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When Assassins did not seek to appear in crowds dressed in red and white, nor announce their vengeance to an entire city while losing themselves to rage and grief, they were meant to be quiet—unnoticed, almost invisible. Ezio rarely followed that rule, but in his defense, there were scarcely any Assassins left by the time he donned their robes, and Mario adhered far more to his title of mercenary than to that of a killer from the shadows.
But in his time, things had been entirely different. Death came easily, and accidents were arranged even more so. Drama and charm cut as sharply as any blade—sometimes even more effectively—and rarely did he truly need to restrain himself or make an effort to remain unseen in the eyes of others.
After all, a crowd concealed him perfectly from the guards’ gaze—he vanished for some while remaining visible to others. Busy people rarely paid attention to who passed them by, allowing themselves to be used as shields from unwanted eyes.
But here… in this strange future to which the goddess Minerva had led him—appearing in his dreams in the final moment of his life—he had no choice. He was nothing more than a shadow, though even shadows seemed far more real than he was. No one heard him, no one saw him, their gazes sliding past him, yet influencing him just enough that he could not stray too far or for too long—unable to truly comprehend or understand the place he had found himself in.
The sensation was not new. Altair’s memory discs had placed him in the same role: a spectator to someone else’s tragedies, never allowed to intervene. But no mirage within those strange devices had ever lasted so long, always returning his body to him after a few dozen minutes. This memory, however, had already stretched beyond half a year, and Ezio understood that he would not be released back again.
He had known that these gods—the Isu—were not to be trusted. But he had felt himself dying, and Minerva’s promise of finally learning the answers to all his questions had been too sweet to refuse. Perhaps age had robbed him of sound judgment. Naivety had never been his defining trait, yet now it felt as though he had willingly stepped on the same rake that had once so painfully taught him his earliest lessons as an Assassin.
For some reason, he had thought the answers would take very little time—just a few seconds before he faded completely, leaving Sofia and their children behind, painful as even the thought of parting with them was. Death rarely asked permission, and he—the fool—was now paying the price for believing he had the strength to delay it just a little longer.
What he regretted most was not having held them properly one last time. He had died quietly, reassuring them that everything was all right. But now, watching people rush about, awaiting the birth of their heirs… Ezio remembered how Flavia had smiled at him, squeezing his hands. If Minerva truly believed that mercy lay in the answers he had long since stopped seeking, then she was a cruel goddess indeed.
Thinking of it now, he would have refused when she offered him this “reward” and dared to ask instead for just a little more time with his family. He had lived a good life—full of falls and ascents—and his death had been peaceful. Everything he could do, he had done. But to look upon his children’s faces one last time… to embrace Sofia and remind them all how deeply he loved them… That would have been far greater mercy than what the Isu offered him at the end of his path.
Because even after death, it seemed he would have to work for his answers—patiently watching the stories unfolding before his eyes.
“It’s a boy,” announced a short woman as she cracked open a white door. The man beside whom Ezio stood hurried past her inside, his familiar, sharp hunter’s gaze finding the small bundle with the crying infant in the arms of his exhausted wife.
Why Minerva had bound him to this particular couple, Ezio did not know—and he was far too tired to think about it. At least until the new mother smiled, gently stroking her son’s face.
“Look at him. What a voice!”
Their names were William and Zoe Miles. And they were both Assassins.
“Hello, little one…” the man whispered, leaning down to look at his child. “Welcome, Desmond…”
Ezio lifted his head, suddenly far more interested in what was happening nearby. Desmond? His Desmond?
Invisible and unheard, Ezio took several decisive steps toward the bed and leaned in as well, peering curiously into the swaddling in the woman’s arms. The child was tiny, crying miserably at how everything around him was too new, too different—too bright where he had known darkness, too cold where he had known warmth.
All children are born screaming in pain, announcing their presence in this strange new world. Flavia and Marcello had cried as well when he first held them, hardly believing in his happiness. Sofia had wept then too, smiling through her exhaustion, looking at him with such tenderness that it was impossible to grasp it fully in a single thought.
And now he watched someone else rejoice in the arrival of their miracle. The birth of a potential god—the prophet to whom he had been bound.
Ezio narrowed his eyes, watching the tiny clenched fists, the wrinkling little face, the lungs filling with air. Desmond was only a newborn—not a god. But could this truly be coincidence, if Minerva had promised him answers?
“Our son,” William said proudly, barely containing his smile.
But beyond his words, beyond his pride, reality did not align. Ezio knew this was the future, and much of it seemed strange and incomprehensible to him, changed so drastically that Leonardo would have been ecstatic just to see what humanity had achieved. Yet something felt fundamentally wrong in how the Assassins themselves had changed over five hundred years of growth.
Though what right did he have to speak of it… Altair likely would not recognize the Assassins of his era either.
History was a fragile thing, shifting with careless words. Yet Ezio had always believed that Assassins fought for freedom. But watching this future Brotherhood—hidden far from great cities—training children… he was almost certain that lesson had been lost somewhere along the way.
Or perhaps love was shown differently in this time? Perhaps Marcello might have become an Assassin one day as well—but Ezio would have wanted to train him through play, the way his father and Federico had guided him into that side of the world—gently, with excitement, even if that joy had not lasted long. William, the Mentor of this small place called the Farm, saw nothing useful in games.
Desmond grew up a quiet, unremarkable child. Any curiosity he showed was cut short by Zoe; any attempt to simply be a child was halted by William, who remarked that if Desmond had time to be distracted, then his lessons could be made more difficult. He had few friends, though he smiled at every child who came near, trying to find someone with whom loneliness might not feel so sharp. But then he was pulled away lesson after lesson, and the other children found different companions, unwilling to wait forever for the Mentor’s perpetually busy son.
The Farm raised obedient soldiers, and William’s love for his son grew ever more demanding. He was still proud of him—but with each passing year, the conditions required to earn that pride grew more complex, reaching toward the heavens while giving too little in return to truly be worth chasing.
