Chapter Text
It had been a normal day for Ezio Auditore…or so he thought. He’d woken and dressed as usual when his mother came knocking, and eagerly made his way down to the dining hall to join his family for a nice breakfast, just as he had most mornings before.
But that particular morning, not even three steps into the dining room, he had suddenly been overcome by a headache so strong that it made him stagger.
“Ezio?” Federico turned and called to him, noticing Ezio’s stumble.
Ezio tried to respond to his brother, to reassure him that everything was fine, but when his mouth opened, he found he couldn’t make anything come out. Instead the pain in his head had suddenly doubled, and he’d felt his eyes roll back in his head as he collapsed to the ground.
And then. The memories.
Sofia. The Vault. Flying through the sky with Leonardo’s flying machine. Finding Altaïr’s library. Watching his brothers and father die. Meeting Yusuf. Holding his daughter for the first time. Fighting Rodrigo Borgia. Minerva. Desmond.
Everything hit him at once, everything he’d ever seen, said, experienced, or known all flooding his mind all at once. It felt like his head was being cut open by a thousand knives, the pain so overwhelming he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t think. He was an assassin. He was a father. He was the Prophet. He was a husband. He was seventeen. He was sixty five. He was alive. He was dead.
He didn’t know how long he lay there, feeling like the memories were going to tear him apart. But suddenly, something changed. He registered something touching his forehead, and it was like a cool balm being rubbed over a burn; at once the pain and the flood of memories dried up, fading away like the whole experience had been nothing more than a bad dream. He was left lying there, panting like he’d just run across the whole length of Roma, sweat cooling on his face and his body trembling with aftershocks.
“E-Ezio?” his mother breathed, and he felt something shift under his head.
At once, Ezio’s eyes flew open in alarm, because as far as he could now remember, his mother had been dead for years. But when he looked up, he found her hovering over him, her face wet with tears.
“Mother?” he whispered, his voice too weak to speak any louder than that.
“Oh! Ezio!” she cried, before collapsing down against his chest and sobbing.
“Mother, what…what happened? Am I…dead?” he asked. It was the only explanation that made sense to him, after all. He remembered sitting on that bench in the market, the terrible pain in his chest overwhelming him. It just seemed logical that this should be the afterlife, and that he was finally to be reunited with his lost family. But the question only seemed to make his mother cry harder. He tried to squirm out of her hold, but she clung to him too tightly. Eventually he gave up and just let her cry against him, too tired to free himself.
He thought he might be there for a while, but then he heard shouts, and his mother whipped her head up to see what was going on. Groaning, Ezio rolled onto his side and out of her lap so that he could get a better look at the commotion as well.
As soon as he took in the wider room, however, his eyes went wide. There, lying only a few feet away from him, was a man dressed in clothes unlike anything Ezio had ever seen before. Ezio had never met this man in his life, but the moment he laid eyes on him, he somehow knew exactly who it was. A memory of a golden figure, watching him from the corner of Altaïr’s library, swam to the forefront of his mind.
“Desmond?” he breathed in shock.
Desmond looked awful. Somehow he looked worse than Ezio felt, and that was saying something. He was soaked with sweat, his eyes sunken and his cheeks hollow. His skin was much darker in tone than Ezio's, but still Ezio could tell he was paler than he should be. He was spread out on his back on the floor, arms and legs splayed like a doll that had been dropped to the ground and forgotten, his breath wheezing in his chest.
Worst of all, the hand that rested closest to Ezio looked like it had been horrifically burned, the skin turned to shriveled black leather that clung tightly enough across each bone that Ezio could see the shape of them clearly. The burn covered the entirety of his hand and reached about halfway up his forearm, where the skin abruptly changed to a metallic gold that almost seemed to be glowing.
But as Ezio watched, the black burn started to spread, creeping up Desmond’s arms toward his elbow. Instinctively he knew that the blackness was poison, and that it had to be stopped before it spread any further.
