Chapter Text
(I think I wrote this one before writing the actual ending chapter for the main story, deciding to go for a more open, less sad-ish ending. Anyway, this is several decades down the line, and not necessarily canon for how the story goes)
Maria walks up the steps of the St. Mary's with a sigh, rubbing at her neck as she goes. It's a unbearably hot morning and she's not sure if she's looking forward to the rest of the day or not. Traveling would be either pain or a pleasure at this point – outside the reach of Acre's ocean breeze the heat shouldn't be so humid, but on the other hand, the breeze offers at least the illusion of coolness…
Is a relief, getting out of the sunlight and indoors where is cooler. St. Mary's embraces her with the scent of lemons and tangerines, and welcomes her with a girl in a nun's cowl, hurrying to her side. "Ma'am, welcome to St. Maria – please, remove your shoes here and take slippers instead."
"Yes, yes, I have been here before," Maria says and gives her a look. She must be new, to not recognise her at all. "You're young one to be a Sister," Maria comments, as she walks to the shelves at the side of the hall to take off her traveling boots and wash her feet before changing into slippers instead.
"I have only just been ordained, ma'am," the young nun says and bows her head. "I am honoured to have been accepted into the Sisterhood. My name is Ayna – is there anything else I can help you with, ma'am?"
"I know my way, thank you," Maria says. "You have a lot of hard work ahead of you, child. I hope you are prepared."
"I am ready and willing to face all the challenges ahead of me, ma'am," the girl says, bows again, and then heads back to work – which involves a bucket, a mop and several rags. Maria considers her a little wistfully – Ayna can't be older than thirteen, and already she knows what and who she will become. Would that she could have been do sure at such a young age.
Maria gets up and sets out to find the Grandmaster.
Walking the halls of St. Mary's is a little like walking into a mosque – if things were different, perhaps the place would be a mosque. It certainly would pass for one, with its extensive tiling and open spaces, everything gleaming clean and polished. It never fails to make her amazed, how the floors reflect everything – it makes everything here feel so grand and limitless.
It's especially striking, knowing how it all had begun, what this place had looked like in the beginning. Maria can't say she misses the smell of it.
"Excuse me," she says, spotting a man in a white cassock and cowl. "Might you know where I can find the Grandmaster?"
"Lady Maria!" the man says. "Lord, I almost didn't recognise you, out of armour. He will be in his office I expect, he had no sessions or lessons today, if I recall right…"
He damn well better not, Maria thinks and nods her head. "Thank you," she says and looks around. "It seems quiet here today," she comments.
"It's meal time, everyone should be busy eating," the man says. "And the garden is in bloom, and many patients prefer to spend time outdoors if they can."
"I see. Thank you, brother," Mary's nods and continues on her way, heading for the stairs. The impressive tilework continues up and to the upper floors, growing no less beautiful or well polished as she goes. The scent of lemons gives way, however, to other smells, more noxious ones.
They must be mixing medicine today.
She reaches the door to the Grandmaster's office in short order and knocks on it lightly. "Come in," comes from inside, and she turns the polished brass knob, peeking in. She can tell there's more than one person inside – and there is. Across the Grandmaster sits a man in an Assassin's cowl.
Altaïr, she thinks, but no, of course it isn't.
"Maria," Desmond says and rises from his chair. "Your timing is perfect – we were just waiting for you."
The Assassin turns, and Maria's heart skips a beat. It is not Altaïr, it is even better. "Darim," she breathes and holds out her hands.
"Mother," the young man says, quickly rising as well and coming to her. It's been months since she's seen him – and last time he'd still worn the novice's grey. His sleeves are now white, his robe has tails. He is also, by the looks of it, forgetting how to shave.
"Show me your hand," Maria says quickly and reaches for his left hand. Darim has all of his fingers intact, but sacrificial fourth finger had still felt the brunt of Assassin's traditions – the order's symbol had been branded upon it. It is still healing – it couldn't have been long. "Oh, my son. A full Assassin already," Maria says.
Darim tries to stay solemn, but he has a giddy, proud grin bubbling to the surface. "I am honored to have been deemed worthy," he says, with poor humility.
"He's on his first mission as an Assassins too," Desmond says, coming around the desk. "He's here to escort us to Masyaf – I don't think Altaïr trusts us to behave ourselves."
"Oh tosh," Maria says, still looking at Darim. "Oh, but look at you," she says, reaching to run her hands over his shoulders. "You could have been a knight. You would have looked so handsome in knight's armour, you know."
Darim gives her a look. "Which begs the question, why aren't you wearing any, mother?"
