guess," Ezio admits quietly. "But I don't think they are from this time. Look at this," he says and picks up a piece of paper from the floor. In it there is picture of the ancient Colosseum from Rome. "Look how fine the detail is – but the surface is smooth. No painter could have done this."

"Well I don't know, Leonardo can manage fairly incredible things with paints," Claudia says but frowns, running her fingertips over the image. "That is very smooth," she then murmurs. "Wonder how it was managed?"

"Don't ask me, Sister, I know nothing more than you do."

They both still at the sound of a groan coming from the red chair, the rustle of feathers. The angel shifts and then lets out a noise of discomfort and pushes him up to lean onto his elbow.

"Or, right," he murmurs, looking over his shoulder at the wings. He doesn't look particularly happy about them, how they just lay there, limp and inert.

Then he looks up and Ezio gets the overwhelming urge to step between him and Claudia. The only reason he doesn't is because he knows Claudia would beat him over the head if he did.

Claudia, being Claudia, steps forward boldly and then performs a perfect curtsey. "Claudia Auditore da Firenze, at your service, my lord," she says, bowing her head and pinching the hem of her dress just so – really more like refined noblewoman and not the only daughter of a disgraced assassin family. "I'd like to personally welcome you to our home."

The angel just stares at her, looking confused. Slowly he sits up properly, the wings dragging against the edge of the strange red chair. Then he looks at Ezio, uncertain.

"My sister," Ezio says.

"I know she's your sister," the angel says and looks to Claudia again. "Why are you here?" he asks warily, reaching to tug at one of the wings, to get it over the edge of the chair and to it's other side, where it rests at more comfortable angle.

"I – thought we should extend our welcome and offer our hospitality, properly," Claudia says, looking up. "If there is anything we can do for you, or offer you, any aid we can give, please don't hesitate to ask. The Auditore family is in your service."

The angel says nothing for a moment, watching her like he doesn't know what to make of her. It makes Ezio feel uneasy, how confused he looks. Not just because it's an unnerving expression to be aimed at his sister – but also, had he not extended their hospitality to the angel? He might have not, he'd been too busy trying to keep his sanity intact.

Claudia, if she has any trouble with it, seems to show none of it. She just waits, her chin held up, for the angel to answer.

"I – I don't know," the angel finally says.

"Do you need food, drink – perhaps an opportunity to bathe?" Claudia asks. "Perhaps someone could clean and repair your clothing – we can also have new ones made, if – "

The angel's shakes his head, looking away. "I don't – " he says and spark of gold runs over his cheek. He squeezes his eyes shut, draws a breath, and the golden light fades, a little. "Stop it, stop it," he murmurs to himself and wipes the back of his hand over his cheek, as if to physically quell the power. "I don't need anything – you can't help me."

Claudia swallows but keeps her chin up. "My lord – "

"Don't call me that," the angel says and scratches his fingers down his cheek, to the scar. More gold flickers and he bows his head. "Shit – just go, please, go away –"

"It doesn't happen when you're sleep," Ezio blurts out. "Or when you were unconscious after what happened in Minerva's vault. This only happens when you're conscious."

The angel looks up quickly enough to give himself whiplash, if he was a human. "Then knock me out," he says without hesitation.

"I – I couldn't –" Ezio hesitates, horrified, as Claudia whirls to look at him in shock.

"Knock me out," the angel orders again, his eyes beginning to shine with gold, and Ezio moves forward before he can think it through twice. The angel looks up at him, lines of gold tracing down his face and neck, bleeding through the feathers of his golden wings. His expression is so open, expectant – trusting. He even angles his head for it.

A sharp strike to the temple is all it takes. Like shockwave of a powder keg exploding and pushing back smoke, the gold bleeds out of the man's skin and eyes, the yellow shine growing dark again – the angel's eyes flash, and then he falls limply forward and into Ezio's arms.

No explosion of impossibility follow, neither does a divine retribution. Ezio hurt an angel – and nothing happens him.

He's not sure if that makes it worse or not. 

Chapter Text

Ezio gets the glasses and Claudia gets the bottles and in the relative privacy of Ezio's old room up at the belvedere, they set about getting drunk.

It's been a long while since he's stayed up in the belvedere. A room he has in the third floor is much easier to access – and much easier to stomach these days. The belvedere room is more a crypt than a bedroom these days, or maybe a gallery – a most macabre one, dedicated to his kills. All the information he'd collected about the Pazzi conspiracy over the years, about the templars, is pinned on the walls – along with stolen portraits of them, painted by various artists and hung by much younger and much angrier Ezio who needed a reminder.

Looking at them now makes Ezio feel old. He even has one of Rodrigo Borgia and looking at it now is somewhat awkward.

"Well," Claudia says, after they've both drained their first glasses in silence. "That was sure something."

Ezio, sitting by the desk he hasn't used for so long it's gathered a layer of dust, shakes his head. "Yeah," is all he says, and drinks.

He thinks he's maybe gone past shock and fear and to that state beyond where a man loses sense of emotion. It's a familiar state to him, the same state he'd done most of his earlier kills in – a strange disconnect of heart and mind. It hasn't happened to him now in well over a decade, his heart has grown wearier and tougher and so few things affect it now, but…

"How long do you think he will stay unconscious?" Claudia asks.

Ezio shakes his head and doesn't bother to answer. He doesn't know – they both know he doesn't know. He's so way over his head with all of this, that it's almost funny. Would be funny, if so many things weren't at risk.

Claudia watches him silently and then pours herself another glass. She drinks half of it, and it's almost enough to put colour back to her pale cheeks, and ease the tense, frightened expression that stiffens her face. "What will we do?" she asks then. "Surely we can't just…" she trails off.

Ezio looks away. They have a solution to the danger now – and the angel's utterly terrifying approval to use it. Hit him until it stops.

Lord.

He drinks.

"There has to be a better way, surely," Claudia murmurs, looking away, at the portraits hanging on the walls, all of them dead now bar from Rodrigo. Then she shakes her head. "One thing is certain though – we cannot let mother see him."

"No, we cannot," Ezio agrees and drinks. It's not safe but he would very much like to get drunk as fast as he could, now. "Might even be for the best to take her to stay in the town. Might be best you both go."

Claudia draws a breath and releases it slowly. "Yes," she agrees. "Might be best – I am not going though."

Yeah, Ezio didn't think so.

They're quiet for a long while, draining their glasses with little interest in enjoying the taste. Blessedly, the drink is starting to soften the world now, the harsher edges and tighter knots loosening and softening until Ezio finally feels as though he can breathe.

It's been a long time – a whole Assassin's career's worth of time – since he's felt so damn helpless and confused. Give him something to solve, someone to kill, destroy, someone to deliver somewhere… give him a mission and he would know what to do. What is he supposed to do here?

Claudia looks up and Ezio follows her gaze as light comes through the ladder well and then hand holding a lantern pops up, followed by beret adorned head. "Here you are," Leonardo says and sets the lantern down. "We were all wondering where you ran off to and here you are – sitting alone in the darkness. My, you're gloomy sort."

"And us running off to somewhere didn't clue you in on the fact that perhaps we did it on purpose?" Claudia asks, but without heat. "What are you doing here, Leonardo?"

"Mario told me what happened," Leonardo says and pulls himself up and to their level, picking the lantern and walking over to Ezio, setting the lantern on the desk without so much as by your leave. "That you knocked the angel out at his command? And that it stopped the… the miracle from happening."

"Yes," Ezio comments, warily. Leonardo has that look on him. "Another thing to tally up in my listings of sins – what of it?"

Leonardo gives him a look and then pulls up a bench from the side, sitting down on it. "So, it got me thinking," he says, and Ezio thinks, oh dear here we go. "The Miracle does not occur when he is unconscious or asleep – and you knocking him unconscious stopped it. Therefore, some… disruption of the mind stalls it. Even stops it. Yes?"

"I feel as though you're getting somewhere, but I have no idea where," Ezio sighs. "And it truly worries me."

Leonardo completely ignores him, leaning in eagerly. "It is linked to his consciousness," he says. "Alter the state of his consciousness and perhaps that will put an end to it."

"Well, we did," Claudia says, eying Leonardo over her wine glass. "Ezio knocked him out."

Leonardo waves a finger. "There are other ways," he says and then looks between them. "My, you're doing it right now!"

Ezio scowls and then looks at Claudia. Then, both of them, look at Claudia's wine glass.

"You mean… get him drunk?" Ezio asks dubiously

"Not my original thought – but why not? Surely it is worth a try, seeing as the miracle is so terrible when it occurs," Leonardo says, rocking back and forth on the chair like a big kid. "I did think of other things first, though. Human mind, it startles so easily, thoughts get cut off by smallest thing. Flash of heat, spark of pain – surely you know, how everything in your head just stops when you take an injury?"

Ezio frowns. "He's not human," he says slowly.

"He still sleeps, he falls unconscious," Leonardo says reasonably. "Two weaknesses which are very mortal indeed. Who knows if he might share others. Better to try and risk the failure than not try at all and loose even the hope of success, surely?"

For a moment Ezio says nothing. "I have known him for two days now – in that time he has not eaten or drank," he says slowly. "I do not know if he needs to, if he can." And he's not sure if it would be better or worse to have the angel drunk on top of being immensely dangerous.

"Still it is worth a try, I think," Leonardo says. "And like I said, there are other ways of disrupting the mind momentarily."

"Hmm," Claudia says, looking to Leonardo. "What do you mean, flash of heat, spark of pain?" she asks warily. "You mean we should hurt him. Torture him and maim him, even."

"Well," Leonardo answers, growing bit awkward. "There are ways of hurting a man that isn't so – er, severe as all that. A simple slap might do; it can be very startling especially when you aren't expecting it. Human mind is weak in it's own ways – easy to stop on its tracks, once you figure the right way. And it's better than being knocked unconscious on regular basis."

Ezio eyes him silently for a moment and then shares a look with Claudia. She's biting her lip but offers no further arguments. "It would be better than beating him unconscious," he agrees grimly and looks to Leonardo. "I will tell him, the next he wakens."

Leonardo clears his throat. "Well," he says. "That was what I came to find you for – judging by flash of light we saw, he already has."

Ezio draws a breath and then sighs. The blow hadn't been very hard, he agrees grimly. He hadn't dared to use full strength. "Right," he says and drains his glass. "I suppose I should go see him."

Leonardo nods, looking eager and wary. He opens his mouth and then closes it with a wry look, tucking his chin in almost guiltily. "Good luck, my friend," he says and looks to Claudia.

"Don't look at me, I am not going down there again," Claudia says and takes another drink, almost mutinous. "Especially not while drunk."

Ezio stands up, swaying a little as he does. He looks at Leonardo and reads his face like the old and familiar book it is. "If you want to come along, Leonardo, then come," he says and lets out rueful laugh as he grabs one of the unopened bottles Claudia had carried. "You should hear the way he swears – there is no church rule down there, I promise."

"He swears?" Leonardo asks, fascinated.

Ezio scoffs almost resentfully – easier to manage now, that the drink loosens his restraint and better judgement. "Like a sailor."

The angel is indeed awake, and there has indeed been another miracle – the Sanctuary is transformed again. The strange black things, odd furniture, paintings and boxes are gone, even the ropes and platforms on the floors have disappeared. The walls and roof and floor have all been repaired to their original state and everything has been made whole again.

The angel is sitting on the floor at the foot of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad's statue, leaning back and onto it with his wings splayed on the floor beside him, and Ezio is drunk enough to admit how truly miserable he looks, his face drawn tight with unhappiness.

The inhale Leonardo draws at the sight of him is enough to draw his attention, making the angel open his eyes and look towards them.

"I managed to direct it," he says wearily and looks around the sanctuary. "Cleaned up the mess I made."

Ezio looks around warily – there is no sign whatsoever left of the previous destruction, no cracks on walls or ceiling, not a hint of moss. Frowning, he wonders if the piece of paper he took still remains – or if too has been undone. He daren't check it now.

"Still can't stop it, so next time it comes up, I might just break this place again," the angel murmurs and runs a hand over his face. Then he looks at them, from Ezio to Leonardo and back. "You shouldn't be here. It's not safe."

Ezio hesitates but – he's too tired and just drunk enough to pretend that he doesn't care. "I don't want to be here," he says. "But Minerva told me to take care of you and so I am going to try."

"You always do," the angel agrees with a sigh and a smile. "And usually succeed too."

Ezio grits his teeth against the shiver of unease at that. "My friend Leonardo here," he says, motioning to the man. "Thinks he has come up with potential solutions to this… this," he motions around them.

The angel blinks and then pushes himself up slowly, taking support of the statue's base. "I'm all ears," he says, shrugging one shoulder to get a wing out of his way as he lifts up and to sit on the marble at Altaïr's feet.

"Ah, it's –" Leonardo starts haltingly and then clears his throat. "If the ability is tied to your state of consciousness then, if we were to alter it, it might stop," he says. "Of if you had a startle, something that stopped your thinking for a moment…"

"You mean like a shock," the angel says and looks away, thoughtful. There is no sign of gold on him yet, he seems almost as if too exhausted for it as he sits there, half slumped, with wings lying limply at each side. "Hmm…"

"Or if you can get drunk, that could be a thing," Ezio mutters. "Who can muster miracles when drunk?"