As he rolled onto his knees, he automatically reached for one of the knives he always kept strapped to his belt. But when he reached down, his grasping fingers found nothing, the only thing hanging at his waist his childhood money pouch. Cursing, he spun around, spotting his father standing close by. Though he carried no weapons openly, Ezio recognized the outline of a dagger hidden in his boot, and he dived to snatch it up. His father let out a surprised cry, but Ezio ignored him, all of his attention on Desmond.
Working quickly, he slipped the edge of the dagger under Desmond's odd clothing, making quick work of the layers of fabric covering his torso. As soon as it was bare, Ezio sat back with a choked-off gasp, eyes widening at the sight. The metallic gold skin continued up the full length of Desmond's arm, before trailing across his chest and up his throat as a series of thin, geometric lines. As Ezio watched, the lines continued to spread, one in particular inching up his cheek to connect with his right eye.
Desmond's eyes had been fluttering open and closed this whole time, showing hints of a deep brown colour that intermittently flashed amber, but the moment that shimmering line made contact, his eyes snapped open, the right one going completely gold. He twitched like he’d felt the change, followed by a soft cry. To his dismay, Ezio realized that the reaction was only subdued because Desmond lacked the strength to speak or move.
Ezio didn't understand what was happening. He had no idea where or when he was, if this was some sort of strange vision or if he was actually in the afterlife. But what he knew was that he was the Prophet, and that Desmond was the god he had been chosen to serve. And right now Ezio's god was lying on the floor of his family's home, dying. As Ezio watched, the black continued spreading up Desmond’s arm, moving even faster now. It was just starting to stain the inside of Desmond’s elbow, and Ezio knew they had to stop it before it spread any further.
But Ezio was a killer, not a healer. He had no idea how to help save Desmond.
“Father!” he beseeched his father first, and then to the doctor who was still hovering on the edge of the room. “Doctor! Please! Help this man!”
“I-I don't…I've never seen…” the doctor stuttered out, looking completely overwhelmed.
Ezio growled in frustration and looked back to his father. His father only looked helplessly back, equally lost.
To his surprise, it was one of the figures lurking near the doorway who eventually answered Ezio's pleas. Ezio had been vaguely aware of the two people dressed in assassin's robes who had been standing by and watching everything, but in his concern over Desmond he'd dismissed them from his mind. A brief glance with his special eyes had confirmed they were allies, and after that, he hadn't paid any more attention to them. But the taller one stalked forward now, grabbing something from his belt as he approached.
Ezio glanced up at the approaching stranger, seeing grim determination painted across his face. He only had a split second to register that the weapon the man was now holding in his hand was some sort of axe. Then suddenly the man was looming next to Desmond, carelessly shoving Ezio aside to make room. He threw his leg over Desmond's hips so that he was kneeling over Desmond's chest, pinning Desmond's blackened wrist with his free hand against the floor.
The axe went up, high overhead. And then it came back down with ruthless strength, impacting against the tiled floor hard enough to crack the marble and severing Desmond’s arm from his body in a single swift blow.
The howl of pain that escaped from Desmond was horrifying, not because of how loud it was, but rather how quiet. The man had barely made a sound, yet from the twisted pain on his face, Ezio could tell that the injury must have been agonizing. He was just too weak to properly scream.
Ezio wanted to reach out to Desmond, to offer some sort of comfort, but at that moment the tall assassin flicked the blade of his axe, knocking the severed limb away from Desmond's body. With it out of the way, Ezio could now see that the arm had been cut off just above the bend of the elbow, and that the remains were now leaking not blood, but what looked like molten gold.
“What…?” Ezio breathed.
