Chapter Text
Desmond’s consciousness swirled in an endless void of white and gold. His body burned, like fire burning through every nerve. Minerva’s disjointed voice reverberated in his skull, it hurt...but the flames in his body hurt more.
“ We cannot let Juno proceed with her plans."
"You will not die as you thought, Desmond Miles—"
"—A different kind of sacrifice.”
He wanted to scream, to rage against her arrogance, but he had no mouth, no form. Just pain and light and the sound of something breaking—himself, perhaps. Then, silence. Sweet. Blissful. Silence.
When he woke, the air was damp and heavy. The scent of dirt and sweat. He woke. Why did he…he struggled to his knees, his muscles sluggish, the lingering pain causing involuntary twitches. He digs his fingers in the damp earth. Soil. Not the concrete of the temple. Not the digital realm of the Animus. Oh boy. Oh shit. Not dead. Okay. Not dead…
A chill ran through him as he realized the sensation wasn't just exhaustion. He could feel something deep inside, humming like a dormant machine ready to wake. The Apple of Eden. Did it…has it become a part of him, embedded into his flesh, his bones, his very existence? Or…or was it something else? What the fuck did she do to me? Okay. Okay. Breathe Desmond. Breathe. It doesn't matter. Not now. Now you need to get up. Up, Desmond. Get. Up. If you can kneel. You can stand...come on.
He dragged himself up, the clothes on his back were burnt in some places, shredded in others, almost hanging off his skin. He might as well have been sky-clad. He still felt the lingering burning pain. Shit. Shitshitshit. A glance at his hands—scarred, calloused, one's burnt beyond recognition but strangely still functional. On the upside, no Bleeding effects or Animus glitches warping his vision. Okay. Okay. We're in reality. Maybe. Shredded clothes, burns, whatever. Doesn’t matter. Just breathe. His body ached. Muscles remembering movements from lifetimes responded before his mind could process. Roll. Assess. Survive. You’re standing. If you can stand you can walk. Walk Desmond. Fucking walk.
Nearby, a stream burbled. One step over the other, on shaky legs, he dragged himself towards the water, his muscles twitching, pain lancing through his mind with every step. He caught his reflection when he finally reached his destination. Okay. Okay. Still me. Looks like me? Shaven. Younger? Maybe? He tries not to think about how he can’t quite remember what he looks like. The memories of multiple Assassins merged and fractured in his mind. But his reflection…his reflection feels like him, and so it must be. It must be, right? Fuck. Okay. There’s more important things than your identity issues, Desmond.
He bends his head to drink. He was so thirsty. Each gulp quenches the burning in his throat. In his veins. A small voice in the back of his mind warns of parasites, of germs and bacteria. But he pushed it aside, he still felt the thrumming in his chest. He has worse things to worry about. Worse things like the blackened flesh of his arm flaking off, in pieces, disintegrating in the air leaving unblemished skin underneath. Like the mesh of voices in his head. Shit. Fuck. What. The. Fuck.
Weeks melted into months, navigating the dense forest, alone. Building up a pretty cosy living space. Living the cottagecore life...if his cottage were a cave. The isolation should have driven him to madness but instead, it became his sanctuary. Of sorts.
I should be losing it by now…He thought, working deftly, fashioning a new set of clothes from the hide of a deer. "More clothes. We need more clothes, mio fratello! Or we might freeze soon." He hears Ezio's encouragement, but also his scoff after, about his use of animal hides instead of a more civilised fabric. I should be losing it but I’ve got more company in my head than I know what to do with. Or maybe I am. Maybe I’m already mad.
What was once a chaotic mesh of voices now became more organised over time, the mess turning into whispered guidance, granting knowledge, knowledge that this wasn’t America. Nor Italy or the Levant. Maybe...England? Doesn't matter, he's a forest man now. A hermit.
“No, no, not like that.” He hears Eivor’s voice scolding him one afternoon when he fumbles with a particularly stubborn piece of hide. “You are thinking like a Southerner. Here, let me show you again.” He feels her hands guiding him, and slowly, he manages to fashion another rough but serviceable tunic, he’s humming, a little song Ezio had heard from a minstrel. He could almost feel said man kicking him for the gall.
He chuckled to himself, deriving amusement at Ezio’s hatred of minstrels. The song trails off before he starts on another in a different language. Norse. For Eivor. The feeling that blanketed him made him think that she liked it.