"You'd be surprised," the angel mutters, frowning. Then he lets out a weary snort. "My kingdom for some weed right now."

Ezio blinks, not sure he heard that right. He casts a glance at Leonardo, who seems just as confused as he is. "You desire… weeds?" he asks certainly.

"Not weeds – weed. It's a name for mind altering substance, a plant," the angel says and waves a dismissive hand. "Hemp. Never mind." He looks away for a moment, swaying where he's sitting, leaning back. "Alter my state of consciousness and stop it. Yeah, shock could do it. Cancel the program, stop the loading before it finishes processing…"

Leonardo casts a look at Ezio who shakes his head – he doesn't understand it either. "My lord," Leonardo says then carefully. "Do you have no control at all over the… the ability?"

The angel looks his way and sighs. "I can almost tell how I should be able to control it, but I'm not there yet," he says, frowning, and now there's hint of gold. It runs from the hairline of his short hair and over his forehead, disappearing into his eyes – lighting a ember of gold within it. "There's a trigger, a switch that's constantly on – I can't turn it off yet. I don't know how. It's just going off and off and off…"

Ezio swallows while Leonardo shakes his head slowly. "I don't – I don't understand," the artist admits quietly, uneasily.

The angel shakes his head, rubbing at his forehead. "It's like – there's a dam, I should be able to close it, stop the outpour of water through it, but I don't know how yet," he mutters and lets out a hysterical little laugh. "I'm the Piece of Eden – and it's user, at the same time. And I can't stop, I can't – I don't –"

Ezio slowly sets the wine bottle down onto the floor while Leonardo stares at the now nearly glowing angel in spellbound horror. There is light shining through the feathers of his wings. "Like an Apple of Eden," he mutters distractedly.

"Worse," the angel says, squeezing his eyes shut and bowing his head. "Shit is happening again. Y-you should go, I can't –"

"This is fascinating," Leonardo mutters, showing no sign of having the good sense to run. "How fast does it happen – does it hurt you, drain you, exhaust you –"

"Leonardo," Ezio warns him, nervous – this is not the time to be asking such questions!

"No, yes, I don't – " the angel stops to draw a breath and lets out another little laugh. "I don't know, damn it, I don't – " he claws his fingers through his hair while his wings flutter, shifting where they lie on the stone, lifting slightly. There are sparks of gold running through the feathers. "I don't know – "

"Should we try it, what do you think?" Leonardo asks, looking to Ezio with a transfixed look of terrified fascination on his face. "Far too late to try the liquid approach – but a shock might do it –"

Ezio opens his mouth, turning to the angel who is lifting his head now, his eyes beginning to glow with golden light. "I –" he hesitates.

"No," the angel says, his voice full of disappointed realisation. "No, it won't work – if you hit me now and leave me conscious, I will retaliate – and I might kill you both. It won't be conscious on my part, but it's my subconscious mind in control of this – and you taught me to counteract too well. I won't be able to help it."

"I – what?" Ezio asks, confused, angling his body away slightly. There is a hum in the air, familiar thrumming of power.

"Subconscious mind? And Ezio taught you?" Leonardo asks, sounding intent and curious. "How did Ezio teach you?"

"You really should go now," the angel implores helplessly, even as he tries to back away, his feet lifting off the floor entirely as he shuffles back on the stone pedestal – stopping at the statue's feet. The sound is starting again, the unnatural tone rising, cresting towards a terrible climax. "I can't stop it – And I think you're – you're too late to knock me out now – "

"Leonardo," Ezio says, quickly turning to grab him and go – but Leonardo is as if nailed in his place.

"No, please – I want to see it," Leonardo says, his eyes wide. "I want to see – "

"Leonardo, it's not safe –"

"But I – "

The angel stares at them with wide eyes, both of them molten gold now, and then tries to back further away from them, but he can't – the statue at his back is in the way. As Ezio tries to drag Leonardo back, the angel startles sharply as he collides with the statue and then turns to look behind himself, up and to the hooded, stone face of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad.

And he was right - it was too late to even escape now.

The light builds and the tone of unnatural power reaches its peak as the angel leans against the statue, giving in to the inevitable, the light explodes once more.

Ezio braces himself for the impact, for the void to consume the world and destroy everything around them, and for the angel to then rebuild it seemingly from nothing, making everything strange and altered. Only, it doesn't happen – even as the light grows and becomes blinding, the floor remains solid under their feet and Ezio can see enough shadows to tell that reality hasn't become liquid. The change, the glow, the terrible altering light – it has been aimed elsewhere.

Through the light it's almost impossible see, but Ezio can see reflections, the light catching on something that seems like metal. There's the noise again, over the cresting tone of unnatural power; a terrible grinding of stone and glass and something is reformed. But what that something is, Ezio isn't sure – what he can see through the light seems normal.

"Would you look at that?" Leonardo mutters, barely audible, as shockwaves of light pulse and then it begins fading. Over it they can hear the cracking of stone, sound like sand raining down on the floor – and the angel's rasping gasps as he draws breath, lying collapsed and weak on the stone pedestal.

Ezio looks up and opens his mouth – but no sound comes out.

The statue is gone - only some bits of cracked stone remain of it. In its place stands a man wearing the exact same robe and belt as the statue had been, with the same hood, the same sword – the same bracers. Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, remade from stone to flesh.

It's almost too confusing and too impossible to even cause shock. And it's obviously not impossible either, because there he is, the Mentor of the Levantine Order, the Master Assassin who rebuild the Brotherhood – somehow brought to life good four hundred years after his death. All Ezio can do is stare as the man looks around warily and then draws a weapon, a very real sword shrieking against very real sheath before he holds it out and speaks, in language Ezio has no hope of understanding. It must be Arabic – it sounds like it – but what the man actually is saying is utterly beyond Ezio's command of the language.

Ezio holds out his hands to show he's not holding weapons and then, almost instinctive, lets the hidden blades shriek out of their sheaths, twin blades protruding from his wrists. The man who was before a statue stares and snaps something at him and Ezio admits rather helplessly, "I – I can't understand you," before looking down to the angel.

Altaïr does the same and then steps back, surprised.

The angel is barely conscious now, lying on his side in the stone, breathing heavily. He looks up, blinking at Altaïr, and says, slurred and barely audible. "Well, fuck, I am not undoing this one," and then lets his head fall down and goes lax and loose on the stone - losing consciousness once more.

For a moment they all  stare at him and then Altaïr looks up, speaking, obviously demanding answers – only Ezio can't understand him. He only knows the one phrase of Arabic – the Creed – and it's not really an explanation.

He says it anyway, just in case it might at least calm the man - but Altaïr only narrows his eyes, and looks more suspicious.

Then, suddenly, Leonardo addresses the man haltingly and awkwardly in Arabic.

"Leonardo?" Ezio asks quietly with surprise while Altaïr turns his hooded head towards the artist, listening intently, suspiciously.

"I couldn't exactly decode the Codex without learning at least a little Arabic, the whole thing is written in the language," Leonardo mutters. "He is demanding to know what's going on – I told him to be calm, that we're not his enemies."

Ezio looks between Altaïr, Leonardo – and the angel, slumped down at Altaïr's feet. "Tell him – Piece of Eden is involved, like the Apple," he says, thinking back to the Codex. Surely the man would know what that might imply.

Leonardo nods and speaks, as Altaïr slowly puts his sword away, still looking suspicious but little less likely to attack. He says something and Leonardo gets a somewhat frustrated look to his face, "I don't know enough of the words yet," he explains and tries again as the legendary Assassin crouches down, to examine the angel.

Ezio takes an instinctive step forward and Altaïr looks up sharply at him, eyes narrowed. Ezio hesitates for only a moment and then pushes forward. Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad might be the historical Mentor – but the angel is still under Ezio's protection.

Altaïr asks something of Leonardo, staring at Ezio suspiciously as Ezio goes to check that the angel is still breathing.

"He's – he's asking where this is, and how he got here?" Leonardo says. "At least I think so – my command of the language is rather rudimentary."

"Tell him the truth," Ezio says, carefully moving one golden wing out of the way and to a better angle before checking the angel's breathing. It's shallow, but steady.

Leonardo turns to speak to Altaïr, who listens with his head slightly inclined to his way, still crouching down on the stone, watching as Ezio gently gathers the angel into his arms. It's a little awkward to do with the legendary Mentor of the Levantine Brotherhood looming over him – but nowhere near as unnerving as it would have been, with the angel awake. As strange as it is to have a man long dead alive once more, compared to the act that brought him here…

Ezio draws back with the angel in his arms, letting his head slump to his shoulder as he lifts him off the stone. Only now there is no place to put him down on– the chairs, even the strange red one, are gone, and the divan had not been restored. The sanctuary is, once more, void of furniture.

"Leonardo, can I trouble you for your cape?" Ezio asks quietly, and Leonardo looks to him in mid sentence and then quickly begins unclasping it, lying the long piece of clothing down on the floor for Ezio to put the angel down. As he does, Altaïr jumps down from the stone stand, approaching them warily and looking at the other statues.

He asks something, motioning to them, and Leonardo answers. Altaïr looks back to the stand where his own statue had stood and then turns to look at them, his face carefully blank but his eyes keen and intent.

"I told him where we are, what we know about the angel and his power," Leonardo says quietly. "I also told him when we are."

"What did he say in return?" Ezio asks.

"Nothing," Leonardo says, "Just asked about the other statues – I told him what they were."

Ezio looks at Altaïr. The sharpness of the man's eyes is almost unnerving. Ezio might pride his own ability to observe, but with Altaïr it's obvious how fast he's putting his observations together and coming up with conclusions.

"Leonardo," Ezio says. "Please tell him we're sorry about the confusion and the… what would you even call this?" he mutters. He has no idea how to even begin to formulate some sort of coherent thought about this. Is Altaïr stone come to life, a man transported through time, or something build from nothing? He has no idea. "Tell him we're sorry about the confusion but we had little control over. However long this… lasts and however long he is here for, we will do our best to make him feel welcome among the Italian Brotherhood."

Leonardo nods and haltingly conveys the words, Altaïr listening silently without interrupting as Leonardo stumbles his way through Arabic. When he finally speaks, he asks only one short thing.

"He wants to know if it was intentional," Leonardo says. "Did we or he," he nods to the angel, "do it on purpose."

"I don't think so," Ezio admits with grimace. Leonardo gives him a sympathetic look and then turns to convey the message. Ezio watches the man's reaction warily, expecting anger, annoyance, maybe accusations… but there's none.

Altaïr isn't very happy to hear it, but he only nods briskly before turning to look down at the angel, his expression inscrutable and his eyes dark. Then he crouches down and, after silently checking Ezio's reaction, he reaches out to brush the backs of his knuckles against the wings, slipping two fingers under one long feather and then running it between his fingertips slowly – and if Ezio wasn't mistaken, his expression isn't annoyed or even bothered.

It's enthralled.

Chapter Text

"I'm so fucking tired of this."

The words echo in the empty sanctuary – empty and mostly undamaged, for once. As much as Desmond already misses the reminders of his time, the familiar tech and furniture and the strange two-edged comfort that was the Animus… the danger they represented in this time was bad enough to make his head burst – he'd barely got them out of there in time to keep Leonardo goddamn da Vinci from upturning future entirely.

The sanctuary seems both warmer and colder at the same time without them. The future sense of despair about the oncoming doom that the tech had brought with it isn't wafting in the air anymore, replaced by Ezio's and the Auditore's sense of home, but at the same time… damn, he misses home. At least back home someone probably could've whipped up some anaesthetic and knocked him out bit more permanently.

The waking up is the worst fucking part about this. His bones ache and his DNA vibrates like a string that's wound too tight and being strummed too hard and he's just rattling in his skin.

And already, with wakefulness, comes the build up. Bit by bit, the power is initialising itself once more, winding up for another sequence. Fucking… eternal combustion test on an explosive that doesn't so much burn as it twists. And Desmond is so, so damn tired of being both the fuse and the explosive.

Too tired to even bother getting up from the floor anymore, where he is lying on Leonardo da Vinci's cape, feeling all the things it has gone through, the hands of the woman who had made the fabric, the tailor who had put it all together, how long Leonardo had worn it, and how used to it he was. It's softer than the Animus – softer than the divan Ezio had originally set up for him.

He's getting used to it now – the threads of energies that run across and through everything. Now if only he could stop getting tangled in them and tugging them…

Desmond sighs and closes his eyes. Maybe if he just lies there quietly and keeps his eyes shut and doesn't move, he'll fall back asleep and not do anything…

No such luck, though – he's done little more than sleep all this time, and it's avoiding him now, no matter how tired he feels. It takes that climb and crash to knock him out now – or actual knockout, and the feel of Ezio's terror rattling in his brain isn't something Desmond is particularly looking forward to feeling again. Neither has all that pleasant consequences either.

What was it that Leonardo said – altered mental state. Weed could probably do it, alcohol had been in Ezio's mind – Leonardo had been thinking of something else, though. A whip on your back, a switch hitting your hands – mortification of the flesh. His mind had been going mile a minute, mixing and matching religious beliefs, self flagellation, where it might have come from historically – if other angels had such trouble controlling themselves, perhaps self inflicted pain might be a method of control…

Desmond examines the loose strands of thoughts where they still hang, like after images, on Leonardo's cloak. There's a line of links behind Leonardo's thoughts, concepts leading to others, references to past knowledge – religion and sin and belief, built on sermons and scripture, on and on – and no one has any idea that the man they built their religion on was a mere human being who just happened to be in possession of Piece of Eden. It's all conjecture.