Blood or not, however, it was leaking a lot. Thankfully, just then the other assassin slid into place next to Desmond as his taller companion stepped back, the pair moving smoothly around each other like they'd been working together for quite some time. Before the taller assassin had even finished climbing off of Desmond, the shorter was already pulling off the sash of his more traditional assassin garb. As soon as the taller assassin was out of the way, the smaller one took over, wrapping the bright red sash around Desmond's arm as a tightly as possible to staunch the flow of golden blood, and —
That was Altaïr. That was Altaïr kneeling next to Desmond, twisting the red fabric tighter and tighter around Desmond's arm with a look of tense focus on his face. He was young, almost as young as he appeared in the earliest memory Ezio had discovered in Constantinople, but his features were unmistakable. That was Altaïr himself, right there.
Ezio could feel himself gaping.
He was thankfully knocked out of his stunned silence when Altaïr gave the sash a particularly harsh twist, making Desmond groan. Shaking his head to clear it, Ezio viciously told himself to get a grip. He was a master assassin! The mentor of the assassin brotherhood! He was better than this!
“Doctor,” he called to the shaking man who had fallen back against the wall when the tall assassin had abruptly amputated Desmond's arm. “The bleeding cannot be stopped for long. Please help this man!”
The doctor's eyes flickered between Ezio, Desmond, and the two assassins. He was pale, shaking slightly as he swallowed thickly. But after only a second longer, he pushed off of the wall and cautiously made his way over, his knuckles white around the handle of his bag. Still, he dropped his supplies next to Desmond and rolled up his sleeves, a mask of professional calm taking over his face.
“Q-quickly,” he called to the servants. “Heat some oil and some water, and bring me plenty of fresh bandages.”
The servants scuttled off to do as they were told, and Ezio finally moved away from Desmond’s side to let the doctor take over. The doctor checked Altaïr’s bandage, nodded to confirm that the work was sufficient, and then waved the other assassin away as well. Ezio found himself lingering awkwardly next to Altaïr and his tall companion as the doctor set to work trying to staunch the bleeding and sew up the remains of Desmond’s arm.
Ezio’s attention was mostly on watching the doctor work, but he couldn’t help but glance over at Altaïr out of the corner of his eye. He spotted the older assassin looking back at him, and Ezio startled a little to be caught under that intense gaze.
“Ah, pardon me for staring,” Ezio quickly apologized. “I am just…it’s an honour to meet you, Mentor.”
Altaïr stared back at him wordlessly.
Ezio glanced to his tall companion next, gesturing towards him. “Is he…one of your brother assassins as well?”
He had a feeling that the answer was no. Though the tall man was clearly an assassin from the way he dressed and how he moved, his features did not suggest someone from the Levant, nor did his assassin robes resemble Altaïr’s in any way other than the white hood. Still, they’d arrived together, and worked well together. Perhaps this man was from a different branch of the order?
But Altaïr still just stared at him. Ezio could feel a nervous sweat breaking out on his temples.
Finally, after letting Ezio squirm for what felt like a full minute, Altaïr opened his mouth to speak…and then a string of words in a language Ezio didn’t recognize came out. Ah. Right. The ancient mentor would not speak Florentine. He likely had no idea what Ezio was saying.
Humming thoughtfully, Ezio tried a simple greeting in the few other languages he spoke. French made both Altaïr and his companion perk up in recognition, though neither of them seemed to speak it. Turkish inspired no response, and the less said of the few words Ezio knew in Spanish, the better.
At one point Altaïr’s companion tried a few of his own words, but none of them were familiar to Ezio. The three were left staring at each other, frustration thick in the air as they all collectively realized that there was no common tongue between them.
“Ah, forgive me,” Ezio apologized, ducking his head sheepishly. Even if Altaïr and his companion didn’t understand the words, he hoped the tone made his meaning clear enough. Still, there was no more to be gained trying to communicate with men who didn’t speak the same language. That was something they would have to deal with later. First, Ezio needed to speak with his father.
He spotted Giovanni standing across the room, speaking softly to his mother and older brother. Claudia and Petruccio were nowhere to be seen, so Ezio assumed they had been sent back to their rooms to avoid the worst of the chaos. He hoped that they had left before Desmond’s arm had been removed — such a bloody sight was not one for innocent eyes, and Claudia had not yet been exposed to such violence at this age. Assuming that she was as young as she looked. Ezio still wasn’t entirely convinced that this wasn’t the afterlife.