As the sun began to dip below the tree line, he climbed the tallest oak near his cave. Perched on a high branch of the tallest tree close to the forest edge. He sees the village in the distance, as he is prone to do. The buildings were squat things…thatch and timber. He could see the livestock, and even from this impossible distance, he could smell…smell the unique scent of human habitation carried on the wind.
"You cannot hide forever, Desmond," Eivor's voice echoed in his mind, tinged with impatience and a hint of maternal worry. "A lone wolf may survive, but the pack thrives."
His fingers absently traced the, surprisingly intact, tattoo on his arm where the…power had burned through him, how his arm had regenerated after. How his callouses seemed to have healed over time, into unblemished skin despite keeping up a more intense training under the 'eye' of many a Mentor...
The strange memories that the glimpses of the village had brought to the forefront of his mind, how he sometimes dreams about his childhood but occasionally the Farm in the background warps into one that’s strangely like the village here, a medieval village. And how he used to play with…his reflection? He shook his head, pushing the strange thoughts away. Maybe he is going mad from the lack of human interaction.
"I'm not hiding, I'm... adapting. Stop fretting. Mother." He feels a phantom strike against the back of his head for his cheek, and Ezio’s chuckle somewhere in the depths of his mind.
When night fell, he made his way back down to the forest floor, after admiring the starry sky. Unmarred by human pollution. The constellations different from what he knew. So. Very. Different. But no less beautiful.
The voices of his ancestors quieted, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the sounds of the nocturnal forest as he trekked silently through the underbrush. He had slowly acclimatised to becoming an expert hunter. Through the teachings and occasional heckling and mocking of the various voices a great motivator, he’s come to find.
A twig snapped nearby, and he froze, bow at the ready. A moment later, a young deer emerged from the shadows, its eyes wide and alert. They stared at each other, two beings out of place in a world that moved on without them. We're not so different, you and I, my young furred friend. He thought, his bow lowered, fingers brushing against the engraving that he couldn’t help carve into the bow, the first bow that most of his ancestors agreed that there’s nothing they could nitpick about. Watching as the deer bounded away into the darkness. Both of us trying to find our place in a world that doesn't quite fit.
Finally, he settled in for the night, in his little cave…his home? Still, he could not take the village out of his mind. The warmth of hearth fires, the sound of laughter, the simple comfort of human touch… all things he had taken for granted before. Maybe tomorrow, maybe tomorrow I'll be ready. Then he turned onto his side, curling up under the furs and carefully ignoring that he’d thought that same thought the night before. And the nights before that, the same part of him knew that tomorrow would be much like today. Another day of isolation, of learning, of waiting for a sign that might never come. The nights with dreams that plagued him, the strange dreams of laying on straw-strewn ground and whispering to his...mirror image.
The next morning, he got up early, way before the sunrise. Kneeling by the stream again, he started his morning ritual, cleaning his teeth with a crudely fashioned toothbrush and powder he spent almost a day perfecting. He cupped cold water to his lips, long used to the taste. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as usual, trying not to think of the thrumming in his chest.
"Maybe you should get on with it," Eivor’s voice chided softly, "The world does not wait for the unsure. You can’t spend the rest of your life with just us, Desmond."
"I will...tomorrow. Mom." He muttered under his breath, almost mulishly, as he braided his hair, knowing if he did not, Eivor would nag at him all day, it was she after all who taught him how to braid it, how to care for it alongside Ezio and Ratonhnhaké:ton.
He brushed his hand against his stubbles. His facial hair seemed to grow far more slowly than the hair on his head.
Then he got up, making the trek back towards his...home, relishing in the tranquillity of untouched nature. But a distant sound broke his…zenness. Fuck. Who dares?
Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, and not trying to mask their presence. He slung the bow over his shoulder and grabbed his bone knife. The footsteps grew louder, and then the sound of someone pissing against a tree reached his ears. What the actual fuck? Is someone pissing on my favourite tree? The one with the nest of...
The figure that was revealed, as he popped out through the bush, was massive, broad-shouldered, and draped in furs and perhaps most importantly, his expression was one of mild irritation when he turned, still adjusting his belt, and his eyes locked onto Desmond, like he was seeing a ghost. “Athelstan?”