Desmond tried. He grew accustomed to the idea that no one cared what he felt, and so Ezio became a witness to how parental love began to break its own child. Desmond did not know—did not understand—what it meant to be an Assassin, and he did not want to be one. He did not even believe in what they all stood for. To him, it was a strange religion imposed by his parents, lacking proof, followed only because everyone around him did the same.
“The Templars won’t wait for you to rest, Desmond,” William said during a sparring session, knocking his son to the ground yet again. “Get up. Get up and keep fighting.”
Ezio sighed, noticing once more that particular expression on Desmond’s face—the one that clearly asked Why?—an answer he had long understood would never come.
“The Templars are winning. A little more, and the whole world will be in their hands. Our task is to stop that,” Zoe explained patiently as she oiled the mechanism of her hidden blade.
Seeing the Assassin legacy in the future was strange. The blade was now almost invisible on their wrists, no longer requiring massive bracers—but the true meaning of the weapon had been lost. It was worn as a tribute to the past and used rarely, replaced by tools better suited to the time.
More often than not, Ezio scarcely recognized the legacy each Brotherhood left behind. Aside from ranks, the Creed, and the blades they barely used, these people shared little with the Assassins he had known. Everything had changed too much, intersected too many times. What were once small rituals now survived only in books, relics of the past.
Desmond studied the history of their Brotherhood in his lessons, and Ezio—out of boredom—often glanced over his shoulder, gradually growing accustomed to this strange language spoken around him. It felt like a mixture of old and new, stitched together from fragments into an amalgam of meanings and expressions.
Minerva’s help was involved as well… The goddess ensured he understood what was said around him, yet as always, she did not make the task easier—despite calling it a reward. As if the Isu had not toyed with him enough in life.
Was this boy—growing into a quiet, observant adult who knew he could rely only on himself, that no one would come for him—his Desmond? How could he know, when at times Ezio could not even hear himself in this shadowed state, cursing his curiosity again and again?
Time dragged slowly and dully as a spectator. And if he were truly honest with himself, he admitted that he would have preferred the peace of death to this ambiguous wandering among the phantoms of his life. If this was his Desmond… then what? Ezio might nod, look at the boy differently—but it would change nothing. He had long been dead and no longer belonged to the world of the living to influence it.
Five hundred years ago, he had left his mark—seen it in Desmond’s books, where he was named the greatest Mentor in Assassin history. But his time had passed. And what to do with this new, useless opportunity to see the future, he did not know.
No one asked his opinion, of course. He continued to be pulled along after Desmond, year after year, watching doubt and quiet anger grow in his eyes as answers never came. Watching him remain isolated through foolish coincidences, continue to play the obedient soldier, yet disappoint William more with each passing day. Ezio heard of attacks and betrayals within the Assassin ranks—of what was called “the Purge”—and with a parent’s heart, he understood the Miles’ desire to protect their son from such cruelty. Yet their silence now caused more harm than good.
In the end, Desmond was no longer a child. He ceased to be one the first time they placed a blade in his hands and told him he would kill with it.
Ezio had been trained quietly, through games, never burdened by that absurd secrecy in which everyone was included except him. His parents and brother had done everything to prolong his childhood as much as possible. Desmond, however, saw—he knew—that something was happening, that they were being prepared for something beyond the Farm’s walls. But no one gave him answers. As though everyone knew the secret except him, forever leaving him the fool.
That silence grew, sharpening him—turning the quiet child into something edged, hiding sharp corners behind flashes of anger that led nowhere. In turn, Desmond’s attempts to uncover the truth wore down what little patience William had left.
How simple it was to destroy two lives. The lines that bound them. A few moments of misunderstanding—and they crumbled in one’s hands, not even into sand, but into smoke. William grew angry, struck harder than he should have during training, and cut his son’s lips—his little soldier—failing to stop the blade in time. And Desmond, lying on the ground and staring up at him with wide eyes, as if not fully grasping what had happened, took it as final proof that duty would always matter more to his father than family.
With a straight, bleeding line across his lip—almost identical to Ezio’s own scar—Zoe tended to Desmond, carefully examining the wound and pressing bandages to it. But she said nothing, as if siding with William in all of this. And a week later, Desmond made his decision.
He packed a backpack with the bare essentials and, without saying goodbye to anyone, left the Farm at night—vanishing into the nearby forest, and then into the millions of roads of this future, dragging Ezio along with him.
As an observer—a role Ezio still rejected even after sixteen years—he did not know what he was meant to do. Minerva offered no guidance. At times he caught himself realizing that he had been this strange phantom longer than he had been a father to his children. Forced to watch a not-so-happy story, often hiding sharp edges behind moments when things still seemed fine.
Because things were fine. For a while.
Desmond had been a wanted child, who lost that status once they began shaping him into an obedient soldier. Zoe and William had been a family when they still remembered what that meant—before losing themselves to endless missions and the failures of their Assassins. They all bargained with death, but forgot along the way that life demanded its own price—and they had been in debt to it for a very long time.
How must William have felt when he did not find his son at the Farm the next morning? Zoe? How did Desmond himself feel, fleeing into an unknown, dangerous world, convinced that he was not loved?
Ezio did not know. And part of him hated that he had no choice but to partake in others’ lives this way. A distinct kind of helplessness—so reminiscent of the day he pushed through the crowd, reached out his hand, hearing even through the noise the creak of the mechanism as the platform was pulled away beneath his family—so slowly, and so suddenly, that the moment remained forever in his mind, stretched, altered, endlessly strange and painful.
He still remembered the sound of the rope singing as it tightened under the weight of bodies.
Now, all of it felt exactly the same. That loathsome place of a spectator who cannot change anything, forced to simply watch—as if it were a very long play, where everyone knows the characters will not survive until the end, yet for some reason still hopes for a happy outcome.
Ezio rubbed his face, watching Desmond sleep on a thin mattress in his new tiny apartment in New York—surely the loudest city of this strange future. Seeing joy on the face of someone already almost grown, when he had finally allowed himself to feel it, was that small ray of sunlight amid an almost constant weight of failure. The future turned out to be far less merciful than Ezio had somehow expected, with far fewer opportunities to find oneself—or anything that might help.