Nothing is true – everything is made up.

Desmond peeks his eyes open and watches a spark of gold trace down from his fingertip to the base of his finger, circling it sharply before sinking into the vein in the back of his hand. He's already humming with the rise of power.

"Shit," he mutters and pushes up finally, elbowing at the wings on his back to keep them from flopping forward. Sitting up on his knees, he takes a moment to breathe and then considers is.

Leonardo is right that big enough shock to his system would stop the build-up. But if someone hurts him now, he would react to it badly and he couldn't help himself, there are too many subconscious things happening here. He can even see it, how he would've blown Ezio away if the man had gone to hit him without knocking him unconscious. The impact to the back wall might've been bad enough to crack Ezio's skull – he can't risk that. Ezio has too big an effect on timelines for it to be cut short here.

Self inflicted pain isn't the same, though – you can't surprise yourself, same way you can't tickle yourself, human body isn't wired the right way. But if he hurts himself enough to give himself a moment of pure shock, enough to stop is mental processes on their tracks… it could do it, and since he was the one doing it, it wouldn't prompt a subconscious counterattack.

It could stop it, maybe.

Desmond hangs his head for a moment and then looks down at himself. Then, taking a breath, he starts taking his belt off. It and his hidden blade are the only suitable things he has – and he isn't quite as desperate as to cut himself. Belt would work as a whip, though. And if it wasn't enough, then the belt buckle would hurt enough to…

His hands are shaking. Shit. And his hoodie and shirt are in the way – it won't hurt as much with them in the way. They're ruined and dirty anyway.

Damn he really doesn't want to do this but he doesn't want to change anything either. He really doesn't want to change anything.

And he's getting sick of knocking himself out all the damn time.

In the end he has to use the hidden blade after all – there is no way to get his hoodie and shirt off without cutting through them, tearing the holes the wings had made to the back all the way down to the hem, to open the fabric up completely. After that they're easy enough to tear off, he doesn't even have to work at it – just tug and over the head and then they're lying in a pile of rust stained torn cloth in front of him.

He really liked that hoodie too.

But on his right hand the black of his tattoo is slowly bleeding to gold and he doesn't have the time. He has to do this now – or blow up again.

Ezio, Altaïr, Leonardo and Mario are almost directly above him, in the office. The italian assassins are trying to explain the presence of the Codex via Leonardo's awkward translation. Claudia and Maria are sitting with Teodora and Paola by the fire in the sitting room – Teodora getting up now, she's tired of waiting and she wants to see him, see him awake and talk to him. Paola doesn't – she's long since lost faith. Claudia can't shake her fear even through the soft haze of alcohol. Maria…

Desmond grips the belt and doesn't let himself to brace for it, whipping back and then forward, horizontally across his stomach and around the side of his waist, and to lash finally at his back. And – fuck – it hurts.

Of course it fucking hurts; every nerve of his body is firing up eagerly and the impact of the belt is like flash bang, rushing through his skin and into his pores, into the flickering power. Instant and startling – but not enough to stop it. So with gritted teeth Desmond whips the belt back again, and then again over his stomach, his waist and to his back.

Whiteout.

He can hear the cry he lets out, can feel himself curling in pain, elbow hitting the floor, but for a moment he can't see at all, can barely feel anything but the sudden white hot agony that courses through his body, making it feel like someone had just thrust a sword through his back.

He'd hit the skin just under where the right wing attaches.

Fuck, that – that hurts. Hurts enough that he can feel the damn things actually reacting – reflexively curling up and to his back as if in self defence, for once not lying limp on the floor. And oh, so that's how they function, no wonder he hasn't been able to control them – the damn things have no nerves of muscles as his body understands them – but -

"Shit," Desmond gasps, breathing against the floor – but no longer glowing. The build up stopped – the progress bar had gotten reset to the start.

Does he need to fucking do this continuously to keep it from happening now? Just hit a stupidly painful reset again and again until he finally lost consciousness out of pain alone? He'd do it if he had to, better this than to break and remake the world around him all the damn time, with little control over the consequences, but… Jesus fucking Christ, with all the awkward ironic connotations there in.

"Fuck you Minerva, fuck you and the glowing fucking horse you rode on," Desmond whispers to the floor and then collapses to lay on his side, wings quivering and whole body shuddering.

Above, Teodora has arrived in Mario's office – she's staring wide eyed at Altaïr who is scowling up at the Codex and barely hiding his confusion. Leonardo is flailing to translate what Mario is saying – lot of fan boyish pleasantries, Altaïr is bit of a legend. Ezio moves to explain it to her, what happened.

Desmond stares at nothing even as he feels her make the sign of the cross. She has Bible in hand, and she wants to see him, talk to him, ask him about it. She knows some of it can't be right, and she knows she has broken Commandments, and though she puts up a imperiously brave front, she's afraid. She wants him to call her out on her sins. She wants to know her punishment, now or in afterlife.

Desmond closes his eyes and wishes she'd just stay away – this is bad enough without him having to tear her beliefs apart. And he could do it too – he can see her fault lines, where her personal believes make that awkward divide. Stick a Truth in it – Eden was a city where humanity first escaped from slavery – and she'd break like a twig. She'd reject it first, try an dispute it, refuse to believe it – but it would fester in her mind and heart until eventually, six months from now, she would put the cowl away and reject the cross and leave the comfort of her faith behind.

She'd be a lesser woman for it, unhappy and lost in world.

Altaïr is more urgent – though he doesn't show it nor does he demand to be answered. He just turns away from the Codex and from Leonardo's haltering explanations, and walks back to the entrance to the sanctuary – he's going down the stairs before anyone can stop him. Ezio hesitates too long – Leonardo moves after Altaïr, too eager and open for more knowledge to fear.

Teodora follows after them – and so, Ezio musters his spirit, and follows.

Desmond has almost broken the man – he didn't mean to, but there it is. Ezio is sensitive in his Eagle Vision – his has always been the strongest to the threads of emotional energy that even Altaïr was blind to. To Ezio's senses Desmond is an Eldritch Abomination. The fact that the man can face him at all with that pressing on his mind all the time is the true miracle here.

Desmond grips the belt and doesn't get up from the floor. He's too damn tired to pretend otherwise.

"Self inflicted pain works," he says in Italian once Leonardo is within hearing range. "But it's a stopgap measure – starts the process from the beginning, doesn't stop it completely."

"Ah," Leonardo answers, sees the belt on his hand, the fresh blood on his feathers, and understands it immediately. "There – there are methods that don't draw blood," he offers and he's thinking of floggers, cat o' nine tails when used properly does not cause injury, a metal cilice perhaps with short prongs that do not puncture the skin –

Leonardo knows a lot of sadomasochism considering that the very concept doesn't exist yet, Desmond thinks wryly. The man really gets around – and to think how innocent Ezio still finds the polymath, despite the company of murderers, whores and thieves the man keeps.

"What did he say?" Altaïr asks in Arabic, clanking demandingly at Leonardo.

"I said," Desmond answers in the same tongue, "that self inflicted pain works to stop the build up of power, but it only by starting it again from the beginning."

He feels little surprise from Altaïr – just satisfaction. The man suspected he knew the language – though he suspects Desmond might know all the languages. "What are you?" Altaïr asks, cutting right through to the heart of the many questions he has. A Piece of Eden in human form, one of Those That Came Before, or something else, something new?

Desmond shifts now, lifting his head enough to look at him – to look at the threads around him. Leonardo's threads are more like power cable, a transistor on a main powerline – the effect he has to the future is so immense it's blinding. Theodora's in comparison is almost invisible – Altaïr's effect is there, but faint in comparison to Leonardo's. But it's there, even now, even though Desmond reconstructed Altaïr all wrong.

He would understand it better than even Leonardo could, definitely better than Ezio might. Altaïr, the poor man, doesn't have the good sense to fear him at all – he's too eager for knowledge and power and truth that he doesn't care about the risks.

He never has.

Desmond pushes himself up. "I was human – Those That Came Before made me into something else. I was fused with their technologies – the biggest and baddest of their technologies."

Altaïr doesn't answer immediately, thinking, bowing his head slightly.

"Then you are not an angel," Teodora says, in nearly perfect Arabic.

Desmond turns to her, frowning. He barely felt her, Leonardo's mind and fate takes up so much room here – but there, he feels it now. When she'd been conducted into the Brotherhood and taught the Creed, she'd tried to make it her new religion. She'd sought out teachings, writings, learned the tongue of the Levantine Brotherhood and tried to unearth some wisdom from their writings… In the end she'd kept to her original faith, what little of it coincided with her own personal beliefs – blending in what she learned from the Assassins, until she was secure in her faith.

"No," Desmond agrees. "I'm not."

The breath she draws isn't enough to douse the disappointment and frustration – but it is enough to kindle suspicion. "Then," she says. "Do angels exist?"

Your god doesn't exist, Desmond thinks. Or if he does, not in the way you hoped he did – and his supposed son was a man, human like any other, and has more in common with Ezio and Altaïr than with God on high. Your faith is built on confusion and your holy book is a mess of oral history told all wrong. World wasn't created in seven days.

Eden was destroyed in them.

"No," Desmond says, watching the word impact.

It hits, it cracks her core and then she straightens her back. "If you are not an angel, then what are you?"

Deus ex Machina, Desmond thinks and doesn't say it. An Isu Cyborg, that's also accurate. A poor fucker who was at the right place at the wrong time. "Knowing will not make you happy," Desmond warns her. "And it won't affirm your faith. You'll just lose it."

That alone is enough to plant a terrible seed of doubt in her heart.

Desmond sighs. "Human faith is far greater than those it's dedicated to," he says. "And yours is particularly kind. I'd rather you keep it than lose it because of me. Keep your faith, Sister – and go."

Teodora takes those words and with them, she turns and leaves. Desmond watches her go – watches the resift of her beliefs – and then shakes his head. It was the best he could do – anything more, and the damage would've been irreversible.

"You haven't seen the damage human faith does," Altaïr says, while Leonardo mutters translations to Ezio. "The wars they wage for their supposed holy places."

"I have, actually," Desmond says and turns to him. "And the damage is worse than you know. But for her, it's better."

Altaïr tilts his head at that, curious and contemplative. Then he looks down, and Desmond follows his gaze.

The palm of his right hand is glowing.

"What is it?" Altaïr asks, nodding at it. "Where does it come from and how does it work?"

Desmond glances at him – and no, the cosmic microwave background is a bit too complicated even for him. It would take too long to explain what microwave radiation is and how the big bang supposedly worked. Energy of the universe is too broad and too childish a way to put it, Altaïr wouldn't be satisfied with it.

"It comes from the world," Desmond says and tilts his hand as if to pour the pooling light out – of course, it doesn't shift. "There is energy in everything and I'm a sponge to it. It builds up within me. Then it alters the fabric of reality, the patterns that made it. Tears holes into it and then patches them up with something new."

"Reality is a fabric," Altaïr repeats dubiously.

"It's a way to put it that you'd understand. Everything is predestined by the things that came before them – like threads in a tapestry, everything falls predetermined by the threads that came before," Desmond says, and watches the light flicker down his arm.

"So, you tore a hole into the world," Altaïr says and motions behind Desmond, to the empty pedestal where his statue once stood. "And then patched it with me."

Desmond inclines his head. "I'm sorry. I –" had a stray thought, a moment of longing, you'd know what to do with this shit, wouldn't you, Altaïr, and he had to direct the power somewhere, couldn't risk undoing the plethora of futures that Leonardo led to.

He can feel the burn at his back and sighs. Fuck why does it have to happen this damn fast? Damn Minerva made her damn Eye too fucking efficient as a power collector. He's a solar panel locked inside the Sun, and in constant brink of meltdown. "Ezio," Desmond says, gripping the belt and turning to him and continuing in Italian. "Take Leonardo away from me and keep him away."

"What – why?" Leonardo asks in alarm, and then in guilt – thinking of crimes and sins and failings and oh, can he sense, can he see?

"Why?" Ezio asks, even more alarmed – afraid, does he dislike him, hate him, will he hurt him –

"He's too damn important and I can't risk it – keep him away," Desmond says and bows his head, watching the light dance on his bare arms, down his chest – oh, right, he stripped down to the waist. "If – if I undo him, it will break the future – just take him away, please –"

Ezio at least doesn't need to be told twice, and even while Leonardo struggles to say, Ezio is already past the end of his rope with this. He just gets an arm around Leonardo's belly and then hauls him back – if Leonardo had put up any more struggle, Ezio probably would've hauled him up to his shoulder like a kid throwing a tantrum and just carried him off.

The potential of it's almost funny enough to make Desmond laugh – but reality is burning on his skin now, and as Altaïr watches with wary interest, Desmond grips the belt. This time, he knows exactly where to aim.

Altaïr says nothing as he crashes to the floor, gasping for a pained breath and blinking back tears of pain. It's enough though – his mind whites out again, and the build-up starts from beginning.

"You gather energy," Altaïr says, walking around him. "And now you stop it from releasing. Does it disperse or accumulate?"