His father broke off from his whispered conversation when he saw Ezio approaching, standing straighter. His expression was tense, but he still pulled Ezio into a fierce embrace as soon as Ezio was close enough.
“My son,” Giovanni breathed against his hair. “I am so glad that you are alright.”
“I’m fine, father,” Ezio insisted calmly. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of his father’s arms wrapped around him. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes, and he tried and failed to keep them in. It was just so hard to resist basking in Giovanni’s warmth. He’d lost his father when he was seventeen, and he thought he’d never get the chance to experience his embrace ever again.
His father seemed to sense Ezio’s upset, because he let the hug last a bit longer than he usually would. But eventually he pulled back just enough to rest his hands on Ezio’s shoulders, searching his face. “Are you hurting? Do you feel lightheaded at all?”
“No, father. I feel fine, now, thanks to Desmond,” Ezio told him.
“Desmond?” His father’s eyebrows rose. He glanced towards where the doctor was working, before turning his attention back to Ezio with a frown. “You know this man?”
“I do,” Ezio confirmed with a nod.
“What is he?” his mother asked, her eyes fixed on the pool of golden blood that surrounded Desmond’s arm.
Ezio looked over as well, noting that Desmond’s skin had finally stopped glowing, though the metallic sheen still coated whatever parts of his body it had already spread to. His eyes were open, but empty, staring blankly up at the ceiling without blinking. The right eye remained completely golden, even the white of it now appearing as if it was made of the precious metal. It gave him an otherworldly look, despite the way he was stretched out helplessly on the floor.
“I…don’t know,” Ezio admitted slowly. “I think he may be some sort of…god?”
His mother gave him a sharp look. “Don’t say such heretical things!”
But Ezio could only shake his head sadly. “I have met another already. A goddess. She spoke to me. Called me the Prophet. Do you not remember me telling you this, mother?”
“No,” she said, bewildered. “Ezio, what on earth are you talking about?”
“Perhaps his…episode has addled his mind,” his father suggested, looking concerned.
Ezio was starting to get a sinking feeling that this was not the afterlife after all. Still, to be sure, he addressed his father next. “Father, you remember the Templar plot to take over Firenze, yes? It cost you your life!”
Both of his parents jerked back as if they’d been slapped. “Ezio! What is the meaning of this?” his mother demanded.
“Uberto Alberti betrayed you when you tried to stop the Pazzi family conspiracy! I watched…I watched you and my brothers hang!” Ezio insisted.
“Ezio!” his father said sharply, cutting off anything else Ezio might try to say. Despite being mentally older than his father, Ezio couldn’t help but flinch back at that harsh tone. His father was rarely truly angry with him, but Ezio could sense the man’s fury now.
“Cease saying these horrible things!” Giovanni demanded. “Uberto Alberti is a good friend of our family! Your mother has seen enough today, and this is not helping!”
Ezio wanted to protest, but a quick glance at his mother’s face was enough to change his mind. She looked like she was on the verge of fainting, clutching at the cross necklace hanging from her neck for support. So, rather than try to continue prodding his father and testing if he truly was in the afterlife, Ezio let it go, ducking his head in shame. “Forgive me, mother. Father.”
His father’s rage settled, his shoulders slumping. “It is alright, Ezio. You’ve just been through something…trying. It’s only to be expected that you would be a bit confused afterwards.”
“As you say, father,” Ezio agreed easily, recognizing that he would not be able to convince his father of the truth of his words. But when he glanced over his father’s shoulder, he spotted Federico staring at him with horror written across his features. It seemed that Federico at least was paying attention to Ezio’s warnings, though from his shocked expression, Ezio could tell that he, too, did not remember his death.