He knows that attire, memories not his own piecing pieces together. Shit. Big fucking Viking. Great. Desmond stood frozen, eyes wide as saucers, he felt his heart hammering, thrumming, whatever, it’s racing, is the point. It’s been so long since he had to interact with another human…and this one. This one he just caught, almost pants down. Then his brain processed the word the other man spoke. He blinked once. Then again. What did he say? Athelstan? Who? What? Instinct screamed at him anyway and he twisted on the ball of his feet, ready to bolt. But the man was quicker than he expected, closing the distance with a single lunge.
Shit! His legs kicked out uselessly as the large man grabbed him by the arm, his grip like iron. He struggled, more to test the man’s strength than escape, letting out a string of curses in Norse that would’ve made any Viking proud. He twisted again, trying to slip out of the grip. His hood was yanked down in the scuffle, revealing his long hair, braided and tucked neatly away.
The bear-man froze for a split second, eyes widening. But whatever confusion that was, wasn’t enough to deter him. With a grunt, he flung Desmond over his shoulder like a sack of grain, ignoring the continued stream of profanities that followed.
His fists pounded against the bear-man’s back, though he knew it was more for show. He could have fought harder, could have broken free— but curiosity itched at him like a persistent mosquito. Where the hell was this man taking him? What would he find at the end of this particular rabbit hole? And most importantly, You wanted me to interact with humans, mother. Are you happy now? He could almost feel Eivor radiating annoyance and Ezio's laughter, even Altaïr's exasperation.
His head bounced slightly with each step, he didn't stop cursing though, the more playful of the voices in his head giving him ideas and suggestions. The sound of boots crunching against forest debris blended with the distant murmur of voices. As they broke through the treeline, the warband came into view.
The forest erupted with a string of Norse profanities that had some of the men chuckling, shaking their heads even as they turned towards the sound in curiosity. As far as they knew, Rollo had left alone, and that was not his voice. But it was strangely familiar nonetheless. Ragnar's head snapped up, curiosity burning within him. That voice... it sounds like Athelstan, but...it can’t be. We’d know if he snuck onto the ship. Where would he hide even?
"By Odin's beard," Floki cackled as he stared out into the treeline. "Has our little priest finally found his Viking spirit?"
Lagertha frowned, her hand instinctively moving to the hilt of her sword. "That's not Athelstan. He doesn't know those words and he cannot be here."
The sound of heavy footsteps crunching through the underbrush grew louder, and more colourful curses carried over in the wind. Rollo emerged from the forest, a figure slung over his broad shoulder like a sack of grain.
"You fucking ox!" The captive yelled, his fists pounding uselessly against Rollo's back. "Let me go! Let me go you big fuck! Don't touch me with those ridiculous bear hands!" He strode into the centre of the group, ignoring the blows made on his back, his expression a mixture of irritation and bewilderment. With a grunt, he unceremoniously dumped his burden onto the ground.
"What's this, brother?" Ragnar called out jokingly. "Have you caught us a wild boar for dinner?"
"Wild boar? Wild boar!? Are you blind! Asshole! Heap of shit! You should—" The hissing captive scrambled to his feet, long hair escaping from intricate braids, looking disgruntled and frazzled, revealing a face that was both familiar and foreign. The scar bisecting his lip stood out starkly against his flushed skin as profanities poured out from parted lips. But his looks…his looks…Not Athelstan but so alike. Ragnar thought, studying the captive intently. He speaks fluently too. And so angry, nothing like the priest.
Floki circled Desmond, "Well, well, what have we here? A ghost? Or perhaps Loki himself, come to play tricks on us?"
"Who are you?" Ragnar's voice interrupted, his arms folded as he stared down the captive. Watching with piercing eyes as the younger man's lips opened and closed, the last of his curses trailing off.
“Who am I? Who am I!?” Desmond's gaze darted from face to face, palming the hidden bone blade in his sleeve. He was surrounded but he knew he could get out. I can't tell them the truth. They'd never believe me. The voices in his head were debating, pieces of advice and plans streaming through his mind.
“Lie. Lie, mio fratello.” urged Ezio. But it was Eivor's voice that rang clearest. “Claim me as your mother, child. You’ve jested so often enough. Desmond, you can't use your name. Not in this crowd...you hear me, foolish boy? Do not give them your name. Not if you do not want bloodshed and violence. Listen! If I were your mother, I would have named you…Arnar. Use it.”
"Arnar," He muttered under his breath, but loud enough that those closest could hear, he was surrounded, he may as well take up Eivor's suggestions, mother, ancestor. He hides the thought that he does wish his mother was like her. If only... "Son of Eivor. Eivor Varinsdottir. Not that you need to know! Why did you haul me here?"