Perhaps because there were so many people now. Hundreds of thousands of living eyes slid over every passerby, and where the living failed, mechanical eyes came to help—things called cameras, which made any theft, any invisibility, impossible. Or almost impossible, because Desmond always moved as if he expected far more attention, even in the quietest places.
He was capable, this child slowly growing into an adult. Capable, intelligent—but painfully lonely. It was easy to grow attached to him. And despite the whole situation, and how heavy the role of an eternal observer could sometimes feel, Ezio loved Desmond in his own way.
Even if, in the end, this was not his Desmond, it was impossible to spend so many years watching someone grow up and not grow attached.
He reached out, trying to touch Desmond’s hair, and with the familiar bitter smile watched his fingers fail to pierce the veil of that silent, unnoticed prison. There was something sad in how, after his emotions had decided that this boy mattered to him, he could not express it in any way. Not with a glance, not with a smile, not with a word—as if the world itself was telling him it had been a mistake, and that he should have remained an indifferent observer.
Ezio had the patience of a lifetime. But not two.
And who could judge him for these small touches, when neither he nor anyone around could feel them? Certainly not Minerva, and not Jupiter either, considering how indifferently they had torn him from the familiar sensations of the body his soul once inhabited, binding him instead to shadows. Assassins were familiar with them, greeting them like old friends—but even they sometimes stepped into the light, serving him as faithful allies.
And now… he no longer had a choice. Even if the sun were to shine on him again someday, its rays would pass straight through him, and he would not be able to feel them.
The exchange had not been equal, but Minerva no longer appeared for him to say that to her face. Why did he need answers, if he had long since decided not to pursue them? If he had finally found peace, started a family, known those tiny moments of happiness that made life so alluring… Doubts still gnawed at him sometimes, calling him a naïve old man. In the end, a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush, and he had decided to test his luck in the final seconds of his life.
He sighed again and stretched out on the floor beside the thin mattress, staring at the ceiling mottled with dark stains from dampness. It smelled of cold and moisture here, but Desmond had been so happy to get this place, investing so much hope in it, that it was impossible to think badly of it.
Small steps were still steps. Even for those who were used to change coming only with blood.
And perhaps they would have remained so—insignificant, unnoticed… if Ezio had not begun to notice a golden gleam in Desmond’s eyes. The first few times, he thought it a trick of the mind. Eagle Vision was a rare enough gift, valued among the Assassins almost as a separate branch of intuition. Mario had said the gift was hereditary, but even so it did not reveal itself immediately to its bearers, requiring effort—or something like a push—to truly awaken.
And Desmond did it entirely by accident, for only a few moments at a time, unaware of it, always blaming those fractions of seconds when the world lost its color on migraines. He had only just turned nineteen, and there was no reason for a second sight to point out dangers or targets—yet it continued to faintly reflect in his eyes, catching the light like a cat’s in the dark.
And… Ezio could be wrong… but it seemed to him that Desmond could see him with Eagle Vision. He would turn, flinch, rub his eyes, and frown when the effect vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving him with no certainty of what he had seen.
Starved for any interaction, for touch, for glances and words directed at him rather than through him, Ezio simply could not leave it at that. Any embarrassment or shame—though they had never truly been his strong points in life—were forgotten at this tiny chance to be heard and seen again, and the distance between them began to shrink. Ezio wanted to be seen. Wanted his presence to be something that could not be dismissed as migraines or exhaustion.
Even in this strange form, where he was neither alive nor dead… he was still here. He thought, he felt, he wanted.
How sad that this state reminded him of the day he had first taken a life, screaming—full of rage and grief—that he was still alive, that he was Ezio Auditore, the last son of his shattered family.
Desmond flinched more sharply when he saw Ezio’s face so close, even if he was not sure about these momentary hallucinations—but the Assassin saw no other option. How else could he try to influence anything, if he had neither voice nor visible body? Desmond did not even understand what he was doing, and did not try to consciously open his second sight again.
At such moments, Ezio rubbed his temples and cursed William for filling his son’s head with useless nonsense and unfounded paranoia instead of teaching him about the Assassin legacy and what could truly help him survive. Yes, perhaps the gift had faded over the centuries—but was it not as much a symbol as their hidden blade?
Altaïr must certainly have left records of it in the Codex, and throughout history it had been a frequent subject of study in their Brotherhoods. Ezio refused to believe that in this cold, noisy, overcrowded future—where information was obtained so easily it sometimes felt absurd—this knowledge could have been lost.
And now all he could do was hope for the best, and pray that Desmond would figure it out himself.
What else could be done?
“Come on, ragazzo, we’ve been circling each other for far too long…”
In his later years at the Farm, William and Zoe had always demanded more from their son, as if his efforts, talents, and knowledge were never enough to make them proud. But Desmond was not stupid. Otherwise, he would not have managed to hide from the Assassins for so long, vanishing into vast cities where finding someone was paradoxically easy enough to be astonishing.
Paranoia made Desmond sleep with a knife under his pillow and walk more and more often with his head lowered, hiding from the mechanical eyes of cameras whose presence he felt almost on his skin. He deliberately lived in crowded places, left no fingerprints, no traces, and always used false names instead of his own.
That same paranoia made him listen to the shadows more carefully than usual, sitting for long hours in the darkness of his tiny apartment, where the kitchen, living room, and bedroom fit into a space only slightly larger than the wagons of Ezio’s time.
But Desmond achieved tangible success only after several months, when long sittings in the dark after hard workdays had become almost a ritual. His eyes flashed gold again, dimmed, reflected the dull light once more… and stayed that way.
Slowly—very slowly—Desmond turned his head, and in the darkness his eyes looked almost feral. Ezio, frozen expectantly on the edge of the mattress, caught his gaze with mounting tension, waiting for any reaction at all. The hope that his isolation—that strange imprisonment presented as a reward—might become even slightly more bearable tightened his throat, forcing him to simply watch, watch, watch… and wait for a miracle.