This all but confirmed it for Ezio; however it had happened, he had somehow found himself in the past, not the afterlife as he’d first assumed. Somehow he and his family were alive again. It was hard to say exactly what the date was, but if he had to guess based on studying the other members of his family, he would place the time as somewhere shortly before his father and brothers had been executed. Perhaps only a few months before.
His lips thinned. That meant that he did not have much time if he wanted to prevent their deaths. And he would prevent it somehow. He swore it to himself.
Still, there was some time before that would become an issue. For now, he should probably deal with the god that had burst into his life, along with the great Altaïr himself and his strange companion. He looked towards the two assassins next, eager to change the subject with his father.
“The two who came in with Desmond,” he began, gesturing towards them. “I do not speak their tongue. Perhaps you could try talking to them, father?”
Giovanni looked over at the other assassins, his shoulders tense. Ezio could tell that he found Altaïr familiar, at least, though there was no recognition in his eyes. To be fair, he could say with confidence that the statue of Altaïr hidden beneath Monteriggioni was not the best likeness, now that Ezio had met Altaïr in person.
“I will see what I can do,” his father said slowly. He briefly glanced towards the doctor, seeing that he was still busy with Desmond, and then made his way across the room to approach the two assassins, Ezio trailing behind him.
Altaïr and his companion had taken to leaning against the wall of the dining room, watching the doctor work from beneath their hoods with looks of intense concentration on each of their faces. Their heads both swiveled towards Ezio and his father as they approached, however. His father came to a stop before Altaïr, perhaps subconsciously recognizing him, and he gave them each a strained smile.
“Hello,” his father started off, in Florentine.
“They do not understand,” Ezio muttered under his breath. “I’ve already tried French, Turkish, and Spanish as well.”
His father whirled to give him a startled look, but apparently decided to question Ezio on how he’d learned such a variety of languages later. Instead, he faced the men again and, after a brief moment of thought, started speaking in a tongue that Ezio didn’t recognize.
Just as Ezio had tried, his father rotated through a few different languages, searching for one that Altaïr and his companion might know. They managed to find a bit of common ground with one of them, but based on the pained expression on his father’s face, Ezio doubted it was one that they’d be able to actually use to communicate.
“Arabic, as to be expected,” his father reported with a resigned sigh. “He has that look to him. Unfortunately I only know a handful of words in the tongue.”
“Is there someone we know who might be able to help us?” Ezio mused. If they had been in Roma during the era of his brotherhood, he could already think of a few of his recruits who could assist them, but that was many miles and years away. Perhaps one of his father’s allies could help, though.
His father hummed thoughtfully for a moment, before he let out a soft noise of triumph. He waved Federico over, and Ezio’s brother soon joined them.
“Yes, father?” Federico asked as he came to stand next to Ezio, his eyes darting over towards the tall assassin every few seconds.
“I need you to hurry to the bank,” his father instructed, even as he gestured towards one of the servants to bring him a quill and some parchment. The items were quickly procured, and his father jotted down a brief note before folding it up and handing it over to Federico. “Give this to Luca, and bring him back to the Palazzo at once. Hurry, my son.”
“Yes, father,” Federico said, bowing to his father. He briefly looked to Ezio as he walked past, fear and confusion in his eyes, but all too soon he slipped out the door, off to complete his errand.
“Luca will be able to help us. He is new to the bank, but he is a skilled translator who speaks dozens of languages, and I trust him implicitly,” his father explained, wiping away a stray drop of ink from his fingers with a handkerchief.
“Is he an assassin as well, then?” Ezio questioned mildly, figuring that was the only way that his father would trust someone who he hadn’t known for very long.
His father went still for a moment, before whirling on him. “How do you know about that?” his father hissed quietly, his eyes wide.
Eyes widening, Ezio quickly realized his mistake. Of course, his father had never told him the truth about the assassins before his death. Ezio had only discovered his father's secrets afterward. If he was truly in the past, then he should not yet know that his father was an assassin.
