Chapter Text
Desmond - Never 0%
The inside of the grand temple, beyond the barrier he spent so long with Connor working to unlock, feels like a tomb.
Desmond cannot say he's surprised it has come to this. It feels as though it's been inevitable from the start, from back when he woke up in some sci-fi machine kidnapped by templars. Earlier, perhaps. When he was 16 and decided he wasn't going to kill - wasn't going to die - for a cause he couldn't see before ever living himself.
His father had never lied to him, not about the nature of the assassins and not about what a future with them held. It is, perhaps, the only good thing Bill ever did as a father. Gave him truth without shielding him from the worst parts, never sugar coating it to make the world seem a kinder place. He told him he had to solve his own problems because nobody will do it for him.
It meant that he was ready for life, ready to deal with all the shit that was thrown at him when he ran away. It means he's ready here, now. World needs to be saved and there isn't anyone else to step up and do it.
Minerva and Juno are both standing before him, faces lit with the golden glow of their holograms and the blue-white light of the Eye. Arguing.
"If you free her, you'll be destroyed," Minerva says, her gaze fixed on Desmond, leaning in as though the proximity will help convince him. Honestly, Desmond's seen more compelling looks from drunks at 3am. There's no life in Minerva, not truly, and everything she says falls flat.
She explained they had built the Eye to stop the flare and demanded he not use it in the same breath. Let the world burn instead.
Juno claimed he was 'a single spark to save the world.' That all he needed to do was touch it, activate it, and it would protect the planet from the solar flare. It felt too easy, too simple. Minerva, Tinia and Juno set this up for him 75,000 years ago, calculated the future to see this point, for what? The one chance Desmond would be here, now, brain half scrambled from his ancestors and their fragmented puzzle.
It seems infinitesimally unlikely, all things considered. There are any number of events in Desmond's life alone, choices he made, that would have made this moment impossible.
How many possibilities are there, in 75,000 years?
"Only touch the pedestal and the world will be saved," Juno says, imploring. There is a desperation in her, some frantic energy that keeps her pacing around the pedestal as she speaks, gesticulating.
"It will kill me," Desmond says, and doesn't even bother to make it a question.
"It will happen in an instant. There will be no pain," Juno answers, and the words are meant to be comforting, he can tell. There is too much excitement, too much glee in her voice to believe her. Juno isn't cold or hollow like Minerva, no. She is full of fire, full of a rage that will try to burn the world as much as the sun.
She's lying because it helps her, because she thinks his death being painless will sway his choice. It isn't really a choice, though, even if now he knows it's going to hurt. Seemed to him the world was fucked either way.
But Desmond is an assassin, and he knows from lifetimes of experience that as long as there are people, people will fight. He just needs to make sure they're alive to do it.
Desmond steps closer to the Eye, breathing deep.
"You mustn't!" Minerva beseeches, sounding desperate and it's the first sign of true emotion Desmond has seen from her. It makes him wonder.
Desmond has seen the power of their artifacts. The templars and assassins have fought over them for centuries. Humans can use them, barely, and in doing so have built and conquered nations. Desmond is almost afraid to know what Juno can do with an apple, with the power of the temple.
Still...
"It's done Minerva, the decisions made," Desmond says, firm, and puts his hand on the Eye.
Juno lied, Desmond thinks in the split second he has before his hand and arm burns.
The pain is paralysing. Desmond's entire body locks up as it courses through him. The light behind his eyelids is bright white and searing.
It feels like forever, an eternity and it feels like an instant before it stops. The Eye disappears from beneath his senseless fingers and Desmond collapses to the ground as though his string have been cut. Agony shoots out of his arm and lances through him from the movement, and Desmond curls up protectively as his thoughts slowly came back online.
The first thing Desmond registers is shouting in Italian.
He has to cycle that through his head a few times, thoughts slipping like sand through his shaking fingers. The grains slip away no matter how much Desmond tries, pain wracking his frame and making it too hard to concentrate. There is something very wrong about being shouted at in Italian, even if it's a very familiar situation from all the time spent with Ezio...
Desmond frowns, trying to chase that thought-
Something kicks him in the ribs with enough force he rolls onto his back and Desmond forces his eyes open-
There is so much red. Desmond's heart is pounding in his chest before he's even consciously registered what he sees. Within seconds Desmond is forcefully blinking away eagle vision, scrambling to his feet in adrenaline fuelled panic. His right arm screams at him when he moves to get up and he flinches, crashing into the person behind him.