Lagertha stepped forward, confusion on her face, taking in the captive’s very familiar features, the way Norse flowed from his lips like he was born to it, "Eivor? I know of no shieldmaiden by that name. Is she…"
"We... we were fishing. Years ago. I think. There was a storm. Our ship..."
"And this Eivor? Where is your mother?" Ragnar pressed, his intense gaze never leaving Desmond's face.
"Dead," He spat, channelling the anger that one felt when someone dug up painful memories, it’s not hard, he has many of those, of brothers, and sisters, lost. Mostly to Templar blades and schemes. "She’s dead. Now that you know, can I go now?"
A moment of silence fell over the group, broken only by the distant call of a raven.
Rollo snorted, ignoring the glare from the younger man, he shifted, blocking off his possible exit route, "He looks more like the priest than a fisherman's son.”
Desmond's temper flared, snarling. "And you look more like a bear than a man, you tree-pissing, shaggy-haired asshole!"
Floki burst into laughter, slapping his thigh. "Oh, I like this one! He has fire in his belly! Even if he does look like the Christian. Unfortunately."
Ragnar held up a hand, silencing the group. He approached the captive slowly, circling him like a wolf sizing up its prey. "You are very far from home. Where are you from, Arnar, son of Eivor?"
"I... I don't know," He admitted after a long pause, his voice low, almost sad even. "Keep it vague, keep it believable, a shipwreck." Ezio's voice echoed.
"The storm, the shipwreck...My memories, they're..." He tapped his temple, then pressed his palms to his head, messing his hair, "They're scattered. Like leaves in the wind. To be honest, I'm not sure if she was my real mother. Maybe I was adopted. I think I heard...But I remember...the ship. My mother. And the sea."
Lagertha's eyes softened, a flicker of sympathy crossing her face, perhaps even a tinge of surprise at his claiming of a mother over a father. She took a step closer, "And how did you come to be in this forest, Arnar?"
Desmond shrugged, his gaze dropping to the ground, his tongue flicking out to wet dry lips. He repeated what the voices said, "I woke up on the sand. Then been wandering. Surviving.” Well. I’m not actually lying. He looked up, meeting Ragnar's piercing stare, then he shrugged and looked away. “The people here, they don’t remind me of anything. They look…”
Floki giggled, "Perhaps the gods have sent us a gift, Ragnar. A man with no past, but with the tongue of a poet and the fire of a warrior." Then he sidled up to Desmond, a cheeky grin on his face, an arm thrown over his shoulder, "Tell me, Arnar, what do you know of the Christians?"
Desmond blinked, feigning confusion. "Careful now child." Eivor's voice, pushing memories upon him. "Christians?" he repeated, like he’s testing an unfamiliar word on his tongue, then tilting his head, blinking at the other man with round eyes. “What is that?"
"Oh, I like you," Floki chuckled, hand dropping to grasp him by the arm. Desmond could feel the strength in his grip even as memories and images flowed unbidden in his mind, how to get out of the grasp, how to take the man down in an instant, "So much better than our priest. You're a true child of the old ways, aren't you?"
As Floki continued to prod Desmond, like a cat with a new toy, Ragnar used the distraction to pull Rollo and Lagertha aside, out of earshot but his eyes never left the captive. Arnar. "What do you make of him?"
Lagertha's lips thinned, "He bears an uncanny resemblance to Athelstan. They could be brothers.” then bewilderment flashed across her face as she hesitantly added, “Twins?"
Rollo grunted, eyes darting from Arnar to Ragnar, "Perhaps this Eivor found him as a child. Bought him, even."
"In Northumbria?" The corner of Ragnar’s lips tilted up. "We're far from Norse lands, brother."
"Maybe she wasn't just fishing," Lagertha suggested. "Exploring, perhaps? Or raiding? And found a lost child? A babe? Maybe we’re not the first on these lands and he was too young to know?"
Ragnar adds, after a moment, "And that tattoo on his arm—"
Meanwhile, Floki had draped an arm around Desmond's shoulders, leading him towards the more populated resting spots. Answering his questions vaguely. He now knows that this was a warband, on the way back from a raid. Must be quite the successful one too from the treasures in the net he spies nearby, guarded by quite a few men. That he’s in Northumbria and very far from ‘home’.
"Come, Arnar," Floki said, his voice filled with barely contained glee, sometimes he giggled like he couldn’t help himself. "Tell us of your adventures in the forest. How long have you been there?"