Ezio thought about lying, or trying to deflect, but he quickly decided against it. His father would be able to sense the dishonesty, and right now he needed Giovanni’s help; he couldn't afford to break his father's trust, not when everything was so confusing and uncertain.
“The truth is, I…I am an assassin as well,” Ezio reluctantly admitted, praying his father would listen to him. “Or, I was. I…I had been one for…for decades, before I eventually gave up the blade to live a quiet life with my wife and children. I do not know how to explain it, father, but…I have lived a full life. I remember it. I remember dying, and yet…I am here now. I have no way to explain it, other than perhaps it is an act of God.”
His father studied his face for a moment, as if searching it for some sort of lie or weakness. Slowly, he reached out and cupped Ezio’s chin in his hand. “You really believe this. Don’t you?”
“I watched you die, father,” Ezio told him, refusing to look away from his father’s stare even as his voice cracked. “I remember burying you, and my brothers. I have fought Templars and faced gods. I have seen Masyaf and Constantinople and Roma, and I have rebuilt Monteriggioni from the ground up. I am still your son, but I am not the boy I was this morning. Not anymore.”
“Impossible,” his father breathed.
“Look at him.” Ezio gestured towards Desmond. The doctor seemed to finally be finishing up, just wrapping a bandage around the stump of Desmond’s arm, but the golden lines were still visible tracing up his neck and shoulder. “There is a man who bleeds gold, lying in our home. Look at him.” He gestured to Altaïr next. “Look at his face. You should recognize him. He is Altaïr himself. The mentor and architect of the brotherhood. This man should be dead for centuries! I saw his bones with my own eyes! Yet here he stands, even younger than you. Are these not impossible things? Yet here they are.”
His father’s eyes darted from Desmond to Altaïr and then back to Ezio. As Ezio spoke, he’d grown more and more pale, unable to deny the proof that Ezio was offering. As Ezio finished, he started shaking his head in denial, but Ezio knew that it was only a matter of time before his father accepted the truth. He was an assassin, after all. Strange things were commonplace for them.
“Father, please,” Ezio murmured. “You know I speak the truth.”
His father licked his lips, looking cornered. “I…”
He was saved from having to speak, however, when the doctor suddenly rose and declared he was finished.
“The young man’s wound is significant, but it almost appears as if his body has begun to repair itself on its own before my very eyes,” the doctor reported as he approached them, wiping his hands clean on a rag and occasionally glancing back at Desmond with a look of wonder. “For a normal person, I would be concerned that blood loss and infection might kill him, despite my best efforts, but something tells me that neither of these things will be an issue for him. Regardless, I will leave a few tonics and poultices which should help with the healing. Please get him to bed as soon as possible.”
“We will. Thank you, doctor,” Ezio’s father said, reaching out to pat the man on the shoulder in gratitude. “We are in your debt for your assistance. I will make sure you are paid handsomely for your work, as well as a little extra to thank you for your…discretion in this matter.”
“Of course,” the doctor agreed easily. To Ezio’s relief, there was no glimmer of avarice in his eyes as Giovanni mentioned his payment, only satisfaction at a job well done. He found his eyes flicking towards the doctor’s left hand, searching for a brand mark on one of the fingers. He didn't see one, but he got the sense that the doctor might have been an ally of the brotherhood, especially given how familiar with him Giovanni seemed to be. An assassin’s work was dangerous, and someone had to be patching up his father’s more serious injuries, after all. And as much as Ezio adored his mother, she was no genius with multiple talents like Leonardo had been.
It briefly occurred to Ezio that if he was in the past, he would get to see Leonardo again, and was cheered up immensely by the thought.
The doctor retrieved his supplies and gave Giovanni a friendly and knowing smile, all but confirming Ezio’s suspicions. “I am glad I was able to be of service to you and your family once again. I would like to return tomorrow to check on the patient, though, to inspect his dressings and make sure the wound is healing nicely.”