Shit, Desmond thinks and squeezes his eyes shut. "It disperses," he says, with some relief. He hadn't even thought to worry – if it had accumulated every time he stopped, then how much more power would've gone into the actual event, if it got through? How much would he have changed. "I can't contain it yet. That's why – why it happens. Because I can't stop it from accumulating or contain it once it has."

"Hmm," Altaïr hums and stops in front of him, crouching down. Desmond looks up, awkwardly leaning to one shaking elbow, as the assassin examines him from under the simple classical hood, the beak of it almost hiding his eyes.

Desmond draws a breath and then it stalls in his throat as he reads into what's in Altaïr's head – the deep rooted thirst for knowledge, for power, for understanding. The memory of the Apple of Eden, how it felt to use it, to look into it, to divine knowledge from it. Altaïr struggled with it all his life – how much pleasure he took from it, fearing the Apple had sunk it's claws into him and corrupted him. And maybe it had.

But underneath it all Altaïr has always been a man who respected power, be it the strength and charm of Al Mualim's personality and command or the prowess of Maria Thorpe in combat. That's what he sees in Desmond now, power.

"Oh," Desmond says, his eyes little wide. "You're going to help me figure this out."

"I am?" Altaïr asks wryly, even as he fights against the urge to touch him, to trace his cheek with his fingers – there had been trickle of gold there before, Altaïr had wanted to feel it. The light might be gone now but he wants to know if it had left behind some hint of it, a trail of heat perhaps.

Desmond struggles up, to sit on his knees in front of him, his wings shuddering with something that feels like eagerness, relief. Maybe it had been subconscious intent on his part – maybe it was coincidence. But really, who else better to help him but Altaïr?

"You will," Desmond says, certain. "You want to."

Altaïr harrumphs at that and stands up. "You made me wrong," he informs Desmond calmly, coolly. "Is that why I will help you – because I haven't choice to disobey you, my creator?"

"I – I'm sorry I made you wrong, but no. You will help me because it will let you control me, to a point, and you will like it," Desmond says, shaking his head. "But your choices are still yours – I didn't take your free will, I promise."

Except he can, if he wants to, and judging by the look Altaïr is giving him, he suspects something like it too.

Desmond draws a breath. "I can see your thoughts and feel your emotions," he admits, for the sake of honesty – he can also see what might become of this and he doesn't want to build it on lies. "And your potential future. I can try to manipulate you to make the choices I want you to, but the choice is yours."

Altaïr hums in answer and looks away from Desmond, to the other statues in the hall. "You made me from stone," he says. "And something else."

"My own memories of you," Desmond says.

"You knew me – him, the original Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad?"

"In a way," Desmond admits. "I watched him in certain points of his life, lived some of his memories. What I knew of him I put in you."

Altaïr nods – he already figured it out, if not from the gaps of his memory then from the physical clues. Desmond had made him wrong, after all. "Am I human?" he asks. "Or a golem?"

Desmond swallows and then stands up shakily. "I don't – I don't know for sure – can I try and look?" he asks, holding out a hand.

Looking wary and watchful, Altaïr nods and holds out his hands in turn. Desmond looks down on them, tracing his thumb over the leather glove and to the left ring finger that shouldn't be there – then, turning Altaïr's hands around, he lifts them and presses the back of the man's fingers against his own forehead. They convulse slightly in his hold, but Altaïr doesn't pull back as Desmond looks into his body.

The man's skin is cool but supple, his bones strong and his sinews flexible. Inside his body heart is beating his blood and his intestine churns with bacteria – in his stomach, stomach acid sits, waiting for food to digest. In his head there is a beautiful brain and within it memories, already settling into new neurons, making themselves home. Functional organs and muscles and glands and everything else.

"You're human enough." Desmond says finally and lowers Altaïr's hands, looking down on them.

Altaïr watches him thoughtfully and then takes Desmond's hands in turn, turning them so that his palms are upwards. Bold and teetering on the edge of forceful, he grips Desmond's wrists, brushing thumb over his tattoo on the left arm and tugging at the straps of the hidden blade on the right.

"You were an Assassin," Altaïr guesses. "Before you changed."

"Yes," Desmond agrees, watching the golden imprints Altaïr's fingers leave in his skin. "I come from future – five hundred years after this time. About eight hundred years after yours."

"Hmm," Altaïr answers. "And now, do you serve them, the Ones Who Came Before – who made you… or do you serve the Brotherhood?"

Desmond looks at him – and he can see the right answer to give, the one that would satisfy Altaïr's suspicion the best. He doesn't give it thought. "I don't serve anyone," he says instead. "If I serve anyone, it's humanity as whole."

"Bold thing to claim," Altaïr comments and looks down at his arms. There is light shining on Desmond's skin now, shining from under Altaïr's hands. "And a worrying distinction to make. Why not the Brotherhood? We too serve humanity."

Desmond looks at him, thinks of the things Brotherhood will do, the terrible mistakes they will make and shakes his head. "The same reason you locked the Apple of Eden in the library under Masyaf," he says and Altaïr looks up sharply. Desmond shakes his head. "Will you help me?"

The Master Assassin looks down again, Desmond's bare arms, which are lighting up. Then, releasing Desmond's hands, he steps back. "Stop yourself now and we'll discuss it," he says and steps back, to watch.

Desmond draws a breath, closing his eyes and nodding. He could've gotten more certain affirmative if he tried, but this is better. Altaïr making the choice for himself with as complete understanding of the situation as he can have… it's better.

Then Desmond reaches for the belt again.

Chapter Text

Pain is the wrong approach. It takes too much to tip the man over the edge, out of the light and into darkness once more – and is that not a fun metaphor to use, with a creature that resembles so much the hallowed creatures of religion. An angel, who must now whip himself to keep himself from destroying things.

Altaïr walks around the man, considering the damage he left on himself. He's bleeding from under the edge of wings and it's staining the bottoms of his longer feathers there, leaving smears of red rust on the gold. There are bandages wrapped around the base of the wings there, stained with blood turned dark and brown as it had dried – the injury beneath them cannot have had the time it needed to heal and now the creature is making it worse by the whipping.

"Fuck, I am so sick of this," the winged man mutters at the floor as the belt slips from his fingers and coils on the floor. Altaïr spares it a glance and then crouches down behind the man, to take a closer look at the wings.

"You've made yourself bleed," Altaïr comments, tilting his head to see the bandage under the wing joints. It's stained with fresh, gleaming red.

"Yeah, I figured," the supposed Angel sighs and hanging his head and shuddering. Aftershocks of pain - they're bad enough to make the wings curl up, tight to the man's back. "It's the only spot where it hurts enough."

"Hm," Altaïr answers, considering it. So it takes considerable amount of pain, he muses. "Have you tried other methods?" he asks, thinking of the Apple of Eden, how easy and how hard it was the control.

The man doesn't answer immediately, breathing in and out. Then he pushes himself up and to his knees again, slumping down with a heavy sigh. "Not really. This is still pretty new – it's been…" he trails away, lifting his short haired head a little. "Couple of days now? Christ, it feels like weeks."

Then the supposed angel turns to look at him over his shoulder. "Didn't I tell you my name?" he asks confusedly.

"No," Altaïr agrees, eying him, wondering – did the man pluck the knowledge from his head, the fact that he has no name to use for him?

"It's Desmond," the winged man says and turns to look ahead. "You can touch. It's okay."

Altaïr doesn't wait to be told twice – or for the offer to be rescinded. He pushes a hand between the man's wings, and presses it flat on his spine, just between the two bloodstained wing joints.

Desmond drags shuddering, surprised breath and goes still under his hand.

Altaïr tilts his head, considering the man's back. He can feel the flex of muscle as Desmond grows still – and he can feel shift of bone, underneath. They have skeletal structure, then, he thinks and slowly eases forward, to sit on his knees rather than on the balls of his feet. Quickly, he tugs his gloves off and goes about examining the man's back fully, to figure out the anatomy by which the wings are connected.

They have some sort of shoulder blades of their own, and another bone that attaches to something else by the man's armpit – a simile of a collarbone, perhaps. Enough skeletal structure to imply musculature and bone structure in the wings themselves – but when Altaïr winds his hands around the base, above the injuries so that he won't agitate the fresh wounds, they… they don't feel like flesh and blood. Though the feathers are soft and have flex and give to them, much like real feathers, the actual physical wing under them feels hard, unyielding. Like metal.

Desmond is gasping for breath now, shuddering under his hands. He almost tips over and stumbles forward, getting his arms under him just in time to keep himself somewhat upright – it arches his back and makes the wings bristle.

Sensitive, Altaïr thinks, and smoothes the feathers he ruffled back down. "Does this hurt?" he asks.

"I don't know," Desmond chokes out and bows his head. "Fuck, I can – I can feel you when you do that, down to your atoms."

Altaïr frowns. "Atoms?" he asks slowly, holding his hands loosely over the wing joints.

"Matter – what everything is built of. Building blocks of the universe."

Altaïr sets that thought aside for later review and then winds his hands up, to the top of the joints. "Do you wish for me to stop?"

"… no?" Desmond more asks than anything – but it's answer enough.

Altaïr presses down lightly on the top of the wing joints, and then runs his hands down. He can already tell there is the usual structure of a wing under them – they are three jointed counting the base of the wings, much like a bird's. While Desmond gasps for a breath, Altaïr strokes his hands down to the second joint, spreading the wings out as he does.

"How much control do you have over them?" Altaïr asks.

"I – I haven't really tried to control them," Desmond admits. "I just try stop them."

"Move them."

Desmond shudders slightly and arches his back. There is a twitch that runs through the wings, rustling the feathers slightly – but aside from some tension they barely move. Altaïr looks them over and then runs his hands to the third and last wing joints – and squeezes.

"Try again," he orders, gripping there. There's another shudder, another bit of tension, but the wings hardly move.

"Fuck, I don't know how – I haven't exactly gotten used to having extra limbs," Desmond mutters and looks at him over his shoulder.

"They tensed and moved when you hurt yourself," Altaïr says, releasing the wings. "So they can be moved. You aren't trying hard enough."

"Hey," Desmond says with a tone of complaint and then gasps as Altaïr presses his hands under his wings, and digs his finger into his bare skin, searching for muscles there, for sinews – for a nerve to manipulate. "Oh, shit – ow –" Desmond complains but doesn't try to move away, only arches further into Altaïr's hands, so he doesn't feel particularly inclined to stop.

"Try again," Altaïr says and Desmond lets out a frustrated breath – but he tries again.

There are a lot of strange muscles in the man's back, connecting to the wings – but what affects what is hard to tell. Altaïr can feel them strain under his hands as Desmond tries to move his wings – and for a moment it looks like he might actually be able to lift them where they once more lay, limp, at each side of him.

Then Altaïr's thumb presses on a slightest dip in the man's skin where strange bones and muscles connect – and Desmond lets out a cry, and the wing on that side thrusts out, spreading itself and flaring out it's feathers, like wing of a bird about to take flight. Altaïr releases the nerve he found and as Desmond squirms the wing falls.

"There," Altaïr says, and then seeks out the same nerve on the other side. He gives Desmond no time to adjust, pressing on both nerves at the same time, and enjoying the sharp snap of the wings both flaring out. They almost slam him between them as they do, surrounding him in rustle of gold. It's certainly something.

And what more, Altaïr's faint concept of a theory is proven correct. "You're not glowing."

"W-what?" Desmond asks and immediately flicker of light runs down the wings, sparkling between the feathers like sunlight seen through foliage.

Altaïr presses on the nerves again, harder. Desmond winces as the wings snap out automatically – and the flicker fades. "If the period of time it takes for the build up to finish is always roughly the same, then the buildup should have already finished," Altaïr says. "Why hasn't it?"

Desmond draws a breath, lifting his head. "You're – you're distracting me, somehow," he says, confused, and looks at Altaïr over his shoulder. "How did you know how to do that?"

"I didn't," Altaïr admits and presses his hands flat on the man's back. There's a flicker of gold there – as if now that Desmond is aware of its absence, it's coming back in force. "So why does it work?"

Desmond frowns and looks ahead. "It's – distraction," he says. "The ability is tied to my consciousness – my subconscious mind, rather. And you are very distracting."

His skin is glowing under Altaïr's hands again, so he presses on the nerves again, and it stops with the snap of the wings. Desmond lets out a grunt of discomfort at it, but doesn't object. "Tell me how it works," Altaïr demands.

"Shit, I don't know," Desmond mutters, even while pushing into his hands. "You've been here less than an hour and you already know better than I do, apparently. I have no idea how you're doing that or why it works."

Altaïr lets out a wry snort at that. "On some level you seem to work like an Apple of Eden affects people," he says. "With it there is disconnect between the part that controls the body of a subject – and another that controls the mind. And if you can disturb one part, you can disrupt the other."

He can't remember it quite right – there are enormous gaps in his memories where knowledge should be and isn't. Desmond hadn't made his mind whole enough to recall everything. But Altair knows the Codex inside and out – even though he can't remember the process of writing it – and he knows the Memory Seals. He knows he spend time mastering that aspect of the technology, the mental and the physical, and how to break through both so that no one could ever use a Piece of Eden to control him, body or mind.

He'd supposes he must have tried to teach it to others – some of this seems natural to the Mentor of the Brotherhood that he barely recalls being. He probably taught it to his sons, at least.