There is more yelling but Desmond's head is spinning, he's burning again he must be it feels like fire and everything is wrong-
He dodges the sword on instinct, stumbling back from the guard as adrenaline finally starts to clear his head. The pain is pushed to the side, away. It is a secondary concern and Desmond doesn't have the luxury of focusing on it. There are enemies attacking him with swords.
When the second swing comes arcing toward his head Desmond steps into it, left hand darting out to take the blade for his own. He doesn't even try to use his right arm. He's too scrambled to remember what happened but the intense pain he's barely ignoring is more than enough to tell him to keep it immobile.
Sword in hand, it is a simple move to turn and run it through his opponent.
Questions about how or when or why fall away in favour of the fight.
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Ezio - Never 100%
He wakes to the sound of cannons and Caterina's soft, gentle hands on his chest.
"What is that?" she asks, looking worriedly to the window.
"Probably just a training exercise." Ezio says, gingerly sitting up. The wound on his side does not seem to have bled into the bandages during the night, but it did not appreciate his activities before sleep, either.
"Ezio?" Caterina's hand is warm on his back, not quite supporting but certainly ready to be. He wants to indulge in the comfort of it, wants to lay back down beside her to rest a while longer. Finally, he is finished.
"I am fi-" he doesn't get to complete his statement before the wall is blown open with a cacophonous boom, showering the room in rubble and dust which just barely misses them.
"Merda!" Ezio swears, adrenaline spiking through him and clearing the last vestiges of sleep from his mind. Pushing to his feet, Ezio reaches for his discarded clothes and turns to Caterina. "I have to find Mario and rally the troops."
Lifting his arms to pull on his shirt sends stabbing pain through his abdomen, and bending for his breeches and boots is no better.
"My men are in the courtyard," Caterina says, and she too has pulled on her clothes, bearing an air of command he has rarely seen. "I will lead them around back and flank our attackers."
"Stay out of sight." Ezio calls after her, hurrying to the desk on the other side of his room. There are more cannon blasts as he unlocks the drawer, hastily grabbing the velvet bag from inside.
That done, he is free to push himself through the remains of his window, balancing on the roof tiles with practiced ease. When he sees the fight below him - Borgia guards battling his uncle's mercenari, Ezio drops without hesitation and slides his blade easily between a gap in armour.
There is no time for thought after that, only the familiar motions of killing. His wound is slowing him down and Ezio receives far more scratches from barely dodged blades than he would usually. Still, within minutes his enemies are dead and Ezio hurries, limping slightly, to the town.
Hanging from his belt the Apple whispers temptation, but Ezio needs to move and cannot afford the weakness it causes him with use. He resists. He resists and he fights and he directs his people back towards the Villa where they might escape.
He resists until he is panting, chest heaving as he tries to draw breath, side a blaze of agony and fingers too numb to grip his sword. Ezio cannot fight like this and if he tries he will surely die. No, he has no other choice.
Reaching, Ezio pulls the Apple from the pouch, concentrating on the device and the enemies before him. The building beside him explodes in a shower of wood and stone, and Ezio has no time to react, only turning his head in time to see a large piece of masonry sailing towards him.
When it hits the impact is far, far less than he was bracing for - indeed, Ezio was not expecting to live long enough to register the blow.
Still, he doesn't question his good fortune, only turns to face his enemy once more, raising the Apple-
His hand is empty. Why that is the first thing to register and not the lack of pain, Ezio does not know, but his hand is empty.
Someone rushes past him, running towards-
Ezio blinks hard, shakes his head and tries to clear it to no effect. He is in Firenze, on the bridge crossing the Arno.
"What, Auditore, going to hide behind all your friends like a coward?" a semi familiar voice shouts, young and full of scorn.
"Vieri?" he mumbles to himself, studying his surroundings. There is a throbbing pain on his mouth, and his fingers come away bloody when he touches it. Ah, he thinks, the fight when he got the scar upon his lips.
Ezio realises, then, that this must be death or a dream. Either way, if he fights this fight in a few minutes Federico will arrive.
He cannot keep himself from grinning as he throws himself into the brawl with reckless enthusiasm. It is only a minute and maybe four opponents before he reaches the Pazzi hiding at the back.
His fist connects with the satisfying crunch of a broken nose and a squeal of pain more suited to a pig than a man. His second punch lands on Vieri's thick skull and as he goes down Ezio follows, laying blows to his face with no mind for the damage.