“That would be splendid, thank you,” Giovanni agreed, before letting one of the servants take over guiding the doctor out of the room. Once they were gone, Giovanni turned back towards Ezio, Altaïr, and the tall assassin, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion.
Sensing that his father was growing overwhelmed, Ezio decided to take charge of the situation. He had once been the mentor of the order, after all, current age be damned.
“Father, perhaps we should prepare a room for Desmond and the others,” Ezio suggested. “The doctor said that Desmond should be in bed, did he not?”
“Yes…yes, you’re right,” Giovanni agreed, sounding lost in thought.
“Altaïr and his companion can join him there as well,” Ezio continued, gesturing towards the other two assassins. “Then, when Luca gets here, we will be able to speak with Altaïr and perhaps finally get to the bottom of what is going on.”
His father just looked at him, his expression full of pain and confusion.
“Father,” Ezio said quietly, soothingly. “There is much for us to talk about, I know. But there is time. We can speak more about my revelations later. For now, should we not tend to our guests?”
His father stared at him for another long moment, but then shook himself out of his stupor. “Yes,” he said, still sounding slightly shaken, but like he was trying his best to ignore it. “Yes, that is probably for the best, my…son.”
His father's little moment of hesitation before calling him son did not go unnoticed. Ezio's expression didn't shift, but it felt like he had been stabbed through the chest with a hidden blade. His heart sank into his stomach as he realized that, with everything that had happened this morning and all of the changes Ezio had undergone thanks to suddenly regaining the memories of an entire future life, there was a small chance that his father might no longer see Ezio as his child.
Had he really earned a second chance to be with his family and see them healthy and whole, only to lose them again because of these new memories? The thought was enough to break his heart.
Ezio didn't allow any of his inner turmoil to show on his face, however. He merely bowed his head, and said, “May I take Altaïr and the others to the Blue Room, Father?”
If his father thought putting their unexpected guests in the nicest guest room in the Palazzo was an unwise choice, he didn't let on. Instead he merely waved his hand in dismissal, his face already crumpling as he lost himself to his thoughts.
“Thank you, Father,” Ezio murmured respectfully, before turning to face the assassins.
Altaïr's attention had been on monitoring the surrounding room as Ezio and his father spoke with each other, but when he saw Ezio turn to him, he straightened. He looked at Ezio expectantly, and Ezio tried his best not to get flustered at once again being the focus of such a legendary assassin’s gaze.
“Come,” Ezio told him, adding a gesture as well to hopefully make it easier for Altaïr to understand. Thankfully it must have made sense, because Altaïr and the other assassin followed after Ezio as he made his way back to Desmond.
Ezio started to reach down, intending to pick Desmond up to carry him. But before he could, the tall assassin scooped Desmond up into his arms instead. Ezio pouted for a moment, annoyed that he’d been shoved aside, but then he realized that this would only make things easier. Ezio was physically seventeen again, and he’d lost all of the muscle he’d gained as a trained assassin. He likely would have struggled under Desmond’s weight, no matter how thin and frail the other man looked right now with his missing arm.
So, with another gesture, Ezio led his new companions out of the dining hall and into the hallways of the Palazzo Auditore. It had been so long since he’d been here that it took him a moment to recall where the guest wing was, but once the memory returned, he started off with confidence.
“Here,” he said when they eventually reached the guest suite, opening the door so that the tall assassin could walk through. The man had to duck his head to make it through the doorway, but once inside he quickly walked over to the bed. With surprising gentleness, he placed Desmond down on top of the mattress, almost reverently, before taking a step back to hover at the bedside.
“I’ll bring you a chair,” Ezio offered, glancing around the room until he spotted one in the corner. He brought it over and offered it to the tall assassin, who merely took it with a thankful nod of his head and placed it next to the head of the bed. He sat down on it gingerly, almost as if he was expecting it to collapse under his weight, but when the wood held, he slowly relaxed.