He allowed himself to be guided, even if he knew the man's guiding him to where there would be reinforcements aplenty if he proved to be trouble. His muscles tensed beneath Floki's touch, but before he could respond, Ragnar approached, his decision made, a cheeky grin was on his face but his eyes...they were hard. “How did you survive? Could you…Show us your home? I'm sure it's a sight to behold."
He hesitated for a brief second, Oh boy. Fuck me. The mess. We’re not prepared for guests… but he knows a command hidden behind the interest and so he nodded with an inward sigh. "This way…"
The familiar scents of pine and damp earth enveloped him, as they trekked through the forest. It was quite the long trek, his home camp well hidden and far from any known paths. He could feel the group’s suspicions heightened with each step, the air thickening with…something. They think I'm leading them into a trap…Can't really blame them.
Finally, he pushed through carefully cultivated vines and bushes, revealing his forest home. Crude shelters for storage fashioned from branches and animal hides. His little cave. Bone knives and axes lay scattered about, along with half-finished projects…the mess. A bow here, a trap there. Weapons, tools and hide littering almost every other spare space. The intricate carving of an eagle in the trunk of a tree. Like it had taken months if not years to carve…it would have if not for his…Apple? Isu? Enhanced abilities.
Ragnar's eyes widened as he took in the scene around him, feet carrying him deeper into the living space. This is no temporary camp, this is the home of someone who has lived wild for years.
"By the gods," Rollo muttered, taking in the…it’s not right to call it a shelter. A home? The carefully crafted tools, the remnants of successful hunts. There was even a little garden of herbs. Then picking up a bone knife, its handle adorned with intricate carvings, testing its edge. "He's been here for some time."
Ragnar circled the camp, tapping his chin thoughtfully, fingers traced the intricate carvings on the tree trunk, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "He has skill," he murmured, accepting the blade from Rollo and testing its weight. Then picked up a similar bone axe. And tested that too. The edges were sharp. Very sharp. After what felt like an eternity, he turned to face Desmond. "You will come with us, son of Eivor."
Okay…okay this is it. No more isolation. You happy now, mother? Amongst your people even. "I... of course," Desmond stammered, then cleared his throat. "But, uh, let me just..." He gestured vaguely at the camp, shifting from one foot to another, "Pack up? It's not usually this... disorganized. Really."
Floki cackled, slapping him on the back. "Worried about housekeeping, are we? You're more like a woman than a wild man!"
He felt heat rise to his cheeks, even as he started packing, “Keep it together, Novice! Use this moment.” Altaïr’s voice whispered in his mind. "I just... I made these for you," he said quickly, gathering up an armful of intricately carved bone weapons. His fingers traced some of them, grounding himself, reminding him of the countless hours he spent crafting them, speaking to the voices in his head, he was planning on selling them. Maybe. If he even ventured into civilisation. He ignored the many alert eyes on him when he first picked up a weapon, "I mean, not specifically for you, for well..you know…but... I made too many. For myself. And they're probably not as good as steel, but..."
He trailed off, realizing he was rambling. Smooth, real smooth Miles. But as he handed out the weapons, he saw something soften in Rollo's eyes. The big man turned a bone axe over in his hands, admiring the detailed carvings of ravens and wolves along the handle. "You have a steady hand." He grunted, sounding unenthused, but he did nod, and the way he tucked the weapon into his belt betrayed his interest.
In contrast, Floki quickly snatched up a knife with an almost childlike glee, giggling with delight as he examined the runes etched into the blade, the handle had the head of an eagle on its pommel, "Oh, I really like this one, Ragnar!" he exclaimed, holding the knife up to the filtered sunlight. "He honours the old ways, even alone in the wilderness!"
As they brought the…gifts…back to the main group, letting the rest of the group examine his handiwork, the clearing littering with murmured gasps and praises, Desmond felt a small spark of pride, a small sack of his belongings on his back. “Oh look at how you puffed up at some simple praises from barbarians.” Ezio jested, he could almost see the man’s smirk, could almost feel Eivor's phantom slap against his head, almost see the man wincing. Cursing in Italian.
Lagertha stepped forward, her gaze almost piercing, studying Desmond as they trekked down the stream. Finally, she spoke up, "These are fine gifts, but tell me, Arnar, how does a man shipwrecked and alone come to possess such skill?"