"So you – you're doing what, distracting my body enough to distract my mind?" Desmond asks, sparks of gold appearing on his skin and then disappearing. He sounds confused. "It – can't be that simple."

Altaïr doesn't answer, easing a thumb under the bloodstained bandages. Desmond's back flexes and he turns to look back again. "You're trying to use me," he realises. "Like I really was a Piece of Eden, you're trying to make me do something?"

Altaïr doesn't bother to deny it. "So far, you seem to be reacting to it."

Desmond scowls at him. "I need your help but I'm not a tool for you to utilise. I'm not actually an Apple of Eden."

And yet you're not pulling away, Altaïr thinks but doesn't bother saying it. Instead he tugs at the bandages. "May I take these off?"

Desmond sighs. "Sure."

With the bandages stiff with dry blood on the top and at the side, there'd be no unwinding them without considerable trouble, so Altaïr doesn't even bother – he just cuts through them with a blade, and then peels the pieces off, one by one. They've stuck to the wounds here and there, but though it must hurt, Desmond doesn't complain, just waits, hanging his head, until Altaïr gets all the cloth out of the way.

The wounds aren't as bad as he assumed – but in some way they're worse. The skin is torn around the edges of the wounds, punched up in other places. The damage is strange enough that Altaïr can imagine how it happened – how the wings burst out through the skin, tearing and pushing flesh out of their way.

Altaïr examines the wounds and then leans back. "These should have been sewn," he says. "The excess skin cut."

Desmond lets out a wry laugh at that, and flicker of light runs through him again. "There wasn't time – and Ezio is too afraid of me to dare."

Altaïr thinks of the black robed assassin and hums. "Are you prone to infection?" he asks then and starts checking his belt pouches. In life Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad had carried enough to treat his own wounds in the field if he had to, and with luck Desmond made him with similar preparedness in mind.

"I doubt it," Desmond says and looks back at him. One of his irises has a spark of light gleaming inside it. "What are you doing?"

"If left like this they will heal wrong. And they are already healing," Altaïr says and takes out a spool of catgut and a needle, checking to see that they're clean. Then he takes two clear bottles – one of hard clear alcohol and other brine as salty as he could make it. Knowledge of the future gleaned through the Apple of Eden; knowledge which he supposes has been lost since his time since he didn't write it in his codex, and the codex is the only part of him that survived.

It's good to see that they had been remade along with him. Though how Desmond knew of them well enough to recreate them…

Desmond frowns, looking at the spool and the bottles, considering look on his face. Then he looks ahead. "Yeah, alright," he says and pulls away from Altaïr. He turns, instead, to lie on his stomach on the floor, resting his cheek on the stone and sighing. "Do what you can."

With a nod, Altaïr quickly unbuckles his bracers, letting both of them fall to the floor before rolling his sleeves up and pouring enough of the alcohol on his hands to clean them. Then he takes out a knife, cleans it too, and after moment of consideration starts cutting the bunched up excess skin off.

Physicality is a key point, Altaïr muses later while Desmond lies stiffly on the floor, breathing hard. There is no flicker of gold now – the man is in too much pain to muster it, it seems, or just too distracted. It's not a particularly kind way to learn the limits of one's powers, or the strength of his endurance – but it is enough to avert whatever destruction Desmond so fears doing.

"I think I would like to see you let the power loose, at least once, so that I will better understand it," Altaïr says, running a piece of linen over the freshly sewn skin to check that the stitches are holding. They are ugly, nowhere near the neatness of the better field healers of Masyaf, but they will hold the man's back together long enough for it to heal naturally.

"It's – it's dangerous," Desmond says against his own bare arm, his voice shaky and wet. There are tears on his face, but Altaïr makes no comment on them. "I might undo you."

"Then concentrate on something else and don't," Altaïr says and spends a moment longer mopping up the blood before reaching for a fresh roll of bandages.

As it is, he's not particularly worried about being undone now. He's already proven his worth – Desmond needs his help. If the man has any control over his ability, knowing or not, it would be enough to protect him. And if not…

It's not as if Altaïr truly has a life to lose.

Desmond looks at him one eyed, the other pressed against his tattooed arm, and sighs. "You are alive," he objects the unspoken thought. "You have heart and lungs and brains. That's alive enough for me."

Altaïr doesn't answer, just starts unwinding the bandage.

He remembers dying at ninety-two in the library under Masyaf and he knows he did. Yet this body is that of a much younger man than that, a man at his peak and glory – which he is not entirely sure what to think about. So far from home, in a land he doesn't think he ever visited in life, they made his image, an idol of him as the man he had been at his worst.

The real Altaïr would have preferred to be depicted as old man, he thinks. At his wisest, rather than at his strongest. That was what meant more to him in the end – the wisdom of years lived and knowledge accumulated, not the strength of body at peak condition for killing.

It feels odd, this body. It moves like it should but it feels off.

Desmond looks at him silently and then closes his eyes. "Ezio is coming," he says. "He's going to freak out when he sees this."

Altaïr frowns and looks up. He's stained with blood all the way up to his wrists and there is blood on the floor at each side of Desmond's torso – all over his feathers now. It makes for a gruesome sight, he muses, and then goes back to the act of bandaging the freshly sewn skin anew.

Soon he hears steps, and then how sharply they stop. Ezio Auditore da Firenze, as the man introduced himself, stands behind the stone baluster separating the sanctuary from the stairs leading down to it, and stares, horrified, at the scene they're making.

He says something in tongue Altaïr doesn't know and Altaïr smothers the irritation at that inane barrier of languages and concentrates onto the task at hand. Even Eagle Vision doesn't help – Ezio shows up blue within that sight, clear and bright, and that's the only reason Altaïr doesn't bother to feel alarm at his tone of voice, sharp and demanding.

Desmond answers something tiredly, waving a hand, and as Altaïr works they talk some more, Ezio stuttering through questions and Desmond giving short, weary answers.

There's a flash of light Altaïr pauses to follow from the wing joint to the feathers. It's brighter than the flashes before, more insistent, and is immediately followed by others.

"He affects you more," Altaïr says. "Why does he affect you this much."

"Because I'm too damn guilty," Desmond sighs. "You have no idea how badly I've mangled his future already. And he's terrified of me and that – sucks. A lot."

Altaïr looks up – yes, a blind man could see how afraid Ezio Auditore is. "It – sucks?" Altaïr asks dubiously.

"It's unfortunate and I hate it," Desmond clarifies. "I'm close to him. I watched him from his birth almost all the way to his death. Never been so close to a person – and he doesn't know me at all, except as object of divine terror he's duty bound to protect no matter how it terrifies him. It feels fucking awful."

"He's alive now," Altaïr comments.

"And I come from the future," Desmond says and then looks at him. "He's offering you accommodations upstairs, by the way. They've set a room for you."

Altaïr nods slowly and eases the end of the bandage under the rest, tying it up as nearly as he can. "And you?"

"I'm staying down here," Desmond says and closes his eyes, falling lax on the floor. "Without you I'm going to blow up again."

Altaïr gives him a look. "Then come up with me and don't," he says and considers the flickers of light that accumulate under Desmond's skin, forming angular patterns, like those on the Apple.

While the Italian Assassin watches warily, Altaïr rises to stand on his knees and then presses his bloodstained thumbs on Desmond's even dirtier back. Desmond lets out a grunt of discomfort and pain as his wings flare out again in reflex – it's not enough anymore to smother the gold entirely, but it makes it fade. Altaïr's hands in his feathers, tugging at the blood stained edges, work out the rest – the man gets more sensitive the more gold there is, so it gets easier to cut him off. It's a wonder no one noticed it before.

Considering Ezio Auditore da Firenze's reaction now, no one dared to try, dared to touch the creature who now arches so eagerly and helplessly into Altaïr's hands. Just as well, Altaïr thinks darkly as he stains Desmond's feathers worse with the blood on is hands. He doesn't think he could share.

Desmond lets out a huff at that thought and looks at him. "If I go up there, every single person in that house who knows about me is going to stay awake and alert and afraid all night," he says. "And Ezio is in terrible need of rest, I won't take it from him."

Altaïr harrumphs, disappointed, and releases the man's wings. "Then we will both stay down here," he says. "Ask if we might have blankets here – and some water for washing."

Desmond eyes him for a moment, looking like he might be about to object to it. Then he turns to address Ezio, who looks between them warily, worriedly. Altaïr looks at the man past the edge of his hood – watching his terribly conflicted expression with interest.

"Is he duty bound to you?" Altaïr asks quietly. Ezio obviously feeling guilty for not doing this perceived duty, but is relieved at the same time that Altaïr might be taking it up for him.

"No," Desmond says. "Minerva asked him to care for me and he did, he got me out of where I came through. Ezio takes these things pretty seriously though, and I don't know how to release him from his obligations without making him feel worse."

"If he is an Assassin, he will get over it," Altaïr says and stands up, considering the Italian Assassin. If Ezio was one of his, he probably would send the man out on a mission, something easy but long winded enough to give him distance and time to sort himself out. But he is not a Mentor here, and he hardly knows this time at all, never mind well enough to be giving suggestions or orders.

And right now he has more pressing concerns, doesn't he?

Ezio finally nods and with a last muttered word to Desmond he turns to go. Desmond doesn't get up from the floor, shifting only so that he can fold his arms under his head, the wings barely twitching as he does. "He's going to fetch us blankets, towels and water," he says. "I also asked food for you."

"Not for yourself?" Altaïr asks with interest.

Desmond says nothing for a moment. "I think I could," he admits thoughtfully. "I still have the internal organs and everything. But I don't need to anymore. I don't get hungry."

Altaïr considers him, wondering if that is a loss or a relief for the man. Desmond doesn't have the body of a man who might enjoy food for food's sake alone… but at the same time food is still more than necessity for most – there is a enjoyment to it, too. And it is a very physical thing, to eat, to taste… to sate hunger.

Desmond looks up to him, his cheek resting on his bent arm. "You're more material than I thought you'd be," he comments thoughtfully. "Never took you as one for, you know… bodily gratification. You always seemed so cerebral."

Altaïr arches his brow. "Maybe he was – and maybe you made me this way because it is what you need," he comments.

Desmond frowns at that, looking uneasy. "I – didn't mean to," he says quietly, and again there is that light, building up.

Altaïr lets out a sigh and crouches down to press a hand on the middle of his back. He puts some of his weight on it, enough so that Desmond grunts out slightly as Altaïr's weight makes it hard for him to breathe. The light sputters out like flame on a cooling hearth.

"You didn't," Altaïr says, watching the last of golden embers fade on the man's wings. "Assassin or not he was still a man. And one can't dedicate himself wholly to a Creed without losing some part of their humanity. Entertainment and pleasure, whatever form one might wish to seek it, was encouraged for downtime even in his youth – and later he made it near rule. An Assassin without any outlet for relief and respite is one who will break the fastest. And he enjoyed his humanity, at the face of what the Pieces of Eden imply."

Desmond shudders as Altaïr runs his hand down his spine, exerting enough pressure to make sure Desmond feels it, scraping his nails at each side of his vertebrae. It leaves red smears on the man's already dirty back, but the skin deep reaction is much more interesting. Desmond's skin prickles up in a shiver, the fine hairs standing on their ends – it affects his wings too, making his feathers bristle.

Altaïr smiles. Whatever humanity this new form of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad has, he's going to enjoy it too, he knows – especially at the face of this particular piece of the paradise.

Chapter Text

"Have you used an Apple of Eden before?" Altaïr asks, dipping the horse hair brush in water and using it to wipe the blood off the golden feathers, watching the tint of rust fade and the gold begin to gleam. The wings are almost clean now, but for the deepest feathers, where the blood has sunk and dried in clumps.

"Yes," Desmond agrees, one of his wings extended forward and held aloft, examining it while Altaïr cleans the other. Altaïr can't see his expression, but the way he manually handles the wing, tugging at it and clawing at the now clean feathers, it can't be too pleased.

"Can you tell me how your ability compares to the feel of using the Apple?"

The winged man is silent for a moment, tugging at the feathers while Altaïr dips the brush in the water to rinse it again. "I don't know how," Desmond then admits. "Using the Apple came so easily – I just… did it. The change I do, it's… I don't know."

Altaïr gives him an unimpressed look, despite the fact that Desmond can't see it. He can probably feel it. "What is the sensation like?"

Desmond blows out a frustrated breath. "It feels like lightning, like energy – I don't know how to explain it. Like static electricity, but it's under my skin and constant. Uh – have you ever gotten shocked by touching something, getting sparked by wool, things like that?"

Altaïr gives him a hum of agreement.

"It feels a bit like that – but also like my blood is hotter than it should be, except it's not my blood," Desmond mutters and then grabs a tighter hold of the last joint of his wing, spreading out the feathers, pushing them aside to reveal metallic flesh under the golden fluff. He presses a thumb there, and in answer an angular spark of gold races down the digit, over the back of his hand, down his wrist. It follows neither the lines of his bones or flesh, nor the lines of his veins – there is little organic about the streak of gold. It looks like it was drawn with a ruler instead.

"This is mechanical, in a way – it's metal, kind of," Desmond says, reaching his other hand and rubbing his thumb over the gleaming streak. "Circuitry. You know nerves, what they do, what they're for, how they connect to the brain?"