"I wouldn't be able to get out of the castle is I was," Maria says wryly. "Not without full company of men following me. I thought we should be more discreet than that." Saying this she casts a look at Desmond – who is in armour, for once, wearing the set he'd challenged the rule of the Hospitalier in.
One can't deny that the man looks handsome in it, the hint of gray at his temples only makes him more so, adding a tinge of dignity the man usually avoids like the plague. Still, the armour is so darned strange to look at, shaped and designed so uniquely. Maria had seen many experiential armours in her time, every armour smith tries to invent the wheel every now and then, but Desmond's armour is just so odd. Especially knowing how effective the thing is. It's so thin.
"What?" the man asks defensively. "We're going to travel, and unlike you, I hardly ever get the chance to wear armour."
"Altaïr ordered it, didn't he?" Maria asks Darim.
"He worries," Darim shrugs. "He still talks about how often Father leaves his door open. He told me not to let him on the road without proper armour on."
Maria chuckles. "I have men at arms stationed near his house, you know. If something happens, he will be defended."
"Oh, I know. We have Novices doing the same."
Desmond blows out a breath. "Alright, alright," he says irritably. "Shall we get going then?" he asks. "Or should I get some tea going so you can mock me at length?"
Maria smiles. "By all means, Grandmaster – after you. Someone has to lock to door behind you, after all."
-
The road from Acre to Masyaf is an old and familiar one by now, one she's travelled more times than she can count. The landmarks make her heart soar with anticipation – three days until Masyaf from here, two days, one… travelling with Desmond and Darim is lovely of course, it is especially nice to see her soon, she didn't get the chance to as often as she'd like, but she's not as young as she used to be, and riding isn't such a joyous pleasure anymore. Nor is sleeping on the road, no matter how many blankets one brings.
Old age and palace life is making her a little lazy, it turns out. She already longs for the comfort of a proper bed and bath, and looks forward to the comforts Masyaf castle might offer.
… not that she is that old yet, and damn anyone who says she is.
"Oh, it's been a while," Desmond grunts, sitting down beside her with a sigh. "Forgot what it feels like to get saddle sore."
"That's what you get, my friend, for staying indoors all the time," Maria says, cheering up immensely. Riding doesn't agree with her as much as it used to, maybe, but at least she's not saddle sore. "You need to get out and about more, Desmond."
"Would that I had the time for that sort of thing," Desmond sighs and looks up as Darim brings in a lapful of wood, to start a fire. "Also, why get out when the young ones can do it for you? You're such a good son, Darim. So active and handy to have around."
The young Assassin rolls his eyes. "Unless you want me to make the food as well, you might want to get off your ass and help," he says.
Desmond seems to seriously consider it for a moment. Then he sighs and gets up, and with a laugh, Maria rises to help him. Together they set up a cooking pot and Desmond fixes them lentil soup, mixing in dry herbs and vegetables with a heavy hand as he usually does. The food is, as it always is, excellent.
Desmond, Maria thinks not for the first time, would have made a splendid wife for Altaïr, if only he wasn't a man.
(And that's where I decided this was a bad ending, and tried something else instead. I think Maria and Desmond travelling to Masyaf was about them all retiring, or finishing the Library together, or something like that. I forgot. Idea there was that Desmond and Altair ended up in sorta open relationship with Maria, hence kids, yadda yadda, let's not go there.
Let's go instead into even sadder version, where the ending could've taken several centuries down the line :D)
Ezio peers into the darkness, wary even though it is quiet. All of Masyaf is quiet, but it is also full of ghosts of old, shades of past deeds and events, of history and memory. Everywhere he looks, he glimpses faded shadows of times gone by, and one of them has been leading him on for so long, through snow and light and shadows, and finally, here. This, he knows, this is the final destination. This far and no further – here his search would come to an end.
Beneath the castle where Assassin's Brotherhood was reborn, there is a chamber that is supposed to be full of wisdom and knowledge, and it feels safe in a way that Ezio does not know. It is also empty. Waving his torch around, Ezio looks up the empty walls, not a shelf in sight, not a single book. The stories called it a library, but there is nothing here, nothing but shadows and metal. And yet, he feels welcome. Awaited.
Ezio steps forward, through a cloud of ancient dust, and sets his torch to another on a wall, lighting it up. It does little to chase the shadows away, and so he lights all the unlit torches along the way, trying to chase away the ancient darkness that lingers in the place, but it does little. The walls eat the light cast upon them – and gleam with metallic flickers. Like veins on a man's skin, gold runs through the walls, sunken into the darker metal and shining through it. Strange, but so are all things left behind by the ancients.