"My mother," Desmond began, his voice soft with nostalgia, running his fingers along the carved handle of the axe on his belt, letting out a small sigh. "I remember vaguely, what she said. Something about it being important to create beauty even in the harshest conditions. I think I was always good at it. I must be…It felt good making these."
Ragnar, who had been silently observing, finally spoke. "Your mother taught you well. These skills will serve you well among us." he could feel curiosity and something else…calculation, perhaps, radiating from the man.
The group moved swiftly through the underbrush, he fell into step behind them, assuming that they're probably heading to their boats, considering the treasure he saw some of them carrying in nets and on their shoulders. Probably on their way back from a raid. As they emerged from the long grass, he spotted trouble, his muscles tensing. There, between them and their boats, stood an armoured force, at their feet lay two bodies, probably the guards left to watch the boats.
His vision swam, memories not his own flooding his mind. The armour, so similar to the Templars of old, triggered something within him. Templars. He felt the hatred of his ancestors rising, surging through his veins, mingling with his own distaste, his own hatred for them, for Abstergo. The intensity of their combined hatred, the rising bloodlust was almost too much. His fingers tightened around his bone weapons, his visions flickering. Oh boy. Oh fuck. Get it together. Shit.
"Shield wall!" He hears Ragnar bellow, when the opposing forces’ archers advanced, the warriors moved into the shield formation immediately.
Arrows whistled through the air, and he ducked instinctively, finding himself crouched behind Rollo's broad back. The big man's shield trembled with each impact, and suddenly, he saw an opportunity.
"Now, brother!" Ratonhnhaké:ton's voice urged the moment the whistle of the projectiles stopped, and the thundering steps of soldiers making their approach started. The hatred and bloodlust overtook him, and he saw red.
Without thinking, he backed up, then sprinted forward, planting a foot on Rollo's back and launched himself over the shield wall, a primal cry tearing from his throat as he sailed through the air. He thinks he heard startled cries from the group behind him, and Rollo’s cursing, but they were soon drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears, the voices in his head, the combined war cry of what felt like a dozen different individuals.
Time seemed to slow as he landed among the Northumbrian soldiers. Their visage flickering in his vision, sometimes overlaying with the Templars of old. In differing uniforms but all glowing red. Red. Red. Red. His bone axe sang through the air, finding gaps in armour with terrifying precision. His dagger flashed, a deadly extension of his arm. He moved as his ancestors had, dealing death with every strike, not a single movement wasted, weaving between the soldiers. "Bene, show these Templars the fury of our creed." Ezio's voice purred darkly. He lost himself in the rhythm of battle, his axe taking advantage of the helmet's design flaw, cleaving faces more often than not, barely registering the shocked expressions of both friend and foe.
When the last soldier fell, he stood panting, splattered with blood, surrounded by bodies. He blinked once. Then again. He now feel the aftermath of the…the bloodbath. Literally. He feels blood on his face. His hands. His clothes. His hair. Gross! Disgusting! Fuck! Slowly, almost sheepishly, he turned to face Ragnar's group, lowering his weapons. He hastily scrubbed at his face, like that would detract from the piles of bodies around him. But the blood only smudges. His hands were not any cleaner than his face. His lips parted, then closed. And again. Really, he doesn’t know what to say, or how to excuse his bloodlust. What he did.
"Well, I'd say you've made quite an impression...son." Eivor's voice chuckled in his mind, as if he didn’t also hear her own war cry mingling with the other voices during the carnage.
Floki was the first to break the stunned silence, chuckling with unbridled joy. "By the gods, Ragnar!" he exclaimed, practically dancing as he approached Desmond, gripping his arm, shaking him, "Did you see how he moved? Like Odin himself had guided his blades!"
Lagertha stepped closer, studying Desmond with her piercing gaze, he shifted, bare toes digging into blood-drenched sand, "You've been holding back on us, where did you learn to fight like that?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it, then locked eyes with Ragnar, whose expression had shifted from shock to intense curiosity. He feels himself paling, "I...uh—I'm not sure," he began hesitantly, looking down at his blood-stained hands. Kept his eyes downcast. Hiding his hands behind his back. "When I saw them, something just... took over. Like memories I didn't know I had. Maybe. I don’t— I don’t know...I just...moved."
"It seems," Ragnar said slowly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "that you have more secrets than we thought, Arnar, son of Eivor." He clapped a hand on Desmond's shoulder. "Come. We have much to discuss on our journey home."