Altaïr frowns and considers the streak, letting the brush rest lightly against Desmond's feathers. "It came up in my studies," he agrees, though he can't remember it clearly. It's one of the bits of knowledge he gleaned from the Apple of Eden, he assumes – or it might be something Desmond had given him. "They connect to the wings, is that how they are rooted to your body?"

Desmond shrugs, and lets the end of the wing lower, its feathers sliding amongst teach other, hiding the metallic skin underneath. "The integration is weird," he mutters. "It goes deep, but not deep enough. Minerva designed it well, but – I don't know. It's like she tried to keep me more human than she should have. I'm still flesh and blood mostly, and because of that the circuitry had to be run all throughout, otherwise it would've killed me, probably."

"Hmm," Altaïr says, considering it. Piece of Eden wired into a human body, dangerous and otherworldly all by itself – but the idea that it had been done so intentionally, that Desmond had been kept more mortal in flesh intentionally… "She could've made you something else?"

"Sure," Desmond agrees. "I could be mechanical all throughout, an android made of human body. With the Eye, it would've been easy to do. Probably easier than this."

Altaïr leans back and then turns his attention to the bloody feathers, continuing their cleaning. Had it been to give Desmond an intentional weakness, or for some other reason? Well, the motivation behind it doesn't matter as much as the side effects, now, he muses and dips the brush in water again. "I want you to use it," he says.

Desmond draws a frustrated breath and glances at him over his shoulder, over the wing, his expression uncomfortable.

"I want to see how it works," Altaïr says, flat. "You want me to control it and I will do my utmost to manage it, but I need to know what it is I am to control."

"It's dangerous," Desmond mutters. "I told you – I could undo you. I've undone things I did before. Just – poof and they were gone."

Altaïr shakes his head and turns his eyes to the feathers again. "You need me – you can't afford to undo me," he says, and brushes out more of the blood. "Focus on that – concentrate on something else and change that instead."

Desmond's cheek flexes at that, but he sighs and looks away, searching the sanctuary. They now have blankets and mattresses and pillows, even food. Ezio Auditore had been glad to deliver them – and gladder still to leave afterwards, with Desmond urging him to get rest. By luck, they wouldn't see anyone else in the Sanctuary until morning, whenever that would be – which would give Altaïr the time in private he needed to experiment.

He spreads out the feathers, putting his fingers under one, and brushing over it with the horsehair. "I can already see where the faultline lies," he says calmly. "You are physically more sensitive now, correct?"

Desmond lets out a huff of air at that, amused and sarcastic and annoyed all at once. "Yeah," he agrees.

Altaïr nods. "I can control you with surprising physical sensations – or just distracting ones," he says, smiling wryly as Desmond shudders. "But that is an unsustainable method of control. There is a mental component to it that you are not in control of – a mental component, which you need to master."

Desmond says nothing to that – he's figured it out too, he just doesn't like it and doesn't yet know how to go about managing it.

Looking at the line of the man's neck, the way his muscles tense under the slightly sweaty skin, the Assassin smiles wryly and dips the brush in the water again. He can guess at why it is so hard for the man – why it would be hard on anyone. Desmond was a man, now he's equivalent to a god, with some of a god's abilities – surely enough to overwhelm the mind of an even greater man than he is. Considering that Desmond is now also telepathic, clairvoyant, and perhaps equivalent to a seer… he has the makings of omnipotence as well.

Anyone would be afraid of themselves in such circumstances.

"Physical exhaustion might ease the strain somewhat," Altaïr comments. Physical distraction helps, so exhaustion might clear the man's head a little. Easier than tackling the secrets and troubles of the man's mind, too.

Desmond snorts at that. "I'm already physically exhausted," he mutters and releases the wing he's holding, letting it flop down.

Altaïr gives the wing a displeased look. "Don't lay it on the floor," he says and slaps Desmond's shoulder with the flat end of the brush lightly – not hard enough to hurt. "Lift it up."

"You are so bossy," Desmond mutters, annoyed, but he tries – the wing twitches and quivers and slowly lifts up. "I think I'd prefer it if you were at least a little bit afraid of me."

Considering that he was made exactly how the man preferred him to be, Altaïr doesn't bother with an answer to that. "Different type of physical exhaustion," he says instead. "Satiation might be a better word. Or repletion."

Desmond shudders under the implication of that, his wings curling up a little, feathers sliding from Altaïr's hold. Altaïr looks down and then up, interested. That's the most reaction he's gotten out of the man, disregarding the physical shocks he's given him.

"You mean," Desmond starts and then grows very still. "Huh."

Altaïr leans back, wishing he wasn't sitting behind the man – he wants to see his expression.

What he'd meant, originally, was the exhaustion after intentional physical exercise. Tiredness and fatigue after a good spar could be as good as meditation for most Assassins – and Desmond had been an Assassin once. He still wears the blade, and even now he does not take it off, so he must have some training – and being beaten into exhaustion by a good workout is definitely better for a man mentally than being constantly worn down by what amounts to a debilitating physical ailment like the one Desmond's wings cause.

But Desmond is thinking instead of sex.

Altaïr looks down and then wets the brush in the water bowl. "Though if the build up resumes as quickly as it does from disruptive shocks, I suppose it would be even more exhausting, as a whole," he says and then, calculatingly, adds, "For both of us."

He wasn't sure Desmond had enough blood left in him to blush, but there it is. "Um," the winged man says.

Altaïr snorts and turns the brush to the feathers again. "In either case, first you will use it and show me."

"Christ," the would be angel mutters, the back of his neck red. "Fine – what should I do, then?"

Good. He's finally thinking of enforcing his own control – though the fact that even then he looks for orders is… "Give me languages," Altaïr says.

"I'm sorry?"

"You have stranded me in a place and time where I know not the local languages – so give them to me," Altaïr says, with more outward confidence than he actually feels. From what he's heard, it would be much more delicate a change than Desmond has managed so far.

Desmond gives him an incredulous look over his shoulder and Altaïr looks back, steady, setting his mind on it. "You have made a man from stone – surely you can teach him to speak now."

Desmond shakes his head. "You are something else. I just told you – what if I –"

"You won't – you can't afford to," Altaïr says, and leans in to enforce this fact with a glare. "You need me – and I need to understand. What would be a better way?"

"You are insane. I could kill you!"

"Then make me again," Altaïr says flippantly. "You did it once –"

Desmond moves then, turning around and then pulling away from him, his feathers slipping from Altaïr's fingers. Altaïr considers clutching to them and keeping him near, reminding him of the access he had given him... but lets him go at the end. When Desmond stands to restlessly pace the Sanctuary floor, Altaïr stays kneeling upon it, smothering his irritation.

"Do you want me to control you, or do you want me to coddle you?" he asks, watching the wings slump, feathers dragging on the floor.

"I don't – fuck it, Altaïr," Desmond mutters, rubbing his hands over his neck, where the gold already flickers. "I don't want to risk you, risk hurting you. And I don't know if I could just make you again – I don't know how I did it in the first place and maybe I wouldn't do it again even if I could, have you considered that? Maybe, just maybe, you're gonna be unique. And maybe I don't want to risk it."

Altaïr considers him, turning the fear over in his head. It's understandable, if annoying. "Fine," he says, eyeing the sparks of gold racing on the man's skin. "Something else to start with, then. Concentrate on creating yourself clothes, perhaps, ones that function with the wings."

Desmond looks at him with surprise, perhaps not expecting him to relent. "I, uh. I don't know how. I mean – how to make clothes. To make them, I would have to know how they work and –"

For heaven's sake. Altaïr stands up, dropping the brush in the pail of pink water, and moves to him. "Then take the design from my head – look," he says, and while Desmond stares at him with confusion Altaïr takes his lax, gold speckled hand in his, and presses the man's fingers to his forehead. "Look at what I'm thinking."

Then, as though designing a new armour, Apple in hand and the safety and comfort of his Brotherhood in mind, Altaïr mentally fashions a set of robes, ones that would neither disturb the wings nor be disturbed by them. He wants to be still able to touch them, touch the skin between them, so the back would have to be open. For ease of use, they would have to be pulled on feet first, therefore the way they were fastened would be by the neck, a set of fastenings – or buttons – at the back –

"That is not a robe – that's a dress," Desmond says, his voice rough.

Altaïr scoffs, closes his eyes, and thinks a cowl over the robes to hide his head and shoulders, a set of sleeves to be held together by strings under it, a belt, a split hem – judging by the noise he's making, Desmond doesn't think it's much better. Increasingly irritated, Altaïr thinks of armour over it, of a belt that goes around the waist under the wings, thinks of pouches, supplies – Desmond, dressed and kitted as an Assassin, like he once was, with gauntlets and greaves and chain mail, perhaps some of the chest armour Ezio Auditore wears – the armour he made, made of the materials the Apple showed him –

"Okay, okay, I get it," Desmond whispers, as the light shines through Altaïr's eyelids, like a sudden sunrise right in front of him. "Damn, your mind," the would be angel chokes out.

Altaïr opens his eyes and then watches, breathless, as the light builds into a crashing crescendo. Desmond called it exploding, and he's not far off – like with the Apple, there's a concentration of powerful beams of light which surround Desmond like perfectly straight flames of a great yellow fire – there's a rising of noise and then the sudden fall, as everything Desmond had been gathering releases all at once.

It's like when Abbas tried to use the Apple, becoming little more than an enslaved conduit for it, unable to stop it or control it, constantly drawing and releasing, drawing and releasing, debilitating all of Masyaf with the power. It feels similar also, like your whole body quivering with tension and then releasing to climax.

Altaïr shudders as Desmond wavers – and catches him as he falls, now fully clothed in the robes that that been a mere thought before.

"I think I will pass out again," Desmond slurs against his shoulder, his face hidden under the hood of his cowl. Altaïr opens his mouth to answer, but no noise comes out, no words form. Desmond is heavy in his arms, useless, barely able to lift his head – struggling to stay awake.

Altaïr manages a nod, and with that permission Desmond is out like a light.

With Desmond asleep, Altaïr takes the opportunity to finally finish cleaning the man's wings, once and for all. It's much easier with him out cold, and it gives Altaïr time to settle his still racing heart, his even more chaotic thoughts. And if his hands shake while he brushes the feathers clean, well… Desmond isn't awake enough to see it.

The thought finally occurs that he is toying with powers he only barely understands and can only marginally control. Desmond is a deceptively yielding container for the power of creation as well as destruction, and he is in many ways submitting himself to Altaïr, to be controlled and managed. Altaïr had thought he understood it, thought he knew it, but…

After making Desmond comfortable against the cushions in his new robes and armour, Altaïr ventures into the house above. He'd been shown around it, before. Ezio had with the help of Leonardo da Vinci given him a tour of the mansion, but Altaïr had not really cared, not beyond determining in how much danger he might be in. He'd been welcomed kindly, if with reservations, told to feel at home… but mostly the mansion turned his stomach, in all of its opulence and splendour. The food, the obviously valuable paintings, the fine furniture and rich decorations, all of it.

Ezio Auditore is obviously a very wealthy man, and he sees nothing amiss with it, either.

It's night now, though, and the candles have burned low enough to hide the gleam of wealth. There is no sign of Ezio himself, the man had likely taken Desmond's suggestion to rest. The rest of the mansion seems similarly asleep, and the one awake – and on the watch – is the woman Assassin with an indecent habit, Sister Teodora. She is sitting in Mario Auditore's office now, looking at his Codex where it is pinned on the wall.

She looks troubled. "Are you in need of something?" she asks in Arabic, her voice soft but not overly friendly.

Teodora had hidden knowing the language before, revealing it only to speak to Desmond, to question him. Altaïr doesn't yet know enough to fault or praise her for it, but it makes him wary.

"No," he says, looking around. He doesn't want to stay in the mansion, but he sorely needs a break from the Sanctuary. "Desmond is asleep and I mean to take a look outside – am I allowed?"

She blinks at him. "Who would stop you?" she asks and motions to the door. "You can enter back courtyard there. Do you want company?"

"If you will answer my questions," Altaïr answers, considering her He'd prefer to go alone and sort out his thoughts... but he also needs more information. He could part ways with her later, if proved fruitless.

Teodora considers his words and then rises. "Answers for answers," she says. "I have some questions of my own."

"If they are religious in nature, I am not the one to ask," Altaïr warns her warily, thinking of what Desmond had, rather off hand, said about her faith.

"More philosophical, at this point," she admits. "I know you were never a man for religious faith, your writings prove as much."

Altaïr hums. "You have read the Codex?"

"And everything written by you or about you that still remains," Teodora agrees.

They step out, and once outside in the cooler night air, Altaïr draws a breath. In that, in bodily functions, he is fully human, at least – enough so that fresh air tastes sweet to him. Desmond, he isn't so sure of. The man still breathes, but whether he needs to is another question.

Monteriggioni, as they introduced the fortress to him, is as sleep as the grand mansion standing above it. It reminds him a little of Masyaf, as it had once been, before the air grew colder and the winters too long for crops on the mountainside. Before the Mongols began reaching further and further south.

Before they abandoned it in favour of the Brotherhood's survival and Altaïr entombed himself with the Apple into final rest.

"Are Assassins centred around this place?" Altaïr asks, while Teodora follows him to the fortress's walls.

"As they once were around Masyaf?" Teodora guesses. "Not as such – we are here now because of Desmond and Ezio and what has been happening. But ordinarily we are more spread out – I in Venice, Paola in Florence, and so forth."