And finally, a chamber, large and tall – the heart of this library with no books. In the middle of it there is a coffin, a great stone affair with no markings, and no name. Beside it there is a chair, and on that chair a body, flesh worn away by age, leaving behind nothing but a hooded skeleton.
Ezio approaches him slowly and sighs. "No books, no wisdom," he says. "Just you, brother mine."
Altaïr is resting with his hand on the stone coffin beside him, his fingers only bones, but still holding on. This, Ezio muses, must be the burial place of the Healer, the Sage of Akka.
Ezio looks between the coffin and its guardian and then reaches a hand to touch the coffin. Under his fingers, it hums, not an unexpected reaction. This place is much like the Vault under Vatican, like the one he found through the tunnels under the Coliseum. Like those places, this Library too lives and breathes – and as Ezio runs his hand over the stone, golden beams run across it, and around him the Library awakens.
Light blooms in the room – in front of Altaïr in his chair. Ezio squints against it until he can see – it is neither Minerva, nor is it Juno. It is a man in simple robes, his head bare and short haired, his face shaven. He does not look like one of Those Who Came Before.
He is not looking at Ezio – he only has eyes for Altaïr.
"I went before you," the golden ghost murmurs and kneels down, reaching for the skeleton. "I went before you, after all."
"Desmond?" Ezio says, and the aged ghost looks up.
He is not real, but somehow he's crying. "I didn't think it would be like this. That I'd still… feel this much," the man says and bows his head. "I see you – you know my name. That's – that's good," he shudders, and his voice fractures into echoes. "I'm sorry. Give me a moment, please."
Ezio frowns, walking warily around the ghost as he bows his forehead to Altaïr's knees, stroking his hands over the faded, paper thin robes. He mourns, and it makes the walls around them ripple with power. There is no sound though, no movement, just light.
Then the ghost lifts his head and stands, reaching to press a kiss on the ancient skeleton's head, murmuring something. His touch has no effect on the man.
"I couldn't know what changes we'd made," the spectre says and steps back from Altaïr. "I tried to change so much so fast, too fast – we lived so long, and it went by so fast. I had to stay and see, just in case it wasn't enough..."
Ezio steps around him, until he can see the ghost's face. "You are Desmond," he says. "The Sage of Akka?"
"And other things besides," the ghost agrees and looks at him. "Tell me – did you go to the Vatican, did Minerva speak to you?"
Ezio narrows his eyes. "You know of it?"
"I saw it, through you – I thought I might have changed it," Desmond says. "Tell me, what did she say?"
Ezio shakes his head, confused, and sets the torch he is holding down. This is not what he expected, but perhaps… perhaps he can finally get answers. "She spoke of the sun," he says. "Of the end of the Earth and how they failed to stop it, how they died. She spoke to you, as if you were there." He hesitates and then continues. "I thought you were someone far away, scrying us, not someone… so long dead."
"I am neither," Desmond says and looks away from him, searching for something not here. "I might be here twice. Are you here, Desmond? Hah. Wouldn't that be something. Sorry, you won't be meeting Tinia, today. I changed that much at least," he murmurs and shakes his head, lowering his gaze back to Ezio.
"I don't understand," Ezio admits, confused. "What is this?"
"Time, mostly," Desmond says and chuckles. "I'm sorry, it's… hard to explain. I heard your warning in the future, distant, distant future, and I was too late to do much more than die for it. So I went back, to change history, and became Desmond the Healer instead. I am dead, yes, and I might yet to be born."
Ezio shakes his head. "I don't –"
The ghost smiles. "I'll be happy to explain it," he says and looks at Altaïr. "If you tell me a story in turn."
"What kind of story could I possibly tell you?" Ezio asks, puzzled. What would interest a ghost?
"The story of how I changed the world, I hope," Desmond says. "You are an Assassin, and here, so that much is the same. You're younger than you should be, though. What year is this?"
"It is fourteen eighty-four," Ezio says, slow.
Desmond looks at him. "You are… almost thirty years early," he says, astonished.
"I… wasn't aware I was on a schedule," Ezio admits and frowns. "Is this planned, is this another thing that was planned?"
Desmond holds up his hand to stall him. "When did you see Minerva's message, how?" he asks, confused. "That only happens in… that shouldn't have happened yet."
"I saw the message when my father took me to the Vatican," Ezio says, confused. "I was but a boy. The message is shown to all Assassins and Templars, we all see it."
The golden ghost stares at him, wide-eyed. Then, confused, he turns to Altaïr's skeleton. "You silly old man, what on Earth did you do?" he asks, bewildered.