During those long years as an observer, Ezio had not always been so quiet. Several times his patience ran dry—he began to shout, to demand, once even to cry, when waiting and grief from memories merged into something inseparable. The realization that he was utterly alone in this strange future, without the ability to rest or see his family even once, would suddenly press on his heart, giving rise to flashes of despair.
And now, when his words truly mattered, Ezio was at a loss, not knowing what to say. Desmond’s gaze, directed at him—at him, not through him, truly at him—was almost frightening in its intensity and in the awareness of something being wrong. Children were never meant to look as though they were preparing to take every blow life could offer, lips pressed tight, without a single sound of pain.
“You forgot to eat again,” Ezio blurted out, when being under that gaze became unbearable.
He did not know whether Desmond could hear him—sight and hearing were entirely different things—but Desmond did not look away for several long, uncomfortable minutes. Then he stretched his lips into a smile. Wrong, cold, and far too light all at once.
“So it’s all true. I’ve completely lost my mind.”
Ezio impulsively reached out to him, not even knowing what he wanted to do—but Desmond did not flinch, watching his movements with a sharp, overly attentive gaze.
“Piccolo, if that’s true, then we’re both insane,” the Assassin began gently, soothingly, trying not to scare away his first chance at conversation, at touch… at anything.
Desmond’s gaze snapped down to his lips as he spoke, and Ezio realized that Miles could not hear him. But the sharp flash of despair did not even have time to burn him, because Desmond raised his hands and began slowly bending his fingers in a strange silent language they had learned at the Farm. In this future, such knowledge was normal—but Ezio had never focused enough to truly learn it. He knew how to say “thank you,” “hello,” “please”… and “I’m sorry,” because those were repeated most often.
Ezio repeated the last gesture, and Desmond squinted. He pinched himself, counted the fingers on both hands, and tilted his head. After three years in noisy cities, blending into crowds and becoming part of them, it was easy to forget that he, too, was an Assassin—raised with the instincts of those who were meant to notice the most imperceptible details. Wasn’t Eagle Vision proof of that?
But the looks and the tension in the body of someone used to reacting to danger either by vanishing or by releasing the hidden blade were one thing. When it came to belief… one could never be certain.
What was Desmond thinking now, looking at him? That he was the result of too much drinking? An angel or a demon? A vision of something far greater than he was? Ezio knew Miles was not religious—faith had been denied at the Farm from infancy—but faced with the impenetrable wall of another’s thoughts, he did not know what to assert. How was he supposed to convince Desmond not to turn away from him?
He tried to smile the way he once had in his youth, charming with boyish ease. Years, decades had passed since then, but Ezio had never felt as old as he did in that moment.
Desmond’s squint did not fade. Three years away from the Farm had made him feral, one of those quiet predators of great cities who never again exposed a single soft place to the world, knowing that at any opportunity someone would try to tear out a throat or gut a belly. Before, it had not felt like such a barrier. The ability to survive had always been valuable… until it took something in return.
In this case, the absence of softness and support in Desmond’s life had built walls around him—walls that would be difficult to cross. But not impossible. Ezio refused to believe that this future, and his age, had robbed him of his ingenuity.
He rubbed his neck and raised the hand that still bore the shadow of the hidden blade. Minerva had not taken his Assassin robes or weapons when she made her bargain with him, despite the fact that he himself had long since set them aside. Once, he had been willing to do anything for peace. Now, the presence of the blades at his wrists felt almost reassuring.
Desmond frowned, leaning forward to examine the blade carefully before returning his gaze to Ezio’s face—especially to the scar that crossed his lips.
And then he turned away, and his eyes stopped glowing gold. Ezio nearly howled in despair. Whatever Desmond had decided in that brief moment… it clearly did not promise an end to this long loneliness.
For either of them.
It was his Desmond.
His little god, who had somehow seen—received Minerva’s message—through his life. Ezio had no doubts left.
Golden Isu blood flowed through the boy’s body, hidden, showing no sign of itself, yet utterly intolerant of ignorance.
“We’ll have noodles again. And stop looking at me like that—how do you expect me to cook? I don’t even have a pot,” Desmond asked as he stepped into his apartment and kicked off his shoes.
Despite Ezio’s initial fear, Desmond hadn’t completely ignored his existence. Every evening he kept opening his gift and… doing something with it. The more he stared into the shadows between their worlds, the more his eyes opened—and not in the way Assassins who possessed that gift experienced it.
At least, Ezio had never seen Eagle Vision affect more than just the eyes, spreading its influence further. Yet the proof was right in front of him—Desmond walked around the apartment with a thin vertical golden line running down from his left eye for a few centimeters. Minerva had strange patterns on her skin as well, but somehow Ezio had never considered that they might… grow.
Just a week ago, that small line had been half as long.
It wasn’t visible without Eagle Vision, but that was precisely the problem—Ezio himself was part of the unseen now, and he always, always saw what he wasn’t meant to see in this state.
Desmond stretched and set his bag on the floor. He didn’t have a table yet and most likely wouldn’t anytime soon—Miles planned to save up for a bed first, constantly complaining that the cold from the floor was far too noticeable. Kitchenware came next—either he himself had grown tired of eating suspicious-looking food that was always sold cheaply, or Ezio’s silent judgment was finally bearing fruit.
For now, their conversations were still one-sided. Desmond filled the silence of his small home with whatever came to mind, while Ezio could only nod and gesture agreement or disagreement. Desmond slowly taught him the finger alphabet, but the lessons progressed slowly and without much success. Minerva had been merciful enough to help him understand the language Miles spoke, but whenever he tried to spell something with his fingers, it always came out Florentine. Ezio simply didn’t know how the words his little god spoke were put together, and attempts to make sense of it all usually left them both thoughtful and silent after too many tries.