Altaïr hums. "And the Auditore rule this place," he muses.

"Mario is the Condottiero of Monteriggioni, and as such he manages it, yes," she agrees and looks at him. "It was the safest place to keep one such as Desmond and hide his power."

That much Altaïr had understood. There is also a connection between Desmond and Ezio Auditore he does not yet fully understand, but which makes Desmond very guilty – that connection is likely the reason all of this is happening. "Will you tell me of the Brotherhood, as it stands now?"

"Ezio did not tell you?"

"The necessity of translation made it awkward," Altaïr admits – and Teodora's grasp of Arabic is much better than Leonardo da Vinci's. "I might have misunderstood."

Teodora hums. "Very well."

She tells him of how the Brotherhood was established in northern parts of the Italian Peninsula – of the Auditore, who moved in, settled in Monteriggioni, and became something of a cornerstone for the Assassins in the area… and how it all eventually fell by the wayside, as times changed.

Renato Auditore, she tells him, Mario Auditore's grandfather, was their last proper Mentor, under whom all the branches of the Brotherhood worked united. With his death they lost their leadership, and eventually the Brotherhood fell apart, and contact was lost with the other branches in other nations. The Spanish now have their own Mentor, whom the Italians do not recognize as such, the Ottoman Assassins work for their royal family more than for the Creed, and of the rest Teodora knows next to nothing. She knows there are still branches of Assassins in France, even in England, but they keep so well to themselves as to not exist at all. She doesn't even know if they follow the Creed anymore.

"All this happened before I was recruited," she says. "And we believe things are turning around now."

"How so?" Altaïr asks while trying not to scowl at the state of the Brotherhood. It had been his – or the original Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad's – intention that the Brotherhood would no longer be chained to a single fortress but they had never intended for it to fracture like this.

"Now we have Ezio," Teodora says. "And he, like Renato, like you, bears the Gift. It is already changing things. And he is the Prophet."

Altaïr looks up sharply. "Ezio Auditore is the Prophet?"

"Yes," Teodora says and looks at him, brows arched. "You did not know? He was in Venice when the Templars brought the Apple of Eden from Cyprus – he took it to Rome, and from there he brought out Desmond."

Altaïr looks away. Of course – he hadn't even thought of it. Nor had he ever understood that particular bit of prophecy – a version of him might have written it down, but it was never meant for any version of him. Ezio Auditore is the Prophet – no wonder then.

And yet, Ezio is afraid of Desmond – and Desmond feels guilty for Ezio. None of it is helping Desmond with control.

"Hm," Altaïr hums and then sets the thought aside. "You have questions of your own," he says. "Ask them."

Teodora hesitates, looking away and over the countryside beyond the walls of Monteriggioni. "Do you believe the Assassins are necessary?"

Altaïr stops and looks at her with surprise. "What kind of question is that?"

"A very simple one, I should think. Do you think Assassins are necessary?" Teodora asks, not letting slip what she thinks. "Do you think the world needs us?"

Altaïr turns to face her fully. He's been questioned on such matters before – but rarely by a fellow Assassin, not unless they were on the brink of losing their faith, as it were, in the Brotherhood's effectiveness. "No," he says. "Do you?"

Teodora obviously wasn't expecting the answer. "No? But – you're Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad."

"Yes. Should that make me naïve or stupid?" Altaïr asks. "I have seen lands Assassins have never set foot upon, and those lands succeeded well enough without our presence. No, the Assassins are obviously not a necessity."

"Then – what is the point of it all?" she demands. "Why have a Brotherhood at all if it doesn't matter?"

Altaïr blinks. "Why wouldn't it matter?" he asks. "We kill the guilty, the tyrants and monsters who would harm innocents and control the masses – or has that changed?"

"But if we're not a necessity…"

"What is necessary and what is good are different things. You are forgetting your Creed," Altaïr says sharply. "Nothing is True, Everything is Permitted. The world cares not if we exist or not, it will move on regardless. But we can make it better for those who have no such means themselves. Or has that changed?" he demands and motions to the mansion, in all of its splendor. "Do Assassins now look for their own wealth and wellbeing alone?"

"What – no, of course not!" Teodora says, alarmed, and then looks at the house of the Auditore. "Though it does rather look that way from this standpoint, doesn't it?"

Altaïr scoffs at her and gives the mansion a look. The castle of Masyaf had a grand design, but its people were humble. They ate the same food, wore the same robes, their rooms were plain and shared. The only luxury they had were the women of the garden – a practice Altaïr ended as soon as he could – and what privileged rank allowed them. There were no expensive paintings, no art, no fine wine – no luxury goods for the sake of them. The greatest luxury in Masyaf was to have a family and the privilege to keep them in safety and comfort.

Teodora looks at him thoughtfully. "Things have changed somewhat, but the core of the Brotherhood remains. Ezio is blessed with more than his fair share of economic cunning – but he has put the money first to Monteriggioni and then to the Villa."

Altaïr hums, not sure how well he trusts that justification.

"It is one of the reasons we have such hope for him," Teodora admits. "There's a spark of greatness in him, we knew this even before he proved to be the Prophet. Perhaps one day we will see the Brotherhood under him – perhaps then we will be great again."

"If you do not lose your faith first," Altair comments.

A little surprisingly, the woman laughs. "No," she says and offers him a smile. "I don't think I will, anymore. Thank you, Mentor."

"For what, questioning your morals?" Altaïr asks, snorting.

"For reminding me," Teodora says and shakes her head. "I got so tangled in the questions of fate and destiny that I forgot; it's quite simple in the end. Assassins help people, in their own shadowed ways. That's all we need, isn't it? To help people."

Altaïr considers the words and then shakes his head. "Not quite all," he says wryly – he certainly demands more from life that humble service to others, and obviously so does Ezio Auditore. "But it's a good place to start."

Teodora departs back to the mansion not much after, humming as she goes. Altaïr doesn't look after her, turning his eyes instead to the countryside, watching the peaceful rolling hills of Tuscany disappearing into the darkness. 

What is the necessity of Assassins, what is their purpose – and how does his servitude, or lack thereof, to Desmond weigh on that scale? Somewhere in the vicinity of his selfish use of the Apple and his own desires as a man – whatever that might even mean, at this point…

Shaking his head, Altaïr looks around for the tallest tower and then goes to climb it, to let the higher winds clear his head. Perching there, on the flagpole, Altair wonders if he would one day see Desmond fly – if that would be the accumulation of his purpose. That, or bending the man further down, to the ground, to ensure his servitude in return.

The worrying thing is, he's not sure which would be more gratifying – to free Desmond from all the things now holding him back, or to make him kneel and surrender all control to him instead. Both concepts have their allure – and he's not sure Desmond would mind either option.

One thing he does know for sure. Desmond makes him feel powerful in a way he should not enjoy as much as he does. But, by God, he does.

Sighing, Altair looks up to the sky. The clouds above are parting and moon is coming out. In her light Altaïr can see – the hills of Tuscany aren't as empty as he first perceived.

Chapter Text

Ezio sleeps fitfully, his dreams plagued by a rising tide of golden power that keeps following him through the endlessly shattering streets of Florence and Venice, as all the things he thought settled and sure change into shapes he does not understand, into forms that are alien. His face is plastered on thousands golden walls, with a date in place of a sum of florins, 30.11.1524, and no matter how many of those posters he tears down, more keep appearing everywhere. He doesn't know the face on them, and yet it is his own.

Somewhere a voice calls, "Do your duty, Prophet," in tone just short of mockery as Altaïr crouches like a vulture over Desmond's bleeding form, and Ezio wakes in a cold sweat, his whole body tense and clenched under the stifling covers.

There's someone in his bedchamber, and for one utterly deranged moment Ezio is certain it's Desmond – even though he knows in his heart of hearts that the man wouldn't, wouldn't risk it, surely not.

"Ezio," Teodora says in the darkness as Ezio tries not to flinch. "I'm sorry for waking you, but there's trouble – Altaïr says there are soldiers moving about around Monteriggioni?"

"What?" Ezio asks, his voice rough and wheezy. Swallowing, he clears his throat around the tang of bitterness that clenches around it, and asks again. "What? There are mercenaries in Monteriggioni, we –"

"No, soldiers – enemies," Teodora says. "He says he can see them moving, with his Gift – they are scouting out the fortress."

Ezio blinks at her silhouette at the doorway and then runs a palm roughly over his face. His mind feels sluggish and there's still a deep rooted fear coursing in his veins, making his whole body feel like lead. Damn, he hasn't had night terrors since he was less than twenty, not since his Father and Brothers… no time for those thoughts now. "I'll – I'll be right out. Where is Altaïr now?" he asks, thinking to the Sanctuary and what it holds within.

"He went back to the walls to keep watch – I came to wake you as soon as he told me," Teodora says, and glances him over. "Desmond is asleep."

Ezio blows out a breath. Lord, is he so obvious? "Thank you, Teodora."

She nods, looks at him a moment longer, and then withdraws from his room.

Ezio takes a moment, just four slow breaths long, to settle his racing heart. Trying to rationalise his nightmares is harder – they are ludicrous enough to resist it. Yet, the underlying fear remains, and he can't shake it even now, no part of it.

He thinks to the day before, the sight of Desmond on his belly as Altaïr leaned over him with bloody hands and grim intent, and shudders. He isn't sure which is worse – to see a man he once idolised looking so bloodied and predatory, or the sight of Desmond, seemingly… laid low by Altaïr's hand. He had seen the needles, the catgut, the bandages – he knew what Altaïr had done, and can guess at why. But that doesn't make that first horrible impression leave.

For a moment, he had thought Altaïr was in a process of sawing Desmond's wings off with his hidden blade. For a moment it really looked like he might have already tried it.

Ezio blows out the last breath slowly and then sets the mental image aside, to plague him at a later moment, and turns to pull on his clothes instead. His sword, dagger and most of his armour are still at the blacksmiths, he hadn't even bothered to check up on them yet, but he has his bracers and his pouches, and is quick to strap them on.

There is no sight of Teodora – likely she's gone to wake the other Assassins – so Ezio, after a guilty glance towards the Sanctuary entrance, heads outside to find Altaïr. It is the darkest hours of the night – he couldn't have been asleep for more than an hour or two. In the darkness, the Levantine Mentor is not difficult to locate – under the shadowy hues of his Gift, Altaïr glows like a shard taken directly off the sun, his shape clearly visible by the gates where he is crouched, on the roof.

Ezio doesn't hesitate making his way over and climbing up to join him, scaling the gate walls and up to the tower roof, hauling himself onto the roof tiles with a grunt. Altaïr doesn't even look up – only tilting his head a little and nodding to his direction in silent acknowledgement. Ezio says nothing either, it would be no use, but though he still cannot understand what Altaïr says, and Altaïr cannot understand him, he can at least see what the man sees.

Altaïr points, and Ezio crouches beside him, to watch.

There are indeed enemies in the hills. Not many – he counts only three at a sweeping glance, but three is bad enough. They are moving about in the shadows, not quite together but close to each other, taking cover in bushes and trees.

A random patrol of soldiers having strayed this far off the main routes, Ezio could understand. Monteriggioni sits on the border of Florence and Tuscany, with both republics claiming to have right to the lands and to the fortress, so it happens – less these days, however. Neither Florence nor Tuscany will easily risk angering the Assassins, not with their history. Ezio has broken into the heart of both – and slain the leaders of both. Still, every so often a patrol will wander into their area, to test the waters.

But this is no patrol. A patrol would use the road, walk in formation, make a show of it – and there is little point in showmanship in the middle of the night. No, these are spies, sneaking about in secret, getting the lay of the land.

Altaïr hums and Ezio glances at him. The Levantine makes a motion with his hand, as though writing with an invisible quill on his palm – ah. They are making maps of the area. That's even worse.

Ezio considers the town, troubled. The fortress has withstood many attacks in its history, but those were before the invention of cannons, back when the most it had to weather were ballistas, catapults, and perhaps a tower or two. Her walls stand strong, but they have not been tested against a cannon ball – nor would Ezio much like to see them tested thus. Not many old fortresses like Monteriggioni can withstand a more modern bombardment.

And yet, spies making maps of the countryside is not good news. Someone out there has designs upon his home, it seems. And they do not want to advertise those designs.

Altaïr looks at him, tilting his head and then thrusting his hand ever so slightly forward, letting his hidden blade snap out without a sound. Ezio hesitates, considering him. Altaïr had been a great Assassin once, but things have changed – weapons and armour of these times are different. He had designed a pistol three hundred years ago, but would he know to be wary of a rifle? Or a thrown bomb?

… and what would Desmond do, if Altaïr was now harmed?

Ezio shakes his head and then makes a motion at Altaïr, trying to convey stay here at him. The other man scowls at him, obviously not happy, but when Ezio stands, he stays crouched on the roof corner. Once he is certain the old Mentor isn't about to follow him, Ezio looks over the roof's edge, spots a safe landing ground, and jumps.

Darkness makes hunting for the spies an easy work – it even goes some ways into helping Ezio settle his nerves after the fitful night. The air is damp and sweetly cool, and the work helps him set his mind onto something other than his fear and anxiety. This, hunting for hidden enemies, this he knows, this he can master.