As they made their way to the boats, he could feel the stares on his back. He ducked his head, the flush on his cheeks intensifying. His shy demeanour now, his previous display of bloodlust or battle-hunger then. It caused some in the warband to laugh and others to shake their heads. Only the braver ones stepped forward to pat him on the shoulder, as they moved to loot the bodies.
The longship rocked gently with the waves, Desmond found himself near the stern, the coppery scent of dried blood from his crimson-stained hide clothing mingled with the salty sea air. He dipped his hands into the frigid water trailing behind the boat, watching, almost mesmerised, as the red swirls dissipated into the foam.
What have I done? They’ll…they’ll fear me now. The thought echoed in his mind, accompanied by the ghostly whispers of his ancestors. The memories of whispers and gossip back at the Farm. Whispers like...
“Monster.”
“ The boy feels nothing when he kills, it’s unnatural.”
"Don't play with him! Stay away from him."
It’s not. I’m not. I do feel. I do. I just—
But he knows, somewhere deep in his mind he knew, society had taught him, that normal people do not immediately jump to how disgusting drying blood felt, how inconvinient it is to clean the bloodstains out of things, how to cut better, where to stab to prevent other bodily fluids to stink up the air… Normal people would be horrified to take a life, not how to shift his face so he does look horrified—
Floki slid into place next to him, eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. "That was quite a battle back there, Arnar," he said, almost whispering the next part, “Tell me, did you feel the gods guiding your hand? Was it Odin himself who blessed your blades?"
“I…I’m not sure what I felt, Floki. It was like…It was like I saw red. And then…well…” He looked down at his hands. Clean now.
"I've never seen anyone move like that. It was... beautiful." Floki giggled, his eyes alight.
His eyes flickered to Floki's face, searching for any sign of fear or disgust. Finding none, he allowed himself a small, hesitant, smile. "I'm not sure 'beautiful' is the word I'd use," he murmured, flexing his fingers in the icy water. "Floki…is it not…terrifying?"
Floki cackled, the sound carrying across the deck. "Terrifying beauty is the best kind, my friend! The gods must truly favour you.” Then he clapped Desmond’s back, nearly sending him into the waves.
At the bow of the ship, Ragnar, Rollo, and Lagertha huddled together.
"...footprint on your back, brother," Ragnar was saying, his eyes darting to the back of the ship.
"No calluses. Soft, like a child's." Lagertha adds, her eyes too shifting from Desmond to Rollo.
Rollo's brow furrowed as he examined his own shoulder, where the imprint of Desmond's bare foot was still visible, twisting his arm and rubbing at the mark. "Aye, but he fights like no child I've ever seen."
"Do you see how pale he looks now?" Lagertha mused, her eyes darting to where Desmond sat with Floki.
Ragnar's piercing blue eyes never left Desmond as he spoke. "If he was shipwrecked as a boy, it would explain his paleness. The sea is no kind mother."
“Mother.” Lagertha repeated, a wry smile on her face as she recalled the battle, the raw hatred in Desmond's voice as he'd screamed his war cry still echoed in her ears. "It's curious, how he claims his mother's name instead of his father's, isn't it? And the way he fights... it's as if he's honouring her memory with every strike."
"Perhaps," Rollo mused, "she survived the wreck only to fall in battle later. To Christian soldiers. Or maybe he’s lost more than just his mother. It would explain his hatred."
"A son's love for his mother can be a powerful thing," Ragnar's own thoughts now turning to Bjorn, "But there's more to his story, I'm sure of it." He turned to his brother, lowering his voice further. "Rollo, tell Floki to hide Arnar or distract him when we return. I want to speak with Athelstan... see if he knows of any lost brothers."
Meanwhile, Desmond finds himself struggling to keep his composure as the ship rocks beneath him. The sensation of seasickness clawed at his throat, intensified by the lingering adrenaline from the battle, he grits his teeth. Keep it together, Miles. You've been through worse.
"Are you well, Arnar?" Floki asked, concern creeping into his voice. "You look as though you've seen a draugr! Come, tell me more about your life in the forest. Did the spirits speak to you?"
He managed a weak chuckle. "I'm fine," he lied, swallowing hard, grateful for the distraction, at least until he realised speaking made his nausea worse. "No spirits, I'm afraid. Just... lots of trees. And deer. So many deer...and dreams...” Then the roiling in his gut became too much as he leaned over and emptied his stomach over the edge of the ship, to the laughter of those around him.