Ezio is not grinning anymore, consumed instead by the rage and grief that has not faltered in twenty years. When a hand grips his shoulder and yanks, Ezio reacts on instinct, on reflex, grabbing at the wrist and pulling - throwing the attacker over his shoulder.
Ezio flexes his hand, driving his palm towards the juncture of shoulder and neck, Vieri forgotten.
The attacker rolls out the way onto his knees before lunging and Ezio looks for the blade desperately, trying to see which way he needs to dodge but he is too slow-
The man is on top of him, grabbing at his wrists and using his weight to keep Ezio down.
"Ezio!" the man shouts and suddenly it's not just any man or an enemy or attacker- Federico. It's Federico.
Ezio goes boneless in his brother's hold, chest heaving as he realises he is safe. "Federico," he says, and it is only his laboured breathing that disguises the emotion he cannot keep from his voice.
"Brother, you have caused quite the scene. What is it Vieri said to deserve such a beating?" Federico asks, shuffling back off of Ezio.
"Apologies brother, I lost my head," Ezio answers, climbing to his feet. Around them people are scattering like rats, fleeing now that the entertainment is over.
"Clearly," Federico says, and Ezio tries to ignore the worry in his tone. "No matter. Give me a look at your lip. It's bleeding rather badly."
Ezio dabs at it with his sleeve, wiping away some of the crusted blood without care. It leaves a red stain on the cloth but not a concerning amount.
"It is fine," he says, leaning back when Federico reaches for his face. "You don't need to worry about it."
"It is not fine." Federico takes gentle hold of Ezio's chin, stepping closer as he inspects the cut. "There might be dirt in it and you wouldn't want to get an infection, would you?"
Ezio feels as though he's missed a step, somewhere. He feels he is unmoored and drifting, trying to marry up what he remembers with what is happening.
"Should we not go to a doctor then, to get it treated?" Ezio asks uncertainly, trying to remember the first time and patting blindly at the pockets of his breeches. "Not that I have any money for a doctor."
"Well," Federico says, something mischievous and vicious in his tone, still holding Ezio's face, "I'm sure we can liberate some florins from our Pazzi friends, but honey will be better than whatever concoction the doctor has."
"Honey?" Ezio is completely at a loss now, staring at his brother as he inspects the cut.
"Honey. Though it doesn't look as though there's any dirt in it. Let me just-" Federico cuts off, releasing Ezio and stepping away abruptly. Ezio can only watch, baffled, as Federico walks to the nearest thug and cuts a length of cloth from his shirt.
"Federico?" he asks, looking at his brother. Federico had teased him often and without mercy, he thought, and Ezio is unsettled by how different this man seems compared to his memory.
Still, he stands still as Federico wipes the blood from his face with careful touches, tilting his chin this way and that to be sure it is clean.
"That should be fine," Federico says as he releases him. "We'll worry about the honey if it looks to be getting infected."
Ezio is still very confused and it is only getting worse as time passes, as he comes out of that single mindedness that has carried him through many fights. The more his thoughts clear the less the situation makes sense. At best he is asleep in Monteriggioni, dreaming - but he has never had dreams so clear or so kind. Truly, it seems every night he is haunted by the dead, by the last words of the dying.
At worst, he is dead and this is some strange, strange afterlife. If it is, it is like no heaven or hell Ezio has ever heard of, and in recent years he's favoured Altaïr's view of there being nothing after death anyway.
"Well, this has certainly been an interesting night," Federico's voice breaks Ezio from his thoughts, and he scrambles to recall what he said the first time.
"Indeed, if only they could all be as fun," Ezio says with a levity he does not feel. That is right, right? Brawl's in the street had been fun, once, when the bodies he left behind still drew breath.
"Oh, if only," Federico agrees. "Come, Ezio. I want to show you something."
"What is it?" Ezio asks, curious but willing to go along with this strange, strange dream for a little longer.
"It is a surprise, you'll see," his brother chides.
"Well, lead the way," Ezio says, bowing with a flourish and gesturing down the street. Federico laughs and Ezio is glad his brother is not looking at him at that moment, for surely his grief must be clear on his face. It is the first he has heard Federico laugh in 24 years and Ezio thinks he can be forgiven for being a touch emotional. He had forgotten the sound.
"Try to keep up," Federico says and they take to the rooftops. Ezio recognises the church they are heading towards, remembers climbing the bell tower for the first time with his brother. There is a tightness building in his chest, a lump in throat.
When he takes Federico's offered hand and lets his brother pull him to the top, Ezio has to look to the skyline and the setting sun before he falls apart completely.