“I am Ezio, by the way,” Ezio introduced himself to the tall assassin, deciding to refrain from using his full name. The tall assassin may not understand the whole string of it as a name rather than words in a language he didn’t understand, after all. For emphasis, Ezio pressed his hand against his chest. “Ezio.”
The man looked at him blankly for a moment, before understanding lit his eyes. “Ezio,” he echoed, pointing to Ezio.
“Yes,” Ezio nodded. He pointed to Altaïr next. “Altaïr.” And then Desmond. “Desmond.” Finally, he pointed to the tall assassin, his eyebrows rising in a wordless question.
“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” the man answered, pressing a palm to his chest to indicate his name.
Ezio froze for a second, the string of quick syllables too fast for him to catch. It was certainly unlike any he’d heard before. It had been spoken so quickly, Ezio had a hard time understanding if it was a single full name, or more than one. “Ra…ho…”
“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” the man repeated more slowly, looking amused.
“Raton…ha…”
“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” Altaïr growled from his position by the door, clearly unimpressed by Ezio’s struggles with pronouncing his companion’s name.
However, to Ezio’s amusement, the tall assassin winced at Altaïr’s pronunciation as well. He smiled weakly, and then after a moment’s pause, he once again pressed his hand to his chest and said very deliberately, “Connor.”
“Connor,” Ezio echoed, the simpler name much easier to say. He wasn’t sure if it was the man’s family name or first name, but hopefully it would suffice. “A pleasure to meet you, Connor.”
Altaïr grumbled something under his breath, presumably in Arabic, and turned his hooded face away with a huff. The newly dubbed Connor, however, just gave Ezio an pleased grin, and said something in his own tongue that Ezio chose to interpret as ‘nice to meet you, too.’
Introductions settled, Ezio looked to the man laid out on the bed. Desmond had thankfully fallen into unconsciousness sometime shortly after he’d lost his arm, and he was still asleep now. His brow was pinched with pain, however, and Ezio could see his eyes darting frantically around behind his eyelids as he slept. His rest was obviously not peaceful, and it pained Ezio to see him suffering so.
Though he had never even had a conversation with Desmond, Ezio had been chasing after the man his whole life, searching for answers. The mystery of who or what he was had always been lurking at the back of Ezio’s mind, ever since the first moment he’d heard Desmond’s name spoken by a goddess. Now that the man was finally here in front of him, it almost felt like Ezio had known him for years. But while he didn’t know what he had expected Desmond to be like, it certainly wasn’t this; someone injured and hurting and looking so incredibly small and young in the large guest bed, the remains of his arms wrapped up tightly in many layers of bandages. Though Ezio may have been physically younger than Desmond at the moment, the memories of his years lived weighed on him heavily and made him feel ancient as he stared down at Desmond’s tormented expression.
Seeing Desmond lying there, wounded and weak, Ezio no longer saw a god. He only saw a young man who was hurting. Just a man. One who needed as much rest as he could get to heal.
Remembering how he would settle his children whenever they had nightmares, Ezio went to sit carefully on the edge of the bed, reaching to gently pick up Desmond’s remaining hand to cradle in his lap. Ezio rubbed the knuckles with his thumb, murmuring soft prayers under his breath to hopefully sooth Desmond’s mind.
It took a while, but eventually Desmond began to relax, his face smoothing out as he fell into a proper sleep. Still Ezio held his hand and continued to pray, uncaring of his audience. They, too, watched over Desmond in silence; Altaïr from his position by the door, Connor in his chair. Though Ezio imagined that both of the men were confused and wary to have found themselves in a time and place unknown to them, surrounded by people they couldn't understand, neither seemed eager to leave Desmond's side. It was a sentiment that Ezio fully understood. Though there was much to discuss with his father about all that had happened, Ezio found that he was reluctant to leave the room, and the others, behind.
Together the three assassins stood vigil over the strange, glowing boy who had fallen into their lives, turning everything upside-down.