But Floki's eyes softened, perhaps recalling that the other man had said he was shipwrecked once, "Ah, the ghosts of the past. They never truly leave us, do they?" He placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle. "But remember, my friend, you are here now. With us. And the gods have clearly chosen you for great things. And! My ships are made well! The gods love my ship! They do not sink!"
“Don’t tell me that, Floki. Please.” He groaned, leaning his forehead on the wooden edge. "Don't...don't tell me..." the sound of splashing as he was made to vomit once more.
"Floki," Rollo rumbled as he approached the two men, "Ragnar needs you at the bow. Something about the wind spirits favouring your song."
Floki's eyes lit up, patting the poor man on his back. "Of course they do! My voice is as sweet as Bragi's own!" then he scrambled away, laughter trailing behind him.
Desmond smiled weakly as Floki left, the laughter a fleeting balm, then groaned, his stomach churning with each roll of the ship. The taste of bile lingered in his mouth, mingling with the salt spray that misted his face. He closed his eyes, trying to will away the nausea. Great. Just great. Survived a temporal-universe-whatever displacement, fought off soldiers, and now I'm going to die from seasickness. What a legacy. Fuck you Minerva.
He felt a presence settle beside him, the wood creaking under the weight. He cracked open an eye to see Rollo, his massive frame dwarfing him. "You fought well today, but there's more to you than you're letting on."
He tensed at that, his hand instinctively moving to the blade concealed beneath his sleeve, but another wave of nausea hit him, and he lurched over the ship's edge once more. "I told you everything I remember," he gasped between heaves, the taste of bile burning his throat, “This is cruel, Rollo, don’t make me talk now.”
Rollo snorted, but there was a hint of something softer in his eyes. "And I'm Freya's favourite lover." He reached out, his calloused hand grasping Desmond's braid with surprising gentleness. "Easy there. We don't need you falling overboard."
He feels the world spinning, the horizon tilting dangerously. Feeling himself slipping, but Rollo's grip on his hair kept him anchored. The pain in his scalp was a welcome distraction from the roiling in his gut. Get it together. Fuck. This is nothing. It should be nothing compared to the Animus…or…or… His thoughts trailed off as another wave of nausea hit him. He retched over the side of the ship, his body shaking with the effort. Rollo's grip on his braid tightened, keeping him from pitching over the edge.
"Listen," Rollo continued, "Ragnar's curious about you, and when my brother's curious, things tend to get... complicated. Watch yourself."
Complicated. Right. Everything in my fucking life is complicated. He wanted to laugh, but he feared it might turn into another bout of vomiting. "I'm not..." He started, needing to defend himself even if he didn’t wish to speak, then he paused, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. "I'm not trying to hide anything. There's nothing to be...curious...about...I just... I don't remember much." Or too much, rather. Then, turning to face Rollo, meeting the man's sceptical gaze. "The storm, the shipwreck... it's all a blur."
Rollo studied him for a long moment, then, something in his eyes softened further, just a fraction, "The sea can be a cruel mistress. It takes what it wants."
Desmond blinked, surprised by the unexpected empathy. He opened his mouth to respond, but another wave of nausea hit him. He groaned, slumping against the side of the ship. Oh boy. This is fucked. Why do I feel so sick? I have memories of being on a fucking ship before!
Rollo's hand moved from his braid to his shoulder, steadying him. His hands hovered like he didn’t know what to do with it before it patted him on the head once. "Rest now. We'll be in Kattegat soon enough."
As the ship continued its journey, Desmond drifted in and out of consciousness. Behind lidded eyes, memories of his ancestors’ seafaring adventures slowly trickling into his mind, like something was trying to get him acclimatised to the feeling. Is this how Ezio felt on his way to Constantinople? He wondered, his thoughts hazy. Or Edward during his pirating days? I’d make a shit pirate. Feeling as sick as I am.
He was vaguely aware of hushed conversations around him, of concerned glances and whispers.
"Look at him," a voice muttered nearby. "Like he's never been on a ship before."
"Shut up," another voice hissed back. "You'd look the same if you'd been shipwrecked. If you’d even live through it.”
The voices faded in and out, blending with the crash of waves and the creaking of the ship's timbers and finally, he let himself slip into a fitful sleep, his mind a whirlpool of past and present, real and imagined. To his ancestors murmuring comforts in his mind. Like an actual family. "Des! I found this! Look! For you!" A child's voice echoed in his mind, swallowed up by dreams.