For the first time since bringing Desmond to Monteriggioni, Ezio feels properly like an Assassin.

There are more spies than merely three. There are six in total, and they are working with some haste, each mapping out a different section of the area surrounding Monteriggioni and what little of the town they can see. Likely they are – or were – hoping to get their task done and leave Monteriggioni behind as fast as they can before anyone could spot them.

Ezio kills the first four spies, leaving their bodies in the shadow before gathering their work and tools and whatever clues they wear of their employer. Then tracks down the last two, knocking the first out and binding him to a tree and then chasing after the final map maker. The last man is in a process of sneaking away, heading towards where the group must've left their horses – he must have been warned by the silence of compatriots.

Ezio knocks him out with a blow to the back of the head before fetching the horses to carry his still living captives back to Monteriggioni, for interrogation.

"They cannot know what you brought to Monteriggioni," Mario says grimly, while sleepy Leonardo puts together the map the spies had been working on, and Teodora translates for Altaïr what they are saying. "We took care escaping, and no one saw, neither in Rome or on the ship."

"No one did, Uncle. I do not think this has anything to do with Desmond," Ezio admits, stroking his hand over his beard, thinking. "There is no conceivable way anyone could amass an army that fast, or move it to Monteriggioni, not unless they had powers beyond our understanding at their disposal."

"I agree, this has been in plans for quite some time, before you even set out for Roma," La Volpe muses and runs a hand over his chin, eying the map. "Likely a plan to take Monteriggioni and claim the Apple, at any cost. Whether the word has come back to them about what happened or not…"

"It might not matter," Mario muses, folding his arms. "If the army is as big as we fear and their intention to sack the town, then this move has not been cheaply or easily made. Even if we had lost the Apple, to turn back such a force so close to their target would lose them more than the attack itself will. Should they take the town, it would cover the cost of moving the army, even give them profits, even without them winning their goal."

Ezio scowls, not liking to think of Monteriggioni as a  profitable target, though his Uncle is likely right. Side effect of making the town prosperous again is that he'd given it's people and it's businesses wealth – wealth enough to be worth a battle for some.

"What of Florence and Siena?" Claudia asks quietly. "We're – Monteriggioni keeps the balance between the two, and no one could've moved an army towards us without going through lands of one or the other. I thought – I know we're not exactly allies, but…"

"It's never been a comfortable position for our neighbours, Niece," Mario says with a sigh and shakes his head. "I suspect it was Siena that the Borgia allied with here – with the promise that once the town is ransacked and the Papal forces got what they came from… Siena could have what was left. They have no use for indefensible little fort in between two opposing powers, so far away from their other holdings. Siena on other hand…"

 "Can use Monteriggioni against Florence, and gain a little land in the mean time," Claudia sighs. "Damn it all."

"Is there no hope of defending the town?" Paola asks quietly.

"Against an army with cannons, siege towers and who knows what else?" Mario asks grimly. "We've added to the arsenal, but… four cannons is not much, against the dozens we'll likely be facing. At best we were hoping to ever have to face against small assaults – this is an army. My men here are mercenaries, good at their work, but there's not that many of them, and the town's walls are old. They won't stand a day against a modern army."

"So the city is doomed?" Claudia demands. "After all the work we put into it, all the effort – the rebuilding, the settling – it's all doomed?"

There's a quiet while Teodora quietly translates to Altaïr, who is looking increasingly more and more grim.

"We've some warning, and that's better than none," Mario says and sighs. "As much as I wish it was otherwise… it's best we begin preparing to abandon Monteriggioni. Evacuate her people, transport what wealth we can away and – "

"And then what – go where, do what?" Claudia asks, standing up. "Go to Florence, our tails between our legs? Florence is still in tatters after Savonalora and from what Machiavelli says, Soderini isn't overly enthused about past our involvement with the city's politics – I doubt he would exactly welcome us in. Caterina Sforza has her own troubles in Forli and I doubt she'd welcome us either – where could we go? Underground, into hiding, like –"

"Like thieves?" La Volpe asks, darkly amused. "The lifestyle has some aspects to commend itself, lady Claudia – and it lets one avoid trouble."

"I mean no offence, La Volpe – but we have people to consider, the people of Monteriggioni," Claudia says hotly. "Who rely on us to take care of them. Almost five thousand people live here – we can't just abandon them to their fates."

"Claudia," Ezio says with a sigh, and nothing else. The table is tense enough. "Sister, I know you feel afraid, but shouting will not help. Uncle Mario, how long do you think we will have?"

Mario sighs. "Considering the haste they were making these maps with, and what we got out of the spies… I expect not very long at all. A day, at most – they will be here either by evening tomorrow, or most likely the dawn after."

Claudia sits down, letting out a noise of objection. "We have to do something."

Ezio presses his lips together and then looks up – at Altaïr. The old Mentor is already considering him, his eyes hard and calculating. Ezio draws a breath to ask, but… he can't. Having seen the things Desmond could do, his terrible miracles, so powerful and wonderful though they are… he can't ask. There's so much he doesn't know and so much he fears and – and who even knows how Desmond would react to such a situation, such a threat.

He seemed good, in his heart of hearts – but his power… his power isn't good. It isn't kind. At most it's chaotic and at worst terrifying. To turn it in Monteriggioni's defence might be her undoing long before it would be her salvation and Ezio can't risk it, can't bear to ask for it.

Altaïr hums, says something quietly to Teodora and then, with a brief nod to Ezio's direction, he turns to leave the room.

"He's gone to tell Desmond," Teodora explains, needless – there is only one reason why Altaïr would leave, after all. Ezio looks down at the map again while the mood around the table only sours further, with all the hope and dread and conflicted wariness Desmond now brings them all

"Do you think he could – help?" Leonardo asks quietly, turning to Ezio. "With his powers?"

Ezio hums. "Let's assume for now that he can't," he says and looks up. "We'll do what we can, first. There are only so many roads leading to the town, and army with war machines would need roads, yes? Perhaps we can block those roads, buy ourselves some more time that way."

"Not much, but yes, some," Mario muses, leaning over the map, tapping at the area around the fortress. "There are some old structures, buildings, we could use to build some barricades on the roads. It will have to be quick, however – and whatever men we sent to do the work will be men not engaged in the task of evacuating the town. You will have to choose carefully where you spend our manpower, Ezio."

Oh, it's up to him, now? Ezio grimaces. "I'm no war tactician, Uncle," he objects. "Surely you can choose better."

"Perhaps but…" Mario trails away and shakes his head. "Monteriggioni is yours, Ezio. Yours and Claudia's." he nods to her and gives them a proud, of still somewhat grim, smile. "It has been well over ten years now. You two brought the town to it's current state, bringing her up from near ruin and poverty – if these are to be her final days in the hands of Auditore, it feels more fitting… that it will be under the leadership of you two."

Ezio swallows and meet's Claudia's widening eyes. Of course they both knew – Uncle Mario has done little to manage the town's business of governing since Claudia took up the books and Ezio begun bringing money in, but… it had never really been official.

It would be stupid to think it had nothing to do with Desmond. It has everything to do with Desmond.

Evacuate the town – or hunker down, and pray for a miracle. Damn it all.

"Brother, I will not leave this place without a fight," Claudia says quietly. "And neither will anyone who lives here. The people here know who we are, they know what we are – and they live here regardless. They knew the risks and still made Monteriggioni their home."

Ezio meets her eyes levelly and nods. Fair point. "Uncle," he says, turning to him. "You are still the commander of the men. Will you please lead them with blocking off the roads, to the best of your ability."

Mario, to Ezio's great relief, doesn't even hesitate. "I'll do it, we'll have it done post haste," he says and looks at Leonardo. "You know something of building, Leonardo, right? I'd be honoured if you were to offer us your aid."

"Not if it puts him at risk, Uncle," Ezio says sharply.

"Oh, don't fret, Ezio," Leonardo says and smiles to Mario. "I'd be happy to help, of course. I have some ideas, in fact, which I think can be executed at speed."

"Excellent – come along, then."

Ezio sighs, shaking his head as they head out and then looks at La Volpe and Antonio. "I know Monteriggioni isn't your home but –"

"It's well worth defending, my friend," Antonio promises. "You offered your assistance in liberation of Venice, now let me return the favour. What do you need, Ezio?"

"Shall we go spy on our uninvited guests?" La Volpe asks, sly. "And poison their cooking pots, like the assassin's of old?"

"The spying would be enough," Ezio says and leans back and away from the map. "The more we know about what we're up against, the better. Please."

They nod, exchange a knowing look, and then bow out of the room, leaving Ezio alone with Claudia, Paola and Teodora.

"No women in the battle field, is it?" Paola asks, wry.

"I wouldn't dare to assume to put you to manual labour," Ezio says. "I was hoping you could help me with tactics closer to home, actually – ways of making Monteriggioni… less appealing target. Misdirection is more your expertise than mine."

"Less wealthy and more dangerous?" Teodora asks and they consider it. "I daresay we can manage something, my son. But from behind such walls it might not be much of use."

Ezio nods. "Do what you can - I will take any and all advantages we can. In the mean while, Claudia? Prepare our people for a swift evacuation."

"Through - through the tunnels? But that's where -"

"Yes," Ezio agrees grimly and pushes away from the table. "I will go see to it now."

And if it came down to evacuation, the sooner they knew how Desmond might be safely moved, the better.

Desmond has changed since the last Ezio laid his eyes upon him. Gone is the blood and hidden the wounds - he sits on the floor in new robes, white and grandiose and little old fashioned, with hood like Altaïr and Ezio, and a cape that hangs in many layers between his wings and might be pulled over them to hide them.

Altaïr is talking to him quietly, as Desmond rubs at his eyes, looking grim and exhausted. When Ezio approaches them, he looks up and there's real grief in his eyes.

"I can't," he says. "I mean, I could, I think, if Altaïr steered me I could save Monteriggioni… but I can't."

Ezio stalls at that and the welling anger surprises him. "Why not?" he demands before he can stop himself, and once the words are out he can't stop them. "I - we are protecting you, offering you shelter with a very real danger to ourselves, why will you not help us?"

"Because - I," Desmond says, and blows out a frustrated sigh. His eyes are red, his face wan. "An angel fights in defence of a fortress of sinners. Word spreads, people come to see, to worship, to hear the Word of God. There is a gathering of hundreds and then thousands. People hold masses, priests vie for control, no one agrees on the Message being sent. There are fights, riots as food in the area is expended. There are battles, blood of hundreds is split, then thousands. New sects of religions begin and new religious persecutions. Papacy tries to gain control of the situation and there's a massacre of believers. Religious fervour sweeps the land and there's pilgrimages that turn crusades - against the Vatican. Hundred years of bloodshed in the name of God I don't even represent, and more, the entire region reshaped."

Ezio stares at him.

"And the only way to stop that from happening is to kill every single witness," Desmond says. "Which will lead to its own problems, and just - I can't, I can't soak up that much blood, all those bloodlines, I - I can't."

"... Ah," Ezio says after a moment. "So, Monteriggioni is doomed."

Desmond let's out a sound terrifyingly akin to a sob and doesn't answer.

"What will happen?"

Desmond shakes his head. "If I say anything it will be set in stone - you're making changes, some of them better. Just - do what you think is best. If something goes horribly wrong, I'll let you know."

Ezio draws a breath and tells himself he can be satisfied with that. He must be satisfied with that. 

And yet.

Altaïr says something, a question judging by the tone, and Desmond answers in length, likely explaining what he'd said to Ezio. There are words exchanged and whatever is being said obviously doesn't appeal to the old mentor.

"Everything I do still just leads to more deaths," Desmond murmurs wretchedly. "And I can feel them all."

"People will die either way," Ezio says, shaking his head. "Even inaction is action."

"Yes, but -" Desmond stops and sighs, his head and wings hanging low, and Altaïr puts a hand on his shoulder, gripping tight and looking at Ezio from under his hood. Whatever he says to Desmond, it makes the angel wince and shudder.

Ezio's fingers curl into a fist and then release, restless in his helplessness. Though he'd known Monteriggioni might be doomed, and they forced to flee, to have it so confirmed… grates. To have it predestined, foretold, grates. The memory of the numbers under his own name, the prophesy that led them here, all of it grates. Was their order one that suits in defence of freewill, in defiance of all notions of divine plan? Why then does it now feel at every turn as though he has no choice? Like he's less even than a blade in his master's hand, but a tool with purpose he understands so little that he might not know it at all, that he will never know it?

"I can't care for you if I lose this town," Ezio says and it comes out as nothing short of a growl.

Desmond hangs his head a moment longer, a vision divinity brought low. When he looks up, his face is dry, his eyes clear and in pain. "I can give you weapons," he says, his voice choked. "I can give you armour - but know that once you have beaten back the first wave, there will be others. They will keep coming until they either run out of men, or the town falls. You've stolen something priceless from Rodrigo - he will never stop sending people after it."

"Then I will never stop fighting for it," Ezio says firmly. "I will never stop defending it."

Desmond shakes his head. "You don't mean that. You don't know what you're promising."

"Maybe not, but I'm willing to bear the price, whatever it is," Ezio swears and despite the fact that every instinct he has screams at him to get away, he steps closer. "I swear it. Give me the means to defend this town - and I'll serve you until the end of time."

Desmond's lip quivers before he bows his head. "Damn it," he whispers, with finality.