"It is a good life we lead, brother," Federico says beside him and Ezio forces himself to meet his eyes.
"The best," he says, repeating what he said all those years ago. "May it never change," he hopes he does not sound as desperate as he feels, half begging; as though his wishes could ever make a difference.
"And may it never change us," Federico answers, just as Ezio knew he would. He has to turn away again, then, before the grief can overwhelm him. Federico also looks out to the city and Ezio would wonder what he sees, what he is thinking, but he is too focused on simply trying to breathe.
"Come, brother," Federico finally says, when the last of the daylight is slipping away. "Let us return home. It is late and I need to speak with Father."
Father.
It hits him like a battering ram. Father would still be alive, as would Petruccio. Mother, too, would be whole and healthy. Oh God. Ezio had not even thought of them, too caught up with having his brother returned.
He does not think he can see them, not now. Not yet. The very thought is making his heart race with panic or fear or joy- Ezio does not know. There are too many complicated emotions crowding his chest and it is making it hard to think.
"Wait," Ezio says, and is surprised his voice comes out even, although he doesn't know what he plans to say next. He can only glance at Federico a moment before he has to look away.
"Ezio," Federico says, and it is exasperated, of all things. "Let Cristina sleep."
Ezio blinks, trying to catch up with the non-sequitur. Cristina? Oh, of course. She too is still alive. He swallows thickly, forcing a practiced smirk onto his lips and ignoring the way it pulls at the recent cut.
"There will be time enough for that - later."
Federico rolls his eyes, stepping easily onto the wooden platform for a leap. "Fine, fine. Have your fun, Ezio."
"You can bet on it," Ezio calls back as his brother goes over the edge, putting a grin into his voice. It slides away as he hears the muffled thump of a body landing in hay, using his Second Sight to watch as Federico heads to the Palazzo.
When the bright blue is just a glimmer in the distance, Ezio takes a deep breath and buries his face in his hands. He does not cry - cannot. Ezio has only ever cried for his family with Claudia, when they'd each swallowed down more than a bottle of wine and he could pretend the intoxication was the cause of his blurred vision.
Still, it takes several deep breaths before his chest loosens and the burning dryness in his eyes eases. He needs to think, and he couldn't have done so earlier with Federico beside him. Not when he was so uncertain.
He is dead or he is dreaming or this is real. Ezio doesn't know which scares him more.
He doesn't want it to be a dream. Truly, it would be the cruellest thing his own mind could concoct. To have this last day again, to see his family happy and healthy once more only to wake up. It would feel like losing them all over again, worse than the nightmares of the hanging he still suffers.
If he is dead then there are a great many questions Ezio feels he must ask. This is like no version of hell he has heard, Catholic or otherwise, and Ezio has no illusions about his fate. By any of the holy texts he is a sinner. He has murdered and stolen and whored his way across Romagna without regret.
Even if he were to go to heaven, this is still a far cry from what he would have expected. Eternal peace and rest? No, this is too painful for that and he is too afraid of what the next few days will bring. Surely, even Purgatory would be kinder than this.
Ezio does not want to consider if it is real. It is a hope he is almost too afraid to allow himself. It would mean the return of his family and everything he has lost. The chance to change things and get rid of the Pazzi threat before they can take his family from him.
If it is real than Ezio has travelled in time, which is an impossibility of the highest degree. He has seen the apple and staff both do a great many incredible things but surely time travel is too much. Illusions, such knowledge as they contained and even controlling the minds of men were- a lot. Fantastical and terrifying in turn, but they would be minor compared to time travel.
No. It cannot be real, Ezio tells himself and wills himself to believe. It cannot be real.
He spends the whole night there, sitting cold on the bell tower and rolling the options through his head. Examines all the pieces and tries and tries to find an answer.
If it is real and he can change things, in two days his family need not hang.
If it is a dream there is nothing he can do. Surely it is a nightmare and either he will see them on the gallows again, or he will wake to find they are still dead.
It cannot be real. The hope is too much. Hope, it seems, is all he has left. Ezio breathes deeply, watching the sky lighten with the dawn.
If he is dead then it is far too late to do anything, and whatever he tries would change nothing. Heaven or hell or purgatory, it will happen as it must with no regard to Ezio. Peace or punishment, it is already decided.
It cannot be real, and there should be nothing he can do. He breathes, flexing his hand in the way that would release his hidden blade were he wearing it.
It cannot be real, he tells himself again, desperate and afraid and utterly unable to take the risk.
Ezio fears that, should he wake up, it will be this which finally breaks him.
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