The first golden trace beneath Desmond’s eye appeared two days later, when he said it was useless and that they needed another solution. He was doing something, though he himself didn’t realize what exactly—over all these weeks, he still hadn’t once looked at himself in the mirror through Eagle Vision.
“Besides, it’s really not that bad,” the boy tried to convince him, tossing his jacket onto the mattress and rolling his shoulders.
He had just found a new job at a place like a tavern—in this future simply called a bar. Assassin agility allowed him to perform small tricks for amused customers, always ready to pay extra for a little show, but his muscles still ached from unfamiliar strain, forcing Desmond to grumble that he really needed to get back to training, at least an hour a day.
Ezio narrowed his eyes in displeasure when Desmond opened his noodles—plain paper by the looks of it—poured water over them and sat down on the mattress, patiently waiting for them to steep. They had no real smell and didn’t inspire much appetite, but the boy was stubborn and clearly wasn’t about to listen to Ezio’s words… gestures.
“You look younger than in our books,” Desmond said thoughtfully, lifting his gaze to him.
He had never asked his name, but history was better preserved in this future than in his own time, and it hadn’t taken much effort to connect the hidden blade, Assassin robes, and the scar on his lip. Especially since Ezio himself had seen countless mentions of his deeds in the archives on the Farm, as if his figure and role had somehow managed to eclipse even Altaïr.
For some reason, the thought felt sad now.
“I’m not hinting at anything—gray in your beard looks pretty hot, actually—but why this version of you?” Desmond tilted his head, and despite the friendly face with soft features inherited from Zoe, the gesture always came off as quietly unsettling. As if every word was weighed on scales deciding whether someone was worth attention and trust.
Ezio pointed to the apples he had made Desmond buy, hoping he’d eat at least something that didn’t look like tasteless, colorless paper.
Predictably, it gave Miles no answers. He didn’t know about the Isu or the Pieces of Eden, and Ezio didn’t have enough means to explain something he himself didn’t fully understand.
His appearance remained the same as on the day he last took an Isu artifact in his hands. Altaïr’s Apple—or his memory discs—something had preserved his image, and Minerva had used it when she offered her bargain. For a goddess, her powers depended strangely on the ancient artifacts of her people, resonating with her blood—but who was Ezio to doubt her actions?
Desmond huffed, interpreting the gesture differently. He looked at the apple, finished his dinner—if it could be called that—and bit into the fruit, chewing slowly and leaning against the wall with its peeling layers of something they called wallpaper, used to decorate spaces. Ezio didn’t know why his thoughts still clung to such details after nearly twenty years in this future.
“Don’t you miss food? Or do you feed on my life energy? What do ghosts even live on?” Miles asked, throwing him another quick glance.
He blinked a few times, as if an eyelash had gotten into his eye, and the line beneath it grew just a little longer. Was that a worrying sign—or something good, a sign that Desmond was slowly stepping into the role of a deity?
Ezio smiled faintly and shook his head. Yes, sometimes he missed simple pleasures like food, a warm bed, and gentle embraces—but those desires always dragged memories and regrets behind them, of a life he was no longer part of. Besides, Desmond’s chatter helped him feel at least a little grounded, rather than aimlessly suspended between shadows with no exit.
“Do you even sleep?”
Ezio opened his mouth and froze, confused. He had moments of silence when he willingly slipped further into the role of observer, letting time flow faster without noticing—but that state never lasted long. He had never felt sleepy since striking the bargain, and given how vast and overwhelming this future was, he had never even thought to try.
Desmond, growing better at reading his silences, patted the mattress, offering him a place. The gesture oddly reminded Ezio of Flavia when she was still very young.
And just as he had done with her, Ezio sat on the edge of the mattress and shook his head, gesturing for Desmond himself to go to sleep, preparing for a new day. Every moment of even relative comfort in this future had its price, and Miles needed rest far more than someone who no longer needed it.
For a few long moments, they stubbornly stared at each other, neither willing to give in.
In the end, Desmond sighed and curled up on half the mattress, pulling the blanket over himself and leaving space beside him. The bed was small enough that the free space was child-sized, but the gesture itself was… sweet.
Ezio smiled and tried to stroke Miles’s hair. As expected, his touch met nothing tangible—but Desmond unexpectedly muttered a shy “Good night,” following the motion of his hand and burrowing deeper into the thin blanket.
Despite the fact that the world and the people in it weren’t always kind or understanding toward the boy… Desmond had still grown into a good child. An adult. A bit feral, perhaps—but charming in his own way, when approached correctly.
It was just sad, sometimes, to realize how little affection it took to start dismantling the wall of his constant wariness.
“I think it’s not bad,” Desmond drawled, inspecting a small dresser in the store. “And the size fits…”
“But not the color,” Ezio grimaced, allowing himself to be picky.
Desmond glanced at him, unable to suppress a small smile. The golden line beneath his eye had almost reached the scar and then turned left at a sharp angle, disappearing under his hair. Now, even when he wasn’t using Eagle Vision, one of Miles’s eyes seemed strangely lighter, as if a bright otherworldly light still lingered there, merely hidden beneath the veil of warm brown irises.
What he was doing was slowly changing him, and when the line reached his ear, Desmond said in surprise for the first time that he could hear him. And Ezio, who had waited so long to be heard again, didn’t mention the strange changes happening to his face—no matter how much they worried him.
There was something deeply wrong about divine influence touching a child whose growing up he had witnessed. Fear kept reminding him of Minerva, of Jupiter with their venom-yellow eyes—and it was frighteningly easy to imagine those predatory, cold expressions on Desmond’s face. What truly distinguished them from humans, besides glowing patterns on their skin, light garments threaded with metal, and the feeling that they were masters of this world?
How much knowledge did they carry in their minds, how many eyes did they hide in their shadows, if past, present, and future lay in the palm of their hand?
Every new centimeter of gold on Desmond’s skin made Ezio a little more visible. And pushed Desmond further away from him—not noticeably yet—but already building the distance between a god and his prophet.
“I think it’ll do,” the boy said, opening the drawers and inspecting the space inside. “Besides, what do you know about ‘future’ design?” he smiled, clearly teasing Ezio.
“Enough to tell shades apart and know this dresser will look ridiculous with the bed. We should get a wooden one—the darker one.”
“The white one looked better, but fine,” Desmond agreed easily, calling over a store employee and arranging delivery.
Several months had passed since the day he first saw Ezio, and despite life still trying to be cruel, unfair, and simply difficult in how it raised people ready to tear each other apart for a place under the sun, Desmond was slowly settling in, shedding the role of a small obedient soldier and a feral animal. Even his tiny fifth-floor room had begun to look a bit cozier, finally acquiring some furniture.
Ezio waited while Miles paid for the purchase—always in cash, always with a shadow of paranoia behind him—and followed him outside. The noise, as always, tried to overwhelm them, letting the cacophony of thousands of sounds merge into a single, never-silent mass, but eventually it faded into something ordinary, familiar. There had been no towering buildings, endlessly humming machines replacing carriages, or false windows calling out and displaying things in Ezio’s time—but time had helped even him grow accustomed to it.
And despite how alien the hive-city still felt at times… Ezio often thought Leonardo would have been utterly delighted to see it.
“What are we saving up for next?” Desmond asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and slipping easily through the crowds.
“A bit more clothing? It hurts me to watch you go out into the cold with such confidence, as if illness doesn’t scare you.”
Desmond rolled his eyes but didn’t snap back as he used to—only muttering a sarcastic “Okay, dad,” and lifting his gaze to the darkening sky. There were no stars visible at all. As if someone had simply swept them away, leaving nothing but black.
Ezio narrowed his eyes, suddenly noticing a new golden line, also hidden beneath Desmond’s hair, barely visible at the nape of his neck—but already long enough to begin curling into Isu patterns. The fact that he had only noticed it now felt like a bad sign.
“Do you know what the Templars hunted in my time?” he asked, finally daring to start the conversation.
Desmond wasn’t a god yet and knew nothing of Ezio beyond what was taught on the Farm. Perhaps the time for the message Ezio had left him—as a prophet, as a smoky, indistinct silhouette Minerva had spoken of—had not yet come, and knowing this, any talk of artifacts and the Isu walked a knife’s edge.
Not because the knowledge itself was dangerous—though it certainly was—but because this Desmond, not yet stepping into anything greater than being human… didn’t believe in Assassins or their legacy at all.
And certainly not in the Isu or their artifacts.
Predictably, Desmond’s mood soured instantly. He pressed his lips together, gave a small dismissive wave of his hand, and didn’t turn back to Ezio.
“They chased order and slavery, you chased freedom and other metaphors. I’ve heard it so many times I could recite paragraphs from the Farm’s books by heart,” he tried to sound indifferent enough to drop the subject, even pulling up his hood to shut him out.
Ezio, making use of his intangibility, simply moved around him, passing through the crowd and beginning to walk backward.
“The Brotherhood, in my time and all others, hunted things we called Pieces of Eden,” Ezio began, noticing Desmond’s expression darken. “Each of them holds power—forces difficult to explain—and much of my life was devoted to chasing one of them: the Apple of Eden. For a long time, it was our duty to keep them out of cruel hands, and modern Assassins still follow that goal, because they were and always will be dangerous.”
“And where are you going with this?” Miles asked, his tone signaling that he was retreating behind his feral walls again.
“If time and history were merciful, my Apple is still in—”
Desmond stopped abruptly, finally looking at him with eyes that seemed almost unfamiliar.
“Don’t continue. I didn’t run from that insane cult just to spend my life looking over my shoulder because of some made-up obligation.”
“It was never a cult, and I’m sorry you were forced to see it that way.”
Desmond frowned. The golden line running down from his left eye stretched upward too, crossing his eyelid.
“No. It was a bunch of suicidal fanatics ready to die for empty words about freedom and expecting the same from their children. I’m not dying thinking my ‘work from the shadows’ helped some abstract ‘light,’ like I was just as deranged a zealot as every adult on the Farm.”
He cast aside the Assassin legacy so easily, with such anger, that for a moment a flare of hurt nearly knocked the air from Ezio’s lungs—even though he no longer needed to breathe. In every age, their people died for freedom. His father died for it; Federico and Petruccio followed by cruel chance; countless friends, students, loved and irreplaceable people sacrificed their happiness so someone else might have it.
Ezio caught himself beginning to frown as well and forced himself to stop. Desmond’s choice had been made for him almost at birth, and then he had been given nothing worth truly fighting for. The Farm raised obedient soldiers, rarely allowing children to be anything else—and the result was simple. No attachments, no values—nothing to sacrifice, should the choice ever arise.
And Ezio was far too old to act on fleeting resentment.
“You’ll have to take it out from there anyway. If the Apple is still in the Colosseum.”
“Why?” Desmond asked venomously, and Ezio stepped closer, forcing him to look up.
He tried to place a hand on his cheek, bitterly tracing the golden line beneath his eye—but as always, the touch passed through, weightless, unable to find boundaries in his immaterial existence. He had to act differently.
“Because you’re changing,” Ezio said, turning his head toward a large shop window they were passing, inviting Desmond to look. “And I don’t know when those changes will take you away from me completely.”
They both stared at the glass. In the reflection, as always, only Desmond remained—still irritated, unwilling to continue the topic, but already marked with gold too clearly to ignore.
The moment Miles realized what he was seeing was easy to recognize. His head tilted in that familiar, small predatory gesture, and his fingers rose to his face, trying to touch, trace the strange marks on his skin—returning with nothing.
“The Apple had the same ones. So did those who held it before.”
When Desmond turned back to him, his pupils were tiny points in a sea of Eagle Vision gold. And Ezio had never regretted so deeply that he couldn’t hold him.
“I… I need to think. Sorry.” He closed his eyes, temporarily forgetting his second sight and letting himself sink into the illusion of normalcy, returning their warm brown color.
But the left one still remained slightly lighter—and Ezio knew Desmond wouldn’t be able to run from this so easily. No matter how much they both wished he could.
They only went to Rome two years later, when Desmond’s face had become a canvas of golden lines flowing down his neck, winding over his arms and chest in an even, almost mechanical vine-like design. They had to wait until there was enough money, and until they could obtain forged documents good enough to travel with… and Desmond himself wasn’t in much of a hurry either, still trying to cling to the illusion of a normal life.
Ezio patted his shoulder. Truly patted it — the touch no longer passed straight through him like it once had, meeting something real ever since the gold had begun to flow down Miles’ neck. Desmond leaned into the touch with quiet trust, never quite managing to rid himself of his hunger for contact. In that sense, he was like a cat who had finally found someone it could trust. Desmond gravitated toward Ezio at every opportunity, happily accepting any embrace and initiating his own, trying to stay as close as physically possible.
There was nothing wrong with that, and some part of Ezio was glad that his little god could finally relax, receiving the long-awaited affection.
“Piccolo, promise me you’ll be careful.”
Desmond smiled, narrowing his fully golden eyes — eyes that almost never shed Eagle Vision anymore, despite how it stole the colors from the real world, turning it into a simplified version of what was important and what was dangerous. How one could grow accustomed to such sight permanently remained a question Ezio didn’t truly want answered. Cowardly as it might have been, he feared further confirmation of the widening gap between the human and the divine within his charge.
“I’m always careful,” Desmond reassured him before melting into the crowd, easily avoiding cameras and unnecessary attention.
He moved smoothly, calmly, as though the possibility of being caught never even crossed his mind. All Ezio could do was guide him through the corridors, shaking loose memories to find the right path. And despite how long he had waited for — and feared — this moment, Desmond reached the Apple with startling ease, bypassing every precaution, likely set by the Isu themselves, who no longer existed in his time.
The sphere still rested on its pedestal, deceptively unremarkable, not even glowing with its golden light that promised countless secrets, power, and control. The lines on it were exactly the same as those on Desmond himself, and when he placed his palm against it, it felt as though this moment had been destined for a very, very long time. Two parts of an incomplete mechanism, finally joined together.
Ezio held his breath (even though, technically, he didn’t breathe), unsure of what to expect. In his time, the Apple of Eden had felt so hungry, so… entangling. Desmond should have felt it too, struggling for his will against the ancient artifact. The sphere’s influence could be subtle, or overt, even blatant — but instead of the seductive whispers of long-forgotten voices, the Apple suddenly released a deafening, otherworldly shriek, echoing at once through realities and inside their minds.
The patterns on Desmond flared brighter as he grabbed the sphere with his other hand as well, staring intently at something only he could see, his expression sharpening into the familiar predatory focus that had grown more pronounced over time. The sound swelled, taking on distinctly feminine tones, before breaking off on a high note that still rang in the air.
Desmond remained standing motionless at the pedestal, staring at the sphere in his hands with fully golden eyes for several long minutes before Ezio finally stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Tesoro?” he asked cautiously.
The sphere began to dim until its light vanished entirely, leaving Desmond as the only remaining trace of divinity in the room.
Miles turned, studying him with a new, piercing gaze — far too different from the trusting eyes that so often lifted to Ezio in silent plea for him to always stay close. Then he lowered his gaze again, looking at the Apple.
“You never told me how long you searched for my name,” Desmond said slowly, soft notes gradually returning to his voice. “Or how much pain it caused you.”
“Why would I? It won’t change what’s already happened.”
Ezio watched him closely, still tensely waiting for the inevitable explosion. Artifacts like the Apple of Eden were always accompanied by rivers of blood and violence, unwilling to remain lost for long, forever seeking new minds to ensnare. Truthfully, he was surprised the sphere was still where he had left it after five hundred years — but considering the safeguards around its chamber… it clearly hadn’t been sleeping, weaving new webs.
“It won’t,” Desmond agreed, falling silent for a long while before asking, “Do you miss them? Your family? Sofia, the children, your brothers, your sister… your parents?”
“More than you can imagine.”
Desmond spun around sharply, his lines flaring brighter in rhythmic pulses, like the heartbeat of an enraged heart.
“Then why are you here? Why did you trade them… for this?!” He gestured at himself — no longer quite human, yet not fully divine. “You walked so long toward peace, Ezio! You survived so much — all because the Isu couldn’t keep their damn mouths shut! And what if it isn’t worth it?”
The more Desmond grew angry, seeing two — or perhaps more — realities at once, the more his voice began to resemble a mechanical creak. The line on his right arm visibly crawled lower, splitting into a thin crack — but that wasn’t the worst part. Not even the way the world suddenly felt smaller, far too small for a new Isu stepping into his role.
The most painful thing was his face.
Because beneath the golden mask still hid that small, wounded creature, convinced he was unloved, unwanted, truly believing he wasn’t worth the effort, the suffering… and certainly not the time — especially when that time stretched across decades.
And Ezio couldn’t leave it like this.
Ignoring the golden lines, he stepped forward and gently cupped Desmond’s face in his hands, tenderly brushing his cheeks.
“It is worth it,” he assured him. “It’s worth so much, piccolo. It’s true — I miss everyone I left behind, and who left me. We all had our rises and falls, but after climbing to the peak once, you shouldn’t forget — or fear — the descent. Life doesn’t tolerate stagnation; it tests us again and again, and it’s foolish to surrender just because we fall once more.”
Desmond’s face twisted. His eyes filled with moisture, and instead of tears, gold poured from them. Ezio hastily tried to wipe it away, searching for the right words.
“If I had the chance to go back now, I wouldn’t,” Ezio whispered, his brows lifting sadly as he looked at Desmond’s utterly broken expression. His Desmond. “Because meeting you was incredible — another ascent to the summit. Leaving you would mean stepping off it willingly. Everyone who enters our lives is given their time, and I’d like to believe that ours isn’t over yet.”
His little charge closed his eyes, leaning forward and burying his face in Ezio’s chest. Ezio embraced him, one hand stroking his hair, trying to convey all the gratitude, all the love he had gathered over this lifetime.
“And besides,” he smiled, trying to soften the heavy atmosphere, “I don’t miss my old joints at all.”
That earned him a wet, shaky chuckle.
“You talk like a hundred-year-old man sometimes,” Desmond muttered, gripping his robes.
“I almost am one,” Ezio laughed.
Miles lifted his head, studying his face closely, then huffed, clearly unconvinced. He leaned closer, silently asking for more closeness — and refusing him when he was this fragile felt impossible.
“What do you want to do now? And what about the Apple?” Ezio asked after they stood in silence for several more minutes, clinging to each other for comfort.
He didn’t want to break the moment, but staying too long in a place where Isu influence was so strong worried him.
“The Apple, like Juno, won’t do anything anymore,” Desmond replied quietly, sharpening his tone with venom at the unfamiliar name. “And we’re going home.”
He sighed, rubbing his nose against Ezio’s chest, trying to press closer despite it being physically impossible. How strange it must look from the outside — hugging air. Slightly denser, perhaps, but still air.
“But first,” Desmond suddenly added, lifting his head again. One of the golden lines running through his lips beside the scar pulsed brightly beneath the skin. “We intercept Clay.”
Desmond had no friends — the Farm had taught him not to trust easily — but for some reason, Ezio thought that this Clay, an Assassin who had nearly ended up in a Templar cell, might have been the first. The young man was nervous, stubborn, but seemed reliable when Miles persistently talked him out of the mission William had assigned him. Kaczmarek appeared almost obsessed with the idea of making the Mentor proud, and Ezio caught a flash of bitterness in the twitch of his charge’s mouth when he realized it.
William kept searching for obedient little soldiers. Did he see how other people’s characters broke beneath his goals and his sense of duty?
But Desmond didn’t take a step toward Clay, to Ezio’s concern. He told him only what was necessary, drawing on the life the Apple of Eden had shown him, ensured the boy would return to William — and then did something else he didn’t fully understand himself. As a deity — even such a young one, unaware of his capabilities — Desmond possessed something like… a sense of inviolability. An aura that subtly inspired awe and the desire to listen, not interrupt, to wait for any sign of attention. Usually it was faint, but it always intensified when Desmond was certain of his decisions, turning his words into sweet commands.
The Apple did the same, and Ezio wasn’t sure his resistance to it — earned during his lifetime — was a blessing. Desmond didn’t yet realize what he was doing, but…
Who was he kidding — when his little charge smiled and leaned into him with such trust, Ezio couldn’t be afraid or dwell on what his god was becoming. Whatever awaited him at the end of this path, he would stay beside Desmond.
Golden eyes followed Clay as he left, predatory in that birdlike way, then turned back to him.
“We can go home,” Desmond smiled, stepping closer and clearly hoping for an embrace — which he immediately received. “We’ll visit Achilles’ grave on the way, and then we can forget about all this for another two years before I bind Juno to her own damn sacrificial system. The flare will burn out her consciousness instead of mine, and everything will return to normal. Assassins and Templars will keep playing cat and mouse, and you and I will live past thirty. Sounds good, right?”
Ezio shook his head and ruffled Desmond’s hair.
“Not bad, but… Piccolo, I’m sorry you don’t see other people in your future. One can’t be alone forever.”
Desmond looked up at him, confused.
“What do you mean? I have you.”
Ezio sighed and raised his hand. The light didn’t pass straight through like one might expect of a ghost, but he didn’t look entirely physical either — woven from shadows and memories. Essentially a corpse, returned by death as a toy for time.
“Look at me. On my best days, even I can’t escape the doubt that I’m real. And you need people — living, breathing ones, capable of helping you — far more than you need me when it truly matters.”
Desmond stared at him for a long time. Reading what lay behind that golden gaze had become impossible long ago.
His charge’s fingers intertwined with his own, and Desmond gently placed his palm against Ezio’s chest, as if searching for the echo of a heartbeat.
“You’re alive enough for me. And I don’t need anyone else as long as you’re here.”
With those words, he rose onto his toes and kissed Ezio’s cheek — light, almost childlike, despite the fact that the gesture clearly carried far more meaning than simple innocence.
“All these changes scare me,” Desmond admitted before Ezio could respond, lifting his hand in a mirrored gesture — now entirely etched with even lines. “I can feel myself becoming… a machine. A weapon. And even the thought that someone might accept me like this — when it’s hard enough for me — is too vague to truly cling to. But… I don’t need to search, because you already see me. My whole life, just as I saw yours. Doesn’t that… doesn’t that mean anything?”
Golden eyes continued to watch him, expectant, almost pleading, and Ezio sighed.
“I didn’t think you were into nearly century-old men,” he tried to joke, and Desmond pressed closer, sensing the softness in his tone like a hound.
“You can’t blame me for that — look in the mirror! You look like someone so hot it’s almost unfair. I spend every night thinking about how to finally make you understand that sometimes I want to climb you like a tree.”
“Oh? Do you now?” Ezio smiled faintly, and Desmond perked up, noticing no denial, no request to stop.
“There’s a lot I want…” Miles began, guiding Ezio’s hands to his waist. “Your touch, your praise… I could ride you, call you daddy while you lose yourself in pleasure—”
Ezio blinked.
Then laughed, pulling Desmond into his arms and holding him close.
“Let’s get home first, Tesoro. We’ll discuss it there.”
And before his god could spiral too loudly into his thoughts, mistaking this for rejection, Ezio leaned down, lifted his chin with his fingers, and kissed him. Slowly — stealing breath, doubt, and everything they no longer needed.
Desmond looked hungry when he pulled away, his gaze never leaving Ezio’s lips.
“I’ll hold you to that,” he smiled, breathing hard as he tried to regain control, licking his lips.
Trustingly pressing against his side, Desmond entwined their fingers again, looking incredibly pleased that he was allowed to now, and tugged him toward the path home.
Ezio smiled and squeezed his fingers